Random Acts

It’s Tuesday night and already it has been a long week. Office life is a bit treacherous just now but dinner still needs to get on the table and it is clear to me that cooking will not happen. Oh well, the girl has been clamoring for Chipotle so I decide to stop and be the hero to at least one person today.

I get the car parked and make my way to the restaurant. There are two high school aged boys propping the door open. They are the end of the line. I consider how long I will be waiting just to order some burritos and decide that in the time it would take to get back in my car and go somewhere else, I could just wait and be done with it.

When I get in line I notice that the line is dense. It is not the usual line that is dispersed in pockets of twos and threes indicating different groups of family and friends, this line is packed solid with high school aged boys. In a mix and match blend of uniforms – the pungent and unmistakable scent of post-workout adolescent boy funk hangs in the air. This is going to take a while. I look at one of their T-shirts and wonder if it is a wrestling team before turning my attention to the email on my iPhone. Did I miss anything critical at the office today?

I’ve been perusing messages for a minute or two when an adult grabs my attention: “Would you like to come and order?” he asks. Coach leads me down the parade of boys with an occasional, “Hey guys, let’s let some of the other customers order ahead of us.” When he gets me to the front of the line, he warns the boy next to me to behave or I might just hurt him. I joke to the boy that it’s not me, but my five year old daughter he should be afraid of. It’s here that I finally see by their uniforms that they are Campolindo Cougars and learn they are a football team – a 10-0 football team.

I place my order, get my food and head back to thank the coach for letting me pass. I realize as I’m walking out the door that none of the boys grumbled when I went ahead, and for a solid mass of what had to be 50 testosterone filled youth, they were surprisingly quiet and very respectful of me and of the space. It’s a small thing really, making young men aware of the people around them. But I believe that it is these small acts of kindness that make us all better people.

Remembering

Ten years ago this morning the phone rang. My then-fiancé knew the news would not be good, as phone calls at 6am never are. It was my best friend urging me to turn on my TV. Her words didn’t really register, but the images on the television told the story.

On that day, this day was unimaginable. On that day, I witnessed my now-husband’s fury unleashed as his sense of having been personally attacked came to full force. I retreated from image after image of the towers falling – the carnage was too much to bear. I prayed as I crossed the Bay Bridge to see my mother, hoping that the violence of the day was over and that I would not be harmed as I drove an endless seven mile span.

My mom and I purchased my veil that day – a surreal act, but my wedding was only 11 days away. We went to sit with friends. The evening newscast had moved on to showing people jumping off the top of the tower hand in hand. For some reason, this was harder to hear in Spanish. There is something in the reflexive verb tirarse that was more painful and intentional and violent than the English – as if to jump off could simply be done on a sunny day, tirarse feels like the way one handles garbage, not the stunning act of those who chose flight over the flames.

…

On this day, I awoke to my five year old climbing in bed for a snuggly hour of peaceful sleep. She is too young to understand these events and we have had enough family tragedies in the intervening years for me to want to try. On this day, I leave it to those more eloquent than I to craft the words that children can understand, and to offer the blessings and unity of divine purpose that only people of faith can help us all to remember.

This past decade has transformed us all in every possible way. My husband and I will be celebrating our ten year wedding anniversary in 11 days, and the growth of our family and our life together continues to deepen and evolve. On that day, this quiet day of children laughing and playing was unimaginable, but here they are, dancing at our feet, and I am grateful.

Bellatrix is Back

My 12 year old god-daughter, Ariel, was diagnosed with cancer over 3 years ago. No run of the mill cancer for her, she got a very rare, very deadly form called rhabdo-myosarcoma. After an 11 month course of treatment, she was given the pronouncement “no evidence of disease”. Cancer families know that to say “cure” or “remission” is to tempt fate. NED is the moniker that is most meaningful in the initial post-treatment years.

Ari is precocious and smart, and a huge Harry Potter fan. She dubbed her cancer Bellatrix and fought with her family by her side and beat the crap out of cancer…until today. It appears Bellatrix wants a rematch. I am stunned. We are all stunned. Her mother and I have been causing trouble together for almost 20 years. We are family and my aching heart does not know what to do.

I find myself thinking about God and faith today. I suppose there is nowhere else to turn when the unthinkable becomes manifest. I am vacillating between two wildly different notions of the divine. The first defies anyone who believes in a personal, interested God – a God who gets involved in the mundane of our lives. How could such a God do this terrible thing to my Ariel…AGAIN! The other is a benevolent and merciful force of the universe – a God who is manifest in life itself. A God that I thank for my daughters as I kiss them and snuggle them as I put them to bed. But even this God makes me want to shake my fist at the sky and rage.

The thing about cancer, at least the thing that is so present for me right now, is how helpless we are against it. How little we can DO to make it better, to help those we love with this horrible disease, and how little we can do for their families and loved ones. Our mutual friends are asking me what they can do…and the only think I can say in this moment is: pray.

Gabrielle Giffords: It's Personal To Me

Gabrielle Giffords is still in critical condition, although there are some reports that she has regained consciousness.. A crazy young man shot her and 17 other people, killing at least 5 of them last time I checked. One of the dead is a 9 year old girl. I have been listening to this story unfold. I can’t look away from it. I am horrified that this congresswoman was shot at close range, in her home state in front of a grocery store while she was doing her job.

At one point today, I sat in my car listening to the radio outside of Safeway. My four year old was sitting in the back seat, playing her Leapster and I just started to cry. For me, this act was personal. It hit home. Gabrielle Giffords was one of twenty congresspeople targeted, literally, by Sarah Palin’s PAC. She, along with other Democrats who voted for healthcare reform, was placed in the crosshairs on takebackthe20.com. Giffords was even on record expressing concern about the safety of herself and her colleagues after this page launched.

In July a crazy man was headed to my office to lie in wait and exact revenge for the workers who died in the BP oil spill by shooting 14 people who work with me. He too, was a lone gunman. He had heard about my organization through Glenn Beck. He was driving erratically on the highway and was intercepted by the California Highway Patrol in a 12 minute gun battle on highway 580. I thanked God again today for those officers. But the fear and the frustration and the panic of what could have been resurfaced for me today.

Gabrielle Giffords was doing her job. She was at a Safeway taking advantage of an opportunity to meet with her constituents and learn about their concerns. Had things turned out differently, I would have been walking into my office on a Monday morning when Byron Williams opened fire – today, my girls could be motherless. That is my enduring nightmare. One moment you are doing your job, simply trying to do the best you can by your family. The next moment is your last. This is not the promise of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. This is not a healthy democracy where ideas can be debated.

When I step back from my incredibly emotional ledge, I can recognize that we do not yet have all the facts. I am aware that Sarah Palin and Glenn Beck did not plot directly with these men to do harm. But don’t they, as public figures, have some responsibility for the words and images they promote? Do they take a moment’s pause when something like this happens to reflect on whether or not they had a role in causing harm?

I am a project manager. When I screw up a project I manage, I am accountable to my boss and my organization. Who are Palin and Beck accountable to? Do they bear any responsibility for the words and images they promote? What happens to our discourse when we choose the language of violence to make a point or tackle a complex social issue? How are we all harmed by reductive language and emotional, tribal politics more interested in power and the next election than in finding solutions that can help to lift us all?

There is a lot of conversation about the quality of our political discourse right now. It can be tempting to imagine that this means we all have to agree. But the real challenge is to learn to disagree; to make sure that we debate ideas and do not attack people; to start our conversations with the notion that the “other side” has the same goals in mind, the betterment of our country and our lives, and that we often see different paths to achieving this goal. Don’t we know that we are all in this together?