Category: Essays

132 Friends Have Posted to Your Wall

~ Deb ~ 1 Comment

Birthdays sure aren’t what they used to be.  The birthdays of my childhood were like mini-Christmas, and I was the babe in the manger.  There was usually a party, and the wisest among us would come bearing gifts.

These were not the bouncy-place, pizza-for-everyone, invite-the-whole-class, pink-and-purple princess parties of today.  No, I’m old enough to remember when your birthday meant primarily family gathered for dinner; the leaf placed in the dining room table to accomodate aunts, uncles, and cousins; the nice table cloth used on a Tuesday.  My mother had a red plate with white letters around the edge which spelled out “You are special today.”  The plate only came out for good report cards, opening nights of the school play, and, of course, birthdays.

Despite the generational difference between those relatively spartan celebrations of the 70s and the stop-the-presses clusters of these modern times, there is an aspect of the childhood birthday that has remained the same: the child feels special.

The shift in the birthday experience which took place as I entered my 20s was a true shock to the system.  I had moved away from my family, so the dinner and the cake went the way of the pterodactyl.  Presents became less . . . well, convenient at first, I suppose, and then just not even considered.  That wasn’t too horrible.  I sucked so badly at remembering others’ birthdays that I was grateful to be let off the hook by the benign treatment of my own.  I settled into the acceptance of birthdays marked by a card in the mail from my mother, a call from my sister, perhaps a casual acknowledgement at work, and a possible gathering of a few close friends, if one of them remembered and put forth the energy to spearhead the event.  Not bad.  And some of them were even quite nice.  But, somehow, birthdays as an adult had become somewhat of a disappointment.  The anticipation I felt by force of habit far outweighed the reality of the day.

Then came Facebook.  Yes, I said, “Facebook.”  The first year I was on Facebook, it was a total shock to see post after post on my wall wishing me well on my birthday.  At first, I was kind of, “Yeah, yeah, whatever.”  I mean, Facebook tells them it’s my birthday.  It’s not as if they have it circled on their calendar with a red sharpie.

And Facebook tells me when their birthdays are as well.  Thus, I conversely felt a bit shallow and pathetic when I would send well wishes to dear, precious, old friends who really deserved better than for a social network to nudge me to do so.  But, I didn’t know the birth dates of many of my Facebook friends to begin with.  And everybody needs a reminder.  (I contend it is the primary role of a partner to remind your circle of friends that your birthday is coming.)

It took a couple of years to get used to the social implications of this new way of celebrating a birthday.  But now when my birthday rolls around and the timeline posts start stacking up, I am absolutely THRILLED by it.  I LOVE that my friends, both close and casual, are reminded and then care enough to send me their best.  It is such a tidal wave of positive energy that my entire day seems elevated.  It’s far better than the annual feeding of my messiah complex in my youth.  It beats the hell out of the bouncy place.

No, birthdays aren’t what they used to be.  They’re much, MUCH better.

One Thing I Learned in Sunday School

~ Deb ~ 1 Comment

A few weeks ago, a friend of mine and I were having a chat when she asked me a question I had some difficulty answering.  We were discussing race relations/equality/justice and so forth, all issues about which I am infinitely passionate.  My friend asked, “Where did you get your intense devotion to issues of racial equality?”

Hmmm. . . where did I get it?  I can think of oodles of examples that nurtured it along the way, but the initial springboard seemed a bit of a mystery.

My friend asked, “Did you come from a liberal family that cared deeply about social justice?”

After L-ing a bit too OL (thanks for the line, Modern Family writers), I said, “No, that would not have been it.”  My family was about as equality minded as any other conservative white family in the 60s and 70s.

“Do you think it has something to do with being a lesbian?  You know, your own experiences with inequality naturally transferring to other minority experiences?”

I think that certainly has an impact on my ability to understand the pain of being on the shorter end of the “equality” stick, but still not the source.

I pondered this question further on my own over the next few weeks.  I wondered if, in the words of the sage philosopher Lady Gaga, I was simply “born this way?”  I’m sad to say that probably wasn’t the case either.    So, what was it?  Could I go back and discover the seed?  I pondered this question in depth, as I am wont to do with just about any single thing one can imagine.

Then I thought of Mrs. Soper.

Mrs. Soper was my first grade Sunday school teacher.  If you had told me then that she was 112 years old, I would have accepted that without reservation.  I’m pretty certain she had taught the first grade Sunday school class for 86 years already by the time I arrived.

One Sunday morning, Mrs. Soper was asking for a volunteer, probably to lead the prayer.  No one jumped at this golden opportunity, so I started pointing my pudgy six-year-old fingers at each member of the class and reciting, “Eeny-meeny-miny-mo, catch a nigger by the toe . . . ”

Mrs. Soper pointed her gnarled, 112-year-old finger at me and snapped, “We don’t say that word.”

I slunk back into my chair, cowed and embarrassed.  There is no greater humiliation for a budding comedian than to learn that an attempt to be funny is not only not funny but horribly inappropriate.  Besides, I had enjoyed the protected status of preacher’s kid my entire life.  It was the rare and courageous adult who dared chastise me publicly.  Well, Mrs. Soper was both rare and courageous (in addition to being the mother of the church treasurer, the woman who wrote my father’s paycheck).

Until that time, the little engine in my spirit that could contemplate issues of social justice had only followed the track laid by my family.  In an instant, Mrs. Soper threw the switch and sent me in a new direction.

I have no idea if I ever said that word again in my childhood (I know that I haven’t as an adult, with the rare exception caused by academic or narrative necessity, as evidenced above, and usually not even then).  I would not be surprised if I did, but I can tell you one thing with certainty: I never said it again without thinking how disappointed Mrs. Soper would be with me.  In fact, every time I hear that word to this day, whether coming from the mouth of one of my students or in a rap song, I think of Mrs. Soper.

It’s not an easy responsibility for an adult to undertake, to transform a child’s ignorance into a choice they can never make again without knowing it is a poor one.  I have done it in the past when my nieces were younger, and let me be the first to tell you, I didn’t enjoy it.  It was embarrassing for them and unpleasant for me.  But, I also know they remember those instances as clearly as I remember Mrs. Soper.

The writer of the Proverbs said, “Train a child in the way (s)he should go, and (s)he will not depart from it.”  I think the part of the verse that gets most overlooked is the concept of the true way to go.  I learned lots of stuff in church that I have long since abandoned, but I have never departed from the track Mrs. Soper switched me to.

From now on, if anyone should ask where I get my passion for social justice and equality, I know exactly what to say — “Mrs. Soper.”  She planted the seed which my life experiences have watered and nurtured.  But, she planted the seed.  Would that we all  contributed to the gardens of the young people in our lives in such a profound way.

What 9/11 Didn’t Take

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

There will be a lot of remembrances of September 11, 2001, taking place today.  I won’t bore you with my personal memories when I know you have your own.  But, after the shared horror and devastation of 10 years ago, I will tell you this:

I still believe that war is not the answer.

I still believe that love is stronger than fear.

I still believe that an open hand is stronger than a clenched fist.

I still believe that a country that welcomes others to her shores is better for it.

I still believe that religious diversity and tolerance must be a part of a truly democratic nation.

I still believe that people are basically good at heart.

I still believe that the Osama bin Ladens of the world are the aberrations.

I still believe that a “War on ____________” breeds more ___________.

I still believe that retaliation never brings closure.

I still believe that kids and schools and communities are more worthy of our time, attention, and money than are bombs and guns and political posturing.

I still believe in liberty and justice for all.

Pat Summitt: Queen of the Court

~ Deb ~ Leave a comment

I am a Pat Summitt fan from way back.  I know that doesn’t make me unique.  It is always interesting to hear someone claim to be the “#1 Fan” of someone like Summitt.  I understand why someone might say that; it’s a fan’s way of saying, “No, I really, REALLY love her.”  But the fact is that a lot of people love her.  I’m satisfied just being among that group.

Today is “Wear Orange for Pat” day.  Just a few days ago, Summitt announced that she had been diagnosed with early-onset dementia at the age of 59.  Like several other people I’ve talked to, I remember watching a few games last year and thinking, “Pat doesn’t look good.”  There was something in her eyes that seemed different.  But, those subtle hints didn’t make this announcement any less shocking.

Pat Summitt began her career in a dead-end profession: women’s basketball.  She began coaching the University of Tennessee Lady Vols when she was still a graduate student and Title IX was in its infancy.  It is hard to find a comparison for what she accomplished in almost single-handedly creating women’s basketball as we know it today.  Perhaps Henry Ford comes closest.  In our celebrity-driven culture, Pat Summitt is one of those rare celebrities who earned every ounce of her renown and paid for every magazine cover and sports article with sweat and determination.

This blog post started out to be a discussion of how people are diagnosed with early-onset dementia every day.  And where is their parade of orange?  It started out to explore the rather morose obsession we have with whatever illness a celebrity has.  Thousands of people suffer anonymously until a famous name makes an announcement of a recent diagnosis and suddenly it becomes the illness-of-the-week.  Honestly, how long do you think it will take for the Pat Summitt Dementia Care and Research Unit to become a part of the UT Medical Center?  Must we have a celebrity connected in order to care about (and fund) disease research?

That was SUPPOSED to be my blog post today, a minor rant on our nation’s Celebrity Obsession Syndrome.  But, . . . this is Pat we’re talking about.

I stood in line at Davis-Kidd years ago to get her signature on my newly purchased copy of her book.  Me, and about a thousand other people.  I watched every televised game of the three seasons which brought back-to-back championships in ’96, ’97, and ’98 (the Lady Vols have won a total of eight national titles, all coached by Summitt).  I shook my head in amazement over the years as she broke record after record.  Now, even the fact that she is the all-time winningest coach in NCAA Division I basketball (men or women) has become somewhat old news.  Most importantly, I admired the way she found to win consistently while never losing sight of the importance of education for her student-athletes.  One of the most honored moments in a Lady Vol’s life is when she gets to sign the pole in the locker room, and she only gets to sign the pole when she graduates from college; it has nothing to do with basketball.

I’m not so much a women’s basketball fan as I am an admirer of anyone who practices and perfects the specific purpose of her life.  The mode of Summitt’s accomplishment is completely secondary; the accomplishment itself places her on a par with some of the greatest names in history.  Excellence that pure is incredibly rare, and Pat has it.

I wanted to kibitz and quibble about the sudden awareness of early-onset dementia now that a famous person has it and put forth at least a soft indictment of our obsession with celebrity.

But this is Pat we’re talking about.  This is Pat.