A MIRACLE

A MIRACLE

Yesterday the citizens of Iraq had their first free election in decades. Watching the footage on television, I was awestruck by the courage of these people. With the reality of suicide bombers in some cases, just around the corner, with the sound of gunfire as a constant background noise, with the tense, tight security and soldiers everywhere, with people being frisked routinely – even in one case I saw, a man in a wheelchair – it is a testimony to the human spirit that so many brave souls – men and women - dared to venture to the polls and make their choices, faced by a ballot with hundreds of names and a myriad of parties to consider. In case you didn’t happen to see it on CNN – There was, literally, dancing and singing in the street. Many voters brought their small children with them so that the children could witness this historic moment. Iraqi expatriates from all corners of the globe showed up at polls in fourteen nations to express their support for and solidarity with their country.

I had to ask myself if I would be so brave under similar circumstances. I honestly don’t know. I have never been deprived of my right to vote. I’ve been voting for some thirty-five years, and even if I didn’t like the ultimate outcome of an election, I knew I had the inalienable right to voice my opinion and to have my opinion counted. (Well, mostly, but that is a discussion for another day). I have never had my life threatened by the simple act of walking to my polling place. We don’t really know what we are capable of doing until we are faced with the situation.

As much as I have been opposed to the invasion of Iraq, and as little as I like many of the opinions and policies of the current administration, I have to admit that – for now, at least – it appears that the sacrifices of people of this country and others may have served a very high purpose. Whatever the true motivations for our military intervention in the first place, I cannot argue with what happened yesterday.

There was some violence, which is tragic. There may be more violence in the future, but hopefully, less and less. Free people tend to prosper, and prosperous people tend to love peace.

But there was a decided victory yesterday. No matter what the outcome of this election, the people of Iraq have come out in droves to defy terrorism and to stand up for their autonomy. That is a miracle.

© 2005, Robin Munson

WE CAN HOPE

WE CAN HOPE

I am saying a prayer for the people of Iraq today. Tomorrow is their election, and the violence has been escalating for a long time.

Last night on the news, a reporter interviewed an elderly Iraqi man who said that he would vote tomorrow “if the weather is good”. The reporter explained that “good weather” could be taken to mean no bombings, no shooting, and no rocket-propelled grenades in the streets.

I was never in favor of our intervention in Iraq. Now that we’re there, we can hardly turn our backs on the Iraqi people, whose country has been turned upside down in the effort to oust Sadam Hussein. More than anything, I wish we could bring our troops home and in so doing, could stop the bloodshed. That doesn’t seem to be possible.

So for today, I think the only thing we can do as a nation is to hope. We can hope that tomorrow will be relatively peaceful. We can hope that the Iraqi people will not be too intimidated to leave their homes and visit the polls. We can hope that the Iraqi troops have been trained sufficiently to handle whatever situations come along, and that our own troops will provide adequate support wherever they are needed.We can hope that the election itself will be orderly and fair, and that it will in fact reflect the will of the people. We can hope that a fair and peaceful election will help to bring about positive changes for the people of Iraq.

Maybe if people all over the world are hoping the same thing, it will be a very powerful prayer sent up to Allah, God, Buddha, Fate, Jesus, or the Universe. Who knows? We can hope.

© 2005, Robin Munson

ONE MINUTE AT A TIME

ONE MINUTE AT A TIME

Yesterday I spent the day with my mother. Mom has emphysema (among other things). We had a long discussion about how best to play the hand life deals you. It seems there are two major schools of thought where such matters are concerned.

The first school of thought is the fatalistic one. Many people, when faced with very difficult issues, are convinced that they are in the grip of some larger force – be it fate, or God, or genetics – that ultimately must prevail. In essence, they follow the path of least resistance. This is known as acceptance. My father was one person who took that approach. When he was faced with a diagnosis of terminal lung cancer, he refused all treatment except for the palliative. He would not submit to invasive tests, surgeries, or even consultations. He made his peace with the inevitable. I don’t blame Daddy. He was tired. His life had been fraught with all sorts of health challenges, as well as personal and professional difficulties. I think he was just worn out and wanted some well-deserved rest.

The second school of thought is just the opposite – self-determinism. My mom is a perfect example. At 77 she is hell-bent on wringing every drop of happiness she can from her life before she throws in the towel. She takes her medicines every day – and there are a lot of them. She refuses to take her insurance company up on their offer of a motorized wheelchair because she knows that walking is better for her overall health. (She walks her little dog Mugsy four times a day)! She shows up for her doctor’s appointments even if she has to take the bus. She is even making an attempt to eat healthy foods, which is a big deal for a woman who once lived on shrimp cocktail and hot fudge sundaes. She is absolutely fearless in her battle. I can’t help but admire her and want to emulate her courage.

There may be a third school, too, as I’m thinking about it. This is the approach that is a combination of both fatalism and self-determination. You might say that it is the “A.A.” approach. To paraphrase the Alcoholics Anonymous prayer, you accept the things you cannot change, change the things you cannot accept, and pray for the wisdom to know the difference.

Back when I was facing some pretty scary health challenges, I found that I was able to place faith in my doctors as well as my own ability to heal myself. I figured it was worth a shot to try everything that I could try, and then to trust that God or Fate or some greater force would partner up with me and take care of the rest – whatever the rest was. So I did my homework, read whatever I could, talked to different health practitioners, and tried to be in tune with my own body so that I could “listen” to what it was telling me. I did not limit my search for answers to western medicine or eastern medicine or homeopathy or supplements or acupuncture. I took a “whatever it takes” approach, while in the background of all this drama, a little voice kept whispering in my ear not to be afraid – no matter what happened, I would be okay.

Of course, nobody is entirely in one camp or another. There were moments when I think Daddy was in fighting mode and could not accept. There are moments when I think my mother is too overwhelmed to fight and becomes more accepting. And as for me, I was all over the map. In my experience, when I’m in jeopardy, I bounce around like a ping-pong ball. One day I’m up, one day I’m down. One day I’m scared out of my wits, and the next day I’m cool as a cucumber. Sometimes I get really angry and other times I’m simply grateful. In fact, sometimes it’s minute-to-minute. Whatever problems may be confronting me, I can only tackle them in tiny increments - in other words - for as long as it takes for my mood to shift. So I guess I have adapted another old A.A. adage in keeping with all of this: One minute at a time.

© 2005, Robin Munson

PRIVACY

PRIVACY

There has been controversy in the past year about a new phenomenon in the Southern California area. The City of Los Angeles has been putting little cameras at strategic places in the city so that they can monitor potential crimes in progress. There have been cameras installed in a public park and now, a few of them have been placed on Hollywood Boulevard. Both locations are recognized as hotbeds of drug activity.

Critics of such policies say that the cameras are an invasion of privacy. Protect my privacy” in Americanese is usually code for, “Stay away from my sex life”.

To them I can only say – How can you be in a public place and be “private” at the same time? What kinds of “private” activities did you have planned for the next time you’re strolling down Hollywood Boulevard or feeding the ducks in Silverlake? Did you plan to strip naked for a lark? Maybe you had plans to have an illicit affair out in broad daylight? Come on, folks. If you don’t like the idea of cameras in the street, I’m guessing you’re not an exhibitionist. But even if you did something so stupid: 1) You wouldn’t be the first or the last, so get over yourself; 2) The risk of getting arrested would exist with or without cameras; and 3) Nobody really cares.

For myself, I say, go ahead! Take a good look! You will see me caught in the act of walking, perhaps singing to myself, petting a dog, saying hello to a stranger, window shopping, or picking up a free newspaper. Maybe I’ll be spied upon as I enter a Middle Eastern restaurant or a nail salon. You might even see me kiss my husband. Oooooooooooooooooooooh! Big stuff! In other words, behaviorally, I will be exactly like almost anyone else walking down the street. Visually, you may see me in glasses, without glasses, wearing sunglasses, having a bad hair day, having a good hair day, wearing jeans, wearing slacks, wearing a coat, or wearing a sweater. Again - What an invasion of my privacy!

But, why risk it? I say – Dismantle the cameras. Better safe than sorry! So what if a few drug deals go down? So what if a few cars are stolen? So what if some criminal element is allowed to kidnap a few kids and get away with it, even? A drive-by shooting, ah well, it can’t be helped. At least, we’ll all have our precious “privacy”.

I know, I know. This is not the position a “liberal” is supposed to take. But one of my own dearly held beliefs about freedom is that, no matter what label they slap on you, you still have the right to side with the opposition if they’re right about something. To me, that’s what true individuality is about, and it’s nothing that shows up on a camera. As for “privacy”, until the day the government trains cameras on our home, I’m okay.

© 2005, Robin Munson

BACK ON MY SOAPBOX

BACK ON MY SOAPBOX

This morning I was reading some articles in USA Today about the problems confronting us with Social Security. In particular, there is an article by DeWayne Wickham (USA Today, Tuesday, January 25, 2005, Page 13A, “Social Security reform: Women may be big losers”). This article sounds the alarm for American women.

Mostly, Mr. Wickham focuses on the disadvantages for women of private investment accounts, the solution proposed by the administration. You can read the details for yourself. But what really caught my attention was near the end of the article. Wickham cited one of our congressional representatives (a Republican from California), Bill Thomas. Mr. Thomas appeared on NBC’s Meet The Press yesterday where he suggested the following solution: Cut benefits to women. Why? Because statistically, women live longer on average than men. So to even things out, they’ll just reduce the amount of money women can collect from Social Security. They call it, “Gender adjusting Social Security”.

Hello? Have I been sent back to 1960 in a time machine? What is the man talking about? I think he’s talking about penalizing women for living longer.

Well, let’s take it one step further. You might give us a choice, like – Hmmmm. Give us an option for ending it all when our husbands die – kind of like they did in India for centuries. No need for cremation, just dump us in the coffin and close the lid. Or if we’re single, just figure the average life expectancy for men. We can sign an agreement prior to receiving our first Social Security check that on the date that we hit that age, we will go to the doctor and get “put to sleep”. If we refused to “self-expire” on the appointed date, they could prosecute for breech of contract. Sounds reasonable to me!

Of course, if you weren’t willing to “go quietly into that good night”, they could just cut your benefits. Which is what our Mr. Thomas is proposing. What this effectively means is that there is one more sphere in which women’s work earns less than men’s work. It means that our labor is worth less than a man’s labor. That may not be his intended message, but that is the bottom line.

There are many less offensive ways to deal with the dwindling Social Security coffers. Why not simply raise the retirement age? Both men and women are living longer on average, so raise the retirement age for everyone. If we’re living longer and healthier lives, it makes sense to me that the need for retirement necessitated by failing health and the desire to have a little “R and R” in our golden years could come a little bit later.

I would urge every American woman to read Mr. Wickham’s article in today’s paper. It was a real wake-up call for me – not only about Social Security, but about a creeping sexism that seems to be eating away at the progress women have made in this country over the course of the last forty or so years. To me, at least, it’s not even subtle.

Maybe next someone is going to suggest that since women outnumber men in our society, their votes should count less in order to “even the playing field”.

(Can someone please explain to me why misogyny seems to go hand-in-hand with so-called conservatism in this country)?

© 2005, Robin Munson

THERE GOES JOHNNY

THERE GOES JOHNNY

I don’t know what I can say about the passing of Johnny Carson that hasn’t been said already – and it’s only twenty-four hours since he drifted away from us. I was so taken aback when I heard of Mr. Carson’s death, as I’m sure many people were. I felt genuinely sad, as if someone in my own extended family had passed away. Then I realized I didn’t know the man at all – had never met him once in my entire life.

There is a myriad of things I don’t know and will never know about the late-night television guru. I can’t help but wonder, though – from the mundane, like – What was his favorite color? – To the profound, like – What made him tick? Of course, Johnny made it clear that he really didn’t want me (or anybody else outside of his immediate circle) to know any of that stuff. Moreover, he would probably have politely told me it was none of my business. He was right, of course.

Mr. Carson started hosting the “Tonight Show” just about the time I was old enough to stay up late once in a while without my parents’ knowing it. I would surreptitiously turn on the old black and white and let the grainy images and the slightly naughty jokes wash over me. This was my initiation into the fun aspect of being a grown-up. Johnny Carson seemed to imply that nothing was to be taken too seriously. We could safely make fun of just about anything. Yet he always managed to side step the most sensitive and vulnerable underbelly of the American psyche. He earned the title of “gentleman”.

In an odd way, he made me feel safe. This is a tall order in the wee small hours after we have been assaulted with a full day’s worth of troubles, both in our personal world and in the larger world. As a matter of fact, the “Tonight Show” followed on the very heels of the local news. We needed it badly as an antidote to all that violence and catastrophe. We still do.

The trouble is – Johnny’s gone. For the past twelve years we could all hope that maybe, somehow, he would return to us. It’s not that those other guys aren’t good – They are. But they’re different. Where Johnny’s message seemed to be, “The glass is half full. The world is messy and funny, but don’t worry, folks. We’ll get through it.” The message today seems to be, “The glass is half empty. The world is falling apart. You might as well laugh before the glass is totally drained”. Both will make you laugh, but only one will make you feel better for it.

Maybe Johnny left when he did because he sensed the sea change coming. Maybe he felt that the world would no longer be a place of easy laughter. Or maybe he left because he was simply tired. Thirty years is a long time to hold up the world.

We’ve missed you for twelve years, Mr. Carson. Now all we can do is thank you, and wish you God speed.

© 2005, Robin Munson

INAUGURATION DAY

INAUGURATION DAY

The other day I got an anonymous e-mail from someone who had somehow interpreted one of my blogs to mean that I was a fan of the President. I have to say for the record, I am not a fan. Politically and socially, I have too many disagreements with Mr. Bush for me to feel that way. On a personal level, he rubs me the wrong way, too. That part is not his fault. But I know that somewhere around fifty percent of the American people feel pretty much the way I do. So it’s especially painful for me to see the airwaves filled with news of the inauguration today. It’s like watching a scary movie – I just can’t look.

On the other hand, as my husband reminds me whenever I begin to wax eloquent on the subject, this administration is having its day, and soon the tide will turn. The pendulum always swings, and I have great hope that I will live to see it swing again – soon.

What is absolutely amazing to me about this country is that – in spite of the fact that virtually half the population is opposed to just about everything this administration is and all it stands for – the protests remain peaceful and lawful. There is no hint of civil war. There will be no bloody coup. Blue states and red states continue to do trade and there is civility between neighbors who voted for Bush and neighbors who voted for Kerry. Congress may be lopsided in favor of Republicans, but rules and procedures are maintained. I have friends who voted for Bush, as a matter of fact. Nice people. That actually comforts me.

As I have said before, but it bears repeating – nothing would make me happier than to find out I was wrong. I would love to find out that this administration (and I know it’s not just the President) was right all along. I would love to find out that, indeed, the war in Iraq transformed Iraq into a democratic, free state with equal rights for women. I would love to find out that a victory in Iraq would, in fact, lead to a newly liberated and peaceful Middle East.

And wouldn’t it be wonderful if the “War on Terror” actually ended terrorism? Or even made a big dent in it?

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we found out (somehow) that indeed, Social Security was on the brink of bankruptcy in 2005, and that this administration single-handedly saved it by partial privatization? (That would be a confirmation that our young work force has the wisdom to invest their money wisely!)

A return to “Christian Values”? Okay by me, as long as we’re talking about the values espoused by Christ, which were inclusive, forgiving and peaceful. (As opposed to some of these ersatz “Christian Values” which I suspect are exclusive, judgmental and antagonistic).

I’m going to get off my soapbox, now. I may not particularly like the President or his tactics, but I respect the office and the system that it represents. I’m just waiting for the tide to turn and the pendulum to swing.

*******************************************************

© 2005, Robin Munson

JUST A THOUGHT

JUST A THOUGHT

I know I have argued before in favor of sloth and leisure. Today I am going to do the opposite. I am going to ask the musical question, “What could we do if we didn’t have to sleep?”

Those extra eight hours would come in real handy for, oh, say a full-time job. Then you would still have sixteen hours left over for almost anything you can name.

Think of it. If we didn’t have to sleep, we would have twenty-four hours instead of a measly sixteen in which to accomplish all of our most treasured goals – and still have time to goof off. With an extra eight hours a day, every woman could be a Martha Stewart. We could make our own lamps, grow our own prize-winning tomatoes, design and create our own clothing, and even raise the kids all by ourselves, instead of having to call in a professional nanny.

Or you could live pretty much the way you do now (minus the sleep), and save up all those extra hours for vacation. You would suddenly have time to travel. And you would have the money to travel, too, because by saving up your extra hours every day and working, you would accumulate overtime like mad. Then every six months you could take a cruise or fly to Fiji.

With an extra eight hours a day you would have time to resolve all your differences with friends and family. When a conflict arose, you would have the time to put your life on hold, sit down with the person in question, and chase down every argument to its logical conclusion. (Presumably, they would too, since they’re not sleeping, either).

Think of this: If you didn’t have to sleep you would have time to go back to school or do an Internet course and finally get that degree you’ve always dreamed of. You could learn a foreign language. Or maybe you would finally have the time to write the Great American Novel. Finally, you could go to the gym five times a week and really get in shape.

With an extra eight hours a day, you might volunteer for a worthy cause. You might build houses for Habitat for Humanity or go to work for the Peace Corps. You might teach literacy or become a child’s mentor.

What a waste it is to sleep, when we could be so much more constructive! But of course, we mere mortals must have our down time so that our bodies and our minds can be refreshed and revived. (Sigh).

I heard a statistic the other day that stunned me. The average American household spends seven hours a day in front of the TV. It’s not quite eight, but then, a lot of people only sleep seven hours, and the result is pretty much the same. So what if. . .? Just a thought.

© 2005, Robin Munson

I SPEAK AMERICAN

I SPEAK AMERICAN

Last night we were out with friends, and somewhere along the way, I found myself telling part of the story of my immigrant grandparents and how they happened to come to this country. I don’t know what was running through our friends’ minds at the time, but I found myself compelled to talk about it, even while I knew it was probably not appropriate light dinner conversation.

It runs like a rich, dark thread through the tapestry of my life, this saga of four brave people from Eastern Europe in the early years of the twentieth century. My father’s parents came to this country from Romania. My mother’s mother was from Hungary. My mother’s father was from Czechoslovakia. They were all young – under twenty-five. They were all Jewish. And at some point, each of them individually made the decision to leave everything they knew and loved behind to take a chance on the “New World”.

I never knew my father’s parents – they died before I was born. The stories about them are all from their life together after they met in Pittsburgh. Those stories are colorful, textured, and delightful thumbnail sketches of the people they portray.

But I did know my mother’s parents. Some of the stories have been passed down to me directly by my grandmother. Some of them come to me from my mother. The history of my grandmother and grandfather before they came to the United States are epic. They depict the horrors that motivated people to make the terrifying leap of faith, boarding a steamer and traveling in steerage across the Atlantic to a country they have never seen where the language, the customs, and even the food is totally foreign to them.

I will give you a sample – the same story I found myself retelling last night. My grandmother grew up in a tiny town in Hungary called Rozhehegye (Rose hedge). It was close to the Danube River, just across from Vienna, Austria. (My grandmother attended secretarial school in Vienna, taking a ferry across the Danube every day. She spoke fluent German, as well as Hungarian, Russian, and Czech).

When Grandma was a little girl, the Russians invaded and occupied Hungary. Among many of the rules they instituted, they decreed that Hungarians should no longer speak Hungarian, but were compelled to speak Russian only (at least in public). Grandma was walking to school alongside her best friend, and naturally, they were chattering away in Hungarian. A couple of Russian soldiers appeared and, having overheard the conversation, shouted, “No Hungarian! Speak Russian!” My grandmother’s friend, being a spunky little girl shouted back, “I am Hungarian! I speak Hungarian!” One of the soldiers simply lifted his rifle and shot the little girl dead – right in front of my Grandma.

There are many other stories about my grandmother and grandfather’s experiences in Europe. But this one, perhaps more than any other, speaks to me personally. It is emblematic of what brought them to their new home. In fact, I would venture to say that it is emblematic of what brought many, many immigrants to this country. That brave little girl’s spirit lived on in my grandmother and probably helped her to make that horrendous crossing to Ellis Island.

My grandparents (all four of them) learned English. I am told that they rarely lapsed into their native languages or even Yiddish except when they were fighting and didn’t want the children to know what they were saying. They worked hard at their new language and became fluent early on. But the important thing was that they spoke English by choice. Not by force. That’s why they loved this country so much. My grandmother would have proudly stated, “I am American. I speak American”.

© 2005, Robin Munson

AN IDEA WHOSE TIME HAS COME

AN IDEA WHOSE TIME HAS COME

Thanks to living in a litigious society, we now have warnings posted for virtually all drugs – “Warning: May cause dizziness” – “Warning: May cause drowsiness” – “Warning: Do not operate heavy machinery while taking this drug”. We’ve all seen them – on our aspirin bottles, on our cough medicine, even on our wine bottles, and of course, on the cigarette packages. In addition, there are warnings on our clothing, on our mini-blinds, on our stepladders, for heaven’s sake.

My thought is: Why stop there? Why don’t we have warnings, for example, on all the fast food we consume? How about a label on those fries, for example: “May cause hardening of the arteries”, on fried chicken it might read, “Caution: Wash hands and face thoroughly after consuming. May cause acne breakouts”.

For eggs, there should be a label that reads, “In spite of our best efforts, these eggs may contain salmonella. Good luck!” How about a warning on all chocolate products: “Contains caffeine. May be habit-forming”. A warning on white potatoes might read, “Caution: High glycemic index”, or “High Carb Content”. (A lot of stuff would fall into that category). A warning on carrots: “High Beta Carotene Content: Excessive use may cause yellowing of the skin”. For beans, I think less is more: “May cause embarrassment”. Certainly a warning on coffee is long past overdue: “May cause jitters”.

At the entrance to every bank these words should be inscribed: “Not responsible for rising interest rates, falling interest rates, or the national debt”, and “Not responsible for your bone-headed decision to borrow more than you can afford to pay back”.

And while we’re at it – Let’s put caveats on some less tangible items. Let’s put a warning sign at the front door of every pet emporium: “Caution: Adoption may cause excessive attachment and resultant heartbreak”.

Every marriage chapel in Las Vegas should have the following inscription: “Marry in haste, repent at leisure”.

All of these warnings, of course, assume that we have all lost our ability to use common sense. Maybe we have. Judging by some of the lawsuits you read about, it would certainly seem that way.

At the same time, we need only read the headlines to know that the corporate big shots are not above hiding the truth from consumers. We know that in spite of research that showed a popular arthritis drug carried increased risk of stroke and heart attack, the drug company managed to keep that information to itself for a long time.

So, it’s confusing. There is plenty of blame to go around. We are all guilty of wishful thinking. Consumers don’t want to think that the yummy burger they have for lunch every day will add inches to their waistline and take years off their life. Drug companies don’t want to think that the lucrative panacea they’ve just spent years inventing might have a teensy tendency to destroy the cardiovascular system.

All in all, I’d say that we all need to be warned – constantly. It’s an idea whose time has come.

© 2005, Robin Munson

Next Page »