Inquiring minds

There are some things in life that really puzzle me. I don't know if there are any answers but here's my ever-growing list:

• If the man who gets the title "Sexiest Man Alive" is still alive the next year, why doesn't he get that title again? Can you only be sexy for one year?
• Does calling an event "First Annual" make any sense? I mean, if it's the first time it's happening how can it be an annual event? Don't you need some history to call it that?
• Why do people say "Easter Sunday"? When has Easter ever happened on a Thursday?
• Isn't it repetitive to say "He owns his own home?" If he owns his home, isn't it his own?
• Why do cashiers compare your credit card signature with the electronic signature? You can't write normally on those devices and so they never look the same.
• What defines Modern Art? Is it Modern when you need someone to tell you what the hell it is?
• Why do some people who claim to love Jesus act nothing like him?
• Why is it that when someone cuts me off on the highway they always have a zillion USA flags on their car?
• When did companies decide that having a computerized voice talk to me like we're having a real conversation is less annoying than typing my responses into my phone?
• Why do I always get a store coupon in the mail 12 hours after I visited that store the night before?
• Why does baseball have managers while everyone else has coaches?

I find more and more of these every day. What have you got for questions?

What's your stereotype?

Every Tuesday I write a lesson plan for the high school youth group I lead on Sunday mornings at my church. I have a lot of ideas of what to talk about but since I want to facilitate their conversations as they discover the truths themselves, I have to come up with a lot of open-ended questions. And also a way to keep them engaged and the conversation flowing.

Last Sunday we had a very deep discussion on stereotyping. For two previous Sundays we had a guest facilitator run a session on the Myers-Briggs personality test. We learned a lot about ourselves and others in the group but after the meeting I started hearing some generalizations here and there from the kids based on their personality types.

So, last Sunday we talked about how it's all good. A diverse group of personalities, when working together and being respectful of each other, is more effective than one that is, for example, full of all extroverts or all introverts.

I passed out index cards and asked the kids to write down one label they either have been given or think they've been given. Have they been labeled as jock, or computer nerd, or something else? To help explain, I gave myself the label "Unitarian Universalist". That label says a lot of things about me that may or may not be true. People who don't know me but know my religion might make assumptions that I am super liberal, pro-choice, earthy-crunchy, don't believe in a higher power, etc. Some of those are true, some are not.

What we discovered in exploring the labels we've been given is that not only are stereotypes multi-faceted, but we are as well. There are multiple levels of stereotypes. The highest one we could come up with was gender. Assumptions are made about us and expectations are put upon us based on our gender. That's nothing new.

The interesting thing we talked about was all the layers beneath gender. Gender assumptions are made about our career choices, relationship behavior, hair color, interests, reading preferences, and on and on.

And within each layer are more stereotypes and assumptions. "Oh, you're a boy who likes computers? Then I guess you aren't interested in sports." "You're a girl with blonde hair? You must be dumb and boy-crazy."

I told the kids that we all have these knee-jerk reactions when we meet someone new. It comes from a primal place in our DNA. As mammals wandering around in a prehistoric world, our survival depended upon our ability to make quick assessments of a stranger. Is he friend or foe? That instinct still exists today.

Does it make it okay to say, "I'm just being true to my DNA?" and continue to stereotype? No, of course not. But being aware that we do it and reaching back into our souls for the labels we live with is a huge step forward from our prehistoric selves.

Nine Eleven

It's been downright impossible to escape the memory of 9/11 this week. There are so many articles and stories in this week's papers, each with its own angle. Adding one more to the archives may go unnoticed but I feel the need to write it anyway.

Ron and I have been out with a lot of friends since 9/11/01. It's strange how the topic still comes up in conversation. The question invariably is, "Where were you when the planes hit the towers?" I can answer that in one simple word: Work. But the memory is much larger than that and its lessons much deeper.

It was a beautiful day, just like everyone remembers. So beautiful that it seemed impossible for anything but beautiful things to happen. I was sitting in my cube, nose stuck in my computer monitor doing something inconsequential as is the norm in most jobs. I had my back to the aisle, focused on my work.

I was startled by a hug. It was my friend Patty who had just arrived to work late due to a dentist appointment. As she hugged my shoulders she said quietly, almost emotionless, "Get on the internet. We're under attack." I switched to boston.com and saw the headlines. Stunned, I said and did nothing except grab Patty's arms, still holding me tightly from behind almost as if she were trying to keep me from slipping away.

"I love you," she said. "I love you, too," I choked out almost too late for her to hear it. She was off to tell the others.

I instinctively called my husband at work. He had just heard as well. The next thought that came flying through my fingertips was to call my parents. Dad answered.

"Turn on CNN," I said firmly.
"Why?"
"A plane flew into the World Trade Center. It doesn't look good."

Dad turned on the tv and said that both towers had been hit. I tried to refresh boston.com but too many others had the same idea. I had no access to news and was frantic.

But not as frantic as my father who went into a panic because my mother was out at the hairdressers. They only had one car and he couldn't get to her. He, like me, was wondering just how far this attack could reach.

By now, the office was buzzing. Someone found a tv and hooked it up in the conference room. I worked at a semi-small company and quite a few of us could fit into the room. We sat in silence with the exception of an intermittent "Oh my God" as each person came to terms with what was happening.

We were sent home shortly afterwards with instructions to drive carefully. We left in a fog. Parents worried about their kids; I worried about my cousins who worked in Manhattan.

Driving in those conditions was dreamlike. Everyone on the road was looking up at the sky as they drove, trusting the ground would find a way to get us home.

When I arrived at my house, I turned on the tv and sat on the couch. I sat there in some sort of trance. My dog Brittany hopped up on the couch next to me. She sat intently and stared at me with that motherly look she gave me when she didn't understand what I was feeling. Every so often she'd lift her front paw and tap me on the shoulder pulling me back to Westford.

I watched the towers implode over and over. No matter how many times I saw it, I still couldn't believe it. I called my mom and talked to her about it. She had all the phone numbers for our family in NY and was trying desperately to get through.

The next several days were just more of the same. Mom did eventually reach our cousins who were safe. But the rest of the time suspended. The tv in the conference room was moved to the cafeteria. It seemed okay with management that we mingle in and out and check for the latest updates. They knew on Tuesday that the week was a loss.

Ten years later, I look back not just on that day but on the months that followed it. I see now how that moment in history gave me valuable insight into the true nature of the people I interacted with.

My friend Patty who broke the news to me that day will always be that person - as if time stopped. When I see her now, I can't disconnect who she was in that moment from where she's at now. Everything I see in her is wrapped around that hug and that "I love you". In that 30-second timeframe when she thought we might never be together again I learned who she is at her core - a caring human being and genuine friend.

People rise or fall to occasions during extreme stress. My friend Chris invited a Muslim co-worker (who, by now was being looked at differently than he was on 9/10) to sit with him and explain the Quran as he understood it. Chris's open-mindedness and genuine embrace of difference is what I see most in him now.

My dad's instant panic about losing my mother still exists today. Now that my mom is gone, he still lives his life around needing to be with her. And for mom, her concern was for others in a crisis. That's who she always was, even when the crisis was hers.

And me? I don't know what my reaction says about me. I felt like I was sleepwalking but I'm sure I did more than that. I do remember calling my mother-in-law on 9/11 and saying how horrible I felt for all the kind Muslims who would suffer for the act of a few.

It's been ten years but the insight I gained about others will always stay with me. And I think, too, about how the US has this one moment of terrorism that shook the nation and exposed our vulnerability. It makes me wonder if nations like Iraq, Northern Ireland, and Kashmir mark each date when terrorists killed their people and destroyed their sense of peace.

Maybe they stopped noting the dates after the first time. No more firsts to mark; all the lessons have been learned.

If the label fits

I've always believed that before I give myself or anyone else a label, I had better know what I'm talking about. Not only do I not want to use a word incorrectly (there's a concept), I also don't want to offend.

Before I go off on my rant, let me say that I'm a good UU. I try really really hard not to use any sort of labels at all. Some, however, are inescapable. Like that fact that I call myself a UU. That is my religious affiliation and an appropriate label.

When people call me a liberal, I tend to bristle. I am liberal in some areas, but a moderate in others. For example, most liberals I know are opposed to the death penalty and have never voted for a Republican (gasp!).

So when someone uses a label inappropriately, I do correct them lest it lead to their using it incorrectly again, or cause them to form an opinion about me that is not true. This applies to strangers also since I am a communication Nazi.

Today in the supermarket - where, I've noticed, I tend to leave with some sort of rant every week - a woman called herself a vegetarian and then proceeded to tell me about the lobster rolls she loves and the chicken salad sandwich recipe her mother gave her.

I said, "Then you're not a vegetarian." To which she shockingly responded, "I am too. I don't eat red meat!" 

I told her that being a vegetarian (like me) means that you don't eat meat or fish. Which caused her to use yet another incorrect label - vegan. I had to then explain to her that I am not a vegan because I eat dairy and eggs where vegans do not. If you don't eat meat but do eat fish, you are a pescetarian.

I've stopped counting the number of times that I've had to make that distinction to people. Maybe more people are calling themselves vegetarians because it's the new in thing so I'm hearing it used incorrectly more often.

But whether the label is food-related (and, p.s. I'm not a vegetarian because I'm on a diet) or not, it would seem to me that before you give YOURSELF a label, you would look up the definition first.

Writing through grief

My blog has been wasting away since my mom died three months ago. It has been on my mind constantly in the sense that I feel like I should write but then can't. I don't know what to say in my writing. And then, when I feel like I have something to say, I can't find the right words.

The loss of my writing muse has been a surprise. Writing through my mother's illness and death was easy. My blog was an outlet for me to place all the emotions and events that I was dealing with - somehow making them more real. And, at the same time, allowing me to work through this horrible reality by finding a gem hidden in the dark mess that was me.

I wanted to blog about the best dog on the planet, Brittany, who died a few weeks before my mom. But I didn't. And still can't.

Today I took my laptop to the local coffee shop. I was meeting a dear friend for lunch and then I thought I might stay and attempt some writing. It was hard to get started, but I did. In fact, I wrote a piece that I like so much I will shop it around to magazines.

I found that getting out of the familiar helps me with my grief. Grief that I can't seem to integrate into my life but know I need to. I'm very guarded with sadness. I always feel that I'm needed by others (like my dad) and that if I start grieving, I won't be able to be there for those who are in worse shape than me.

There were never any expectations placed on me to be "the strong one" but I always felt up to the task. And although that task has been taking a huge toll on my own sense of happiness, I feel like I have to stay in a role that took 52 years to perfect. Why? I don't know. I guess because my mom would want me to. Or maybe because it's a job that needs to be filled and I've got the best resume.

Whatever the reason, I'm hoping that getting back to writing helps me work through the grief. Even though the subject I need to write about is something I always dreaded.

When the justice system sees its shadow

Casey Anthony

I have been watching friends' responses to the Casey Anthony verdict with much interest. Admittedly, I really haven't been following it in the news as closely as others. I do know, however, that a young child was murdered and an emotionally-erratic mother was prosecuted.

When I was in my 20s, I became a bar-certified paralegal. One of the electives I took was Criminal Law. Every advisor in the program said I was crazy to waste my time since there are very few criminal paralegals. But since I have always been interested in criminal law since the Perry Mason days, I felt I would enjoy the course and also learn a lot about the inner-workings of a criminal court case and the American criminal justice system.

My instructor was a private criminal defense attorney who just made the break from working for the State of MA as a public defense attorney. He had some great stories and wove these examples into his class. I was fascinated.

One of the things we discussed quite a bit was the burden-of-proof concept and how that was really the basis for all law, but especially criminal law. When convicted of a criminal offense, what's at stake is a citizen's freedom or life, not his material possessions. So, the burden of proof is higher in criminal cases. 

The reason, for example, that OJ was found not guilty in a criminal case while later being found guilty in a civil case for the same offense, is that shift in the burden-of-proof.

When the State prosecutes a criminal case, it has to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant is guilty. In a civil case, the plaintiff need only prove a preponderance of the evidence.

There are many differences between criminal and civil law but that "shadow of a doubt" concept is the biggest.

So, when I heard that Anthony's defense attorneys did a good job creating that shadow, and that the State of Florida didn't do a good job of proving that the shadow was unreasonable, I assumed a not guilty verdict would be delivered.

As it should in this case.

My criminal law professor said that it's better to let one hundred guilty defendants go free than to imprison or execute one innocent defendant. And as hard as that is to hear, it is absolutely the way you want your country's court system to run.

I never blame the jury, I always point to the attorneys and the judge if there are questions about the verdict. Was the rule of law upheld? Was the discovery process fair and open? Did the attorneys on both sides have every opportunity to defend or prosecute fairly?

If the answer to all of those questions is Yes, then you have to question either the skill (or lack thereof, see: OJ) of the prosecuting attorneys, or the quality of the evidence or witnesses.

I've seen lots of instances where, if the defense attorneys do a great job, those who question the verdict often pin the blame on them accusing them of being soulless mercenaries. To that I say, if it were your head on the chopping block, you would want nothing less.

Case law is the most important type of law in this country since most of the subsequent law is based on its verdicts and judges' opinions rather than on statutory law. So, getting it right is huge.

But forgetting the balancing scales of justice and replacing them with emotion is the biggest shadow anyone could cast on this very American system.

Get lost

I was driving home tonight from a meeting in a town I don't know very well when I missed a left turn. I was lost in my own thoughts and, by the time I realized I had missed it, I was quite a ways down a road I had never been on.

My first instinct was to turn around and head back where I came from and, this time, look for that turn. But I didn't. Instead I kept driving knowing that, at some point, I'd come upon something I would recognize.

Things do look different in the dark but as the Welcome-to-<insert town/city name here> signs changed things started to look more familiar. My heart skipped a beat when I guessed where I was and then saw the street sign to confirm it.

I've always had a great sense of direction. I have no idea where that inner compass comes from but I'm glad I have it. I'm also a little crazy because I enjoy getting lost from time to time. It makes me step outside of my comfort zone and check in with my instincts. Something I do less and less of in middle age.

When I was in the Berkshires for a few days with a friend last week, she directed me all over the area as I drove. She knows it like the back of her hand, where I'm almost never in that section of the state. Funny thing is, no matter how many times we travelled some of the same roads, I still couldn't figure out where to turn half the time. I told her that if I didn't have her as a co-pilot, I would already know my way. I'd have to rely on my own sense of direction and would be paying more attention to landmarks if I knew I didn't have a cushion.

It's been a bizarre six weeks since my mother died. The one person I could always count on to guide me is gone. And I've been feeling like I'm constantly walking on new ground. At my age, I haven't felt like I needed my mother in a long time. But having her there to listen has always helped me figure out what direction was right for me.

Feelings of uneasiness persist. Like there's an earthquake happening while my foot is in mid-air. Waiting for the ground to settle so that foot might find a stable landing spot. But every time the earthquake looks like it's stopping, more tremors arise.

All of my experiences are new ground now. Old traditions are now as new as new joys and sorrows. Because they're experienced without my mother.

The feeling I experienced tonight by missing a familiar turn was not new even though some of the ground I travelled was. I was never really lost even though it felt that way for a moment. In deciding not to turn around but instead forge ahead into unknown territory, I realized that I still have the skills I need to move forward. And that new ground is only unfamiliar the first time you step on it.

I will find my way without mom as I did on the dark, unfamiliar road tonight. My inner compass will guide me through wrong turns until I learn a new way to navigate. I will trust my instincts as I always have remembering that firsts are only firsts once.