Livingston, I Presume

I'm happy, so happy

For the past month, I have had this cloud of Work That Will Not End hovering above me. As a freelancer, I am not allowed to complain about excessive work, since that could result in some sort of bad assignment karma, but I have, shall we say, wallowed a bit in feeling as if I had suddenly been transported back to grad school and had my thesis due plus two final exams all on the same day. Particularly if a typical consequence of not doing well in grad school would have been the inability to pay the mortgage.

But now, as of 11:30, I have turned in the beginnings of my last big ongoing project and am awaiting feedback before I get going on the rest. It's not as if I'm totally done, mind, but I am done enough to breathe again.

You should feel lucky, Internet. I only spent two hours in time-wasting splendor before I felt guilty about my abandoned blog.

The rest of today is dedicated to making lemonade from lemons, with unsatisfactory pears standing in for lemons and yummy fall desserts taking the place of lemonade. (Was that too complicated? Suffice it to say that we bought a giant bag of pears at Costco, found that they were not good for general fruit eating, and decided to bake them into things rather than waste them entirely.) I can smell the pear-pecan bread baking right now.

Also, it is unusually gorgeous outside, especially given that it is Halloween, and Halloween in Montana almost always means crappy weather. If this continues, Connery may get to go trick-or-treating as a pirate of the high seas rather than a pirate of the Arctic Sea.

Now I actually *am* scared

But not of manufactured teacher sex abuse epidemics, as the AP tells me I should be.

No, what I'm scared of is the story contained in this post by La Lubu at Feministe. (H/T Melissa.) In "What Color Are the Holes in Your Parachute," the author describes the premature birth of her daughter, the baby's struggle for life, and her subsequent firing from her job, despite being--she thought--covered by the Family Medical Leave Act. And of course, in the United States, what does unemployment mean? That's right, no health insurance.

About six weeks after the birth, she received the first of the many medical bills to come. The total? $750,000.

And I laughed. Yes, I laughed. What the hell else could I do? Who the hell did they think was going to be pulling $750,000 out of her ass? Because it sure wasn’t me. At the Ronald McDonald House, I traded war stories with the other parents. Most of the parents there were long-termers—waiting for the call for new organs for their sick children. Everyone had lost their jobs because of their children’s medical crises. At least once. I met folks whose employers couldn’t be bothered to give them a week of time off. I met a family where both parents had hepatitis C (and that ain’t cheap, people); they were waiting for their toddler son to get a lung transplant. People from all over the nation. A nation of isolated medical crises.

Even if that's where she had stopped, this post would be worth reading in its entirety. But she manages to see the macro view of our country in a way that very few people do:

There are many myths in These United States (why do I keep wanting to type “Untied” States?). The myth of Individuality reigns above all. The idea that one stands, or falls, all on his or her own. It is at the root of the notorious historical amnesia this country suffers from. It informs racist and sexist beliefs. It distorts the ability of various progressive groups to organize around issues central to the fabric of our lives, let alone form coalitions with other progressive groups to aim towards and achieve justice for All. It is the poison in our well. This ridiculous notion that we can manage without the assistance of others.

Her conclusion:

...We are told that those who stumble are careless. That they should have planned better. Should have had more savings. Should have foreseen the deluge. Didn’t they know that it was inevitable? That they aren’t among the saved?

That is what is behind the opposition to S-CHIP. That those currently without a safety net, save that of their own wages and savings, should necessarily suffer. Should declare bankruptcy. It is their destiny. After all, if they were Worthy People, they would be able to come up with the money on their own. They would be able to find a sponsor. Hence, the number of benefit parties, barbecues, chili cook-offs, mostaccioli dinners, and poker runs held at taverns, union halls, churches (temples, masjids), and social clubs throughout the midwest and elsewhere; a desparate attempt to come up with some kind of money, and prove some kind of personal worth in the face of cancer, accidents, heart attacks, strokes, premature birth, job loss and any number of cascading personal crises that don’t tend to arrive alone. Half of all bankruptcies in the United States are due to medical bills.

What color are the holes in your parachute? The ones that you’ll see when, in a moment of need, you look up?

That's what's fucking scary in this country. Not teachers.

Today's scary "plague"

If the American Public isn't scared out of its collective mind, it wouldn't be the fault of the media. Between contagious fat and deadly spinach and missing blond girls, it's a wonder any of us leave the house. Especially if we have kids. The latest in this proud tradition is the Associated Press "expose" of the "epidemic" of teachers who sexually abuse their students. I was all ready to sit down and write a full post about this series--since it reeks more of group character assassination than any real news story--but then I happened to notice Melissa's post at Shakesville. I love how she writes wonderful things so I don't have to.

First of all, she rightly takes the reporters to task on their mathematical evidence for "plague" status:

...There are also three million public school teachers in the US, making less than one-tenth of one percent (0.08%) of them among the educators reprimanded in some way for sexual misconduct. (Accounting for the fact that 90% of the offenses are committed by the only 24.9% of teachers that are male, that makes 0.3% of male teachers reprimanded in some way for sexual misconduct.) By way of comparison, "A review by America's Catholic bishops found that about 4,400 of 110,000 priests were accused of molesting minors from 1950 through 2002." That's 4%—more than ten times the rate of male public school teachers.

She goes on:

If you note that the AP uses "educators" interchangeably with "teachers" when using that 3 million number, but then also notes that the "the cases that the AP found were those of everyday educators—teachers, school psychologists, principals and superintendents among them," it gets a little messier yet. That's more than 3 million "educators," which means an even smaller percentage of them are sexual predators. Less and less plague-like all the time.

After making some excellent points about how American society perpetuates the ol' boy network and loves to blame victims--as well as the absolute uselessness of massive hysteria in trying to make necessary changes--she makes another good observation:

Beyond that, no good—none—will come of ghettoizing teaching as a profession of perverts. We already underfund schools and underpay teachers; there's really no need to make it a less desirable profession, dissuading decent and talented people in yet one more way from choosing teaching as a profession. I can think of no better way to ensure that the schools are filled with creeps and losers than by going on about how the teaching profession is plagued with sickos until no right-minded person would take the job.

That'll be just great for the kids in public school, won't it? We'll really have helped them out.

To my mind, that leads into the larger question of whether an article like this actually had the intention of helping kids in public schools. I hesitate to call it a vast, right-wing conspiracy, but there are fully mobilized forces out there who beat the drum day after day that public schools are bad, that teachers (and especially unions) are part of the problem, and that private and religious schools (not to mention those who homeschool) are the institutions worthy of support, despite their utter lack of that great buzzword, accountability. Who's mandating NCLB testing for private schools and home educators? Nobody.

I admit my bias upfront: I was raised the child of two public school teachers and received stellar public education from kindergarten through bachelors degrees. I am always going to pull for public schools, not just because that's where I'm from but because I think they serve a hugely important purpose. They are meant to be an equalizer, and the more people who get scared away from public schools because of sensationalist crap like this, the harder it's going to be for them to fulfill that mission.

I'm not saying that we shouldn't take the problem of sexual abuse and misconduct seriously. We absolutely should. But the problems in the schools are no worse than in any other sector of society, and we aren't seeing anywhere near the same outcry. Most such abuse occurs in the home, for Pete's sake.

As Melissa concludes:

As I said at the start of this piece, there are smart ways to address the problem of sexual assault—and addressing it wisely and effectively within the specific confines of the public school system is dependent on many of the same precepts of addressing it wisely and effectively anywhere else, starting with education for both students and school staff on precisely what constitutes sexual misconduct and how it should be reported, and including the presence of a well-trained victims' advocate independent from the administration, someone who isn't inclined to make deals with sexual predators out of a sense of fraternity, a sense of obligation to protect the school, or any other reason that doesn't have fuck all to do with justice and safety.

Justice and safety in any school—or workplace, or organization, or even family—are always a top-down proposition. The most important component to protecting people is a willingness to prioritize their protection rationally and steadily—and comprehensively, by creating an environment where everyone is regarded as equals and treated with dignity, where there's no question that an adult touching a little girl's breast is wrong.

Yeah. What she said.

Not from Montana? Grab a phone.

I got this alert from Montana Women Vote and wanted to pass it along to any readers I might have in the states listed below. Please call. All kids deserve health care.

You heard in our last update that President Bush has vetoed the bi-partisan SCHIP expansion bill. The veto override vote is planned for this Thurday Oct. 18th. The votes will be there in the Senate, but more votes are needed in the House. All three Montana Congressmen have demonstrated support of the bill - so what can you do to help? We suggest you contact you contact passionate friends and family in the states below (you could forward or cut and paste this info) and ask them to:

1. Call 1-800-965-4701* and ask the Reps office
2. Deliver this simple message when connected: "I'm a constituent of Rep. _____ (or a resident of the state of XX) and I'm calling to urge him/her to vote to provide health coverage to millions of uninsured children by overriding the veto of the Children's Health Insurance Program Reauthorization Act (H.R. 976)."

States with Representatives to target:
Arkansas: Rep. John Boozman (R) Colorado: Rep. Marilyn Musgrave (R) Florida: Rep. Tom Feeney (R) Georgia: Rep. James Marshall (D) Illinois: Rep. Tim Johnson (R) Indiana: Rep. Joe Donnelly Sr. (D) and Rep. Baron Hill (D) Ohio: Rep. Steve Chabot (R) Louisiana: Rep. Rodney Alexander (R); Michigan: Rep Timothy Walberg (R) and Joe Knollenberg (R) Mississippi: Rep. Gene Taylor (D) Missouri: Rep. Sam Greaves (R) New York: Rep. John "Randy" Kuhl (R) and Rep. Thomas Reynolds (R) North Carolina: Rep: Robin Hayes (R), Rep. Mike McIntyre (D), Rep. Heath Shuler (D), and Rep. Bob Etheridge (D) Oklahoma: Rep. David Daniel Boren (D) Texas: Rep. Kay Granger (R) Virginia: Rep. Thelma Drake (R) Wyoming: Rep. Barbara Cubin (R)

Better get used to it

Connery has recently mastered his tricycle, and, more importantly, is quite keen to ride it. All day long, if possible. Up until he started at Montessori, he wasn't showing a lot of interest in wheeled vehicles, except for an Elmo scooter-type-thing that didn't have any pedals and instead ran on foot power like a Flintstone car. It was fine when he fit on it, but by the time he was two, he was scraping the tops of his feet more often than actually moving.

Nana and Grandpa bought him the current beloved tricycle quite some time ago. When he first got it, my dad put blocks on the pedals because his legs wouldn't reach all the way down there. When he would try to pedal it, he would get frustrated and want to put it away. It continued that way right up until he saw the trikes at Montessori--and the Big Kids riding on them. All of a sudden, he was a fearless speed demon, a trait he's now brought home.

We all went for a walk the other night with Connery on the tricycle. I say walk, but it was really more like a joyride for him and a run for us. I saw only his ever-shrinking back and his crazy pedaling legs for the entire expedition. All of a sudden, watching him ride away from us--most gleefully, I should add--I had a little preview of what the next 14 years are going to be like. Now it's a little red trike, but all too soon it's going to be a dirt bike and then, someday--ulp--a car.

How do parents ever muster the strength to let their kids out of their sight, much less into a car with a bunch of teenagers? How did my parents do it? I remember at the time that I got my license (having just turned 15, I might add) feeling infinitely mature and worthy of the heinous responsibility that had just been bestowed on me. It turned out that I hated to drive, so I guess that cut down on some worries, but I still was a passenger plenty.

When I was a senior, my parents let my best friend and me drive to Spokane, which is about seven hours and two mountain passes from my hometown. We were going to see Les Miserables, and we stayed with friends of my parents. At the time, I saw absolutely nothing out of the ordinary in this trip. We were two good kids who had good grades and good brains going to see a show unavailable in our smaller town. I now look at this and think, "My God. How did my parents--and Dan's for that matter--ever have the guts to see us off in Dan's little Honda as we drove 300-plus miles through three states? And did they spend the entire time rocking back and forth on the floor, moaning with worry? Because that's what I'd do."

The thing was that in Montana, teens driving long distances was just a matter of necessity. If you were in activities, you had to drive to get to state conventions and district meetings and to see the friends you made from all corners of the state. Going to high school in Montana always felt like being in a small, friendly neighborhood--it was just that your neighborhood took nine hours and 700 miles to cross.

I don't know if it will be that way when Connery goes to high school. Maybe the kids will just text each other until their thumbs bleed and the only danger will be rampant carpal tunnel syndrome. But I doubt it. Instead, I imagine that I'd better just get used to seeing Connery from that angle--pedaling madly and getting smaller and smaller in the distance.

Put a whip to those artisans, dammit!

Normally, I look at the Sundance catalog in much the same way one would peruse the Nieman Marcus Christmas Book: Oh my yes, those 10 acres in the Paradise Valley sure do look purty, but I left the $2.3 million in my other pants. Still, even pragmatic (read: cheap) me has her moments of weakness, and the A to Z Wordsmith Hooks were mine.

Chip and I must have spent a couple of hours first justifying the purchase and then, critically, deciding what our hooks should spell out. That probably took another week. Still, we went ahead and ordered them and were only mildly disappointed to find out that they were on back-order until June. Yes, June, because we placed the order in May. Since then, we have received three of our six letter hooks. A...S...O. I like to play wordgames, but I can't think of a thing to spell with those three letters, unless it's a phonetic rendering of how I'm feeling about Robert Redford and his pretentious catalog at this very moment.

The latest from the email-bots at Sundance is that the rest of our word should arrive by mid-November. Meanwhile, the company continues offering the letters as if they were, you know, available in their catalog and online. When I called a few months back to complain, I was told that their artisans are working day and night to fill our orders, but that the shipments they've received have only put a dent in the backlogs that existed before I even ordered. Frickin' lazy artisans.

Oh, and the word we were planning to spell? RADOST--it means happiness or joy in Czech. Because that's totally what I'm feeling.

Milestone

My artistic modeling career has begun.

This is the drawing of the two of us that Connery brought home for me from Montessori yesterday. Is it not fetching?

As far as I know, these are his first Stick Figures, and I have to tell you that he totally got the scale right on my head. It really is that big.

Bye bye, fry

Let us bow our heads, Internets.

We come here today to mourn the passing of The Stockman's handcut french fry. In a world of industrialized frozen potato products, The Stockman's heaping plate of homemade, skin-on fries was a revelation. These were not Belgian frites, mind. They were not pretty and even and they could not have been eaten from a tiny paper cup with mayonnaise on the side. They were not double fried and extra crispy. But as American fries go, they just didn't get any better. Crisp but substantial and toothsome, tasting of potatoes--sounds obvious, but have you tasted a fast-food fry lately? It's like no actual potatoes were harmed in the development of those fries--The Stockman's fries were the perfect accompaniment to their excellent burgers. It was like Old Montana on a Plate. And the residual Scot in me loved that a single order was plenty and then some to share among a family of three.

The family and I went to The Stockman on Tuesday night. It was one of our first meals downtown since the end of tourist season. Just like in Prague, tourist town centers are often best avoided during the peak months. Imagine our distress to discover that while we had been barbecuing our own burgers and sweating in the basement, the restaurant's chief fry maker had decided that he couldn't keep up the pace anymore. He'd been preparing some 100 pounds of potatoes every single day to cope with the demand, and he was done.

The fries they're serving now are just like any other fry in any other restaurant in America. Bah.

The owners had put a notice on the menu to warn people, but really, I think they should have taken out an ad in the paper. Maybe, in fact, an obituary. And they definitely should have given us enough notice to come in and get a last fix. We could have taken up a collection to send The Potato Guy to the spa in the hopes of rejuvenation and future potato wrangling. But no. They're just gone, and we're left to pick up the precut, frozen pieces.

Go now and read

After Jay joined Left in the West and wasn't posting all my favorite goodies at 4&20 Blackbirds anymore, I kind of lost track of what he was doing. I checked in on LiTW with some regularity, but not enough to feel like I was really getting vintage Touchstone, you know?

This post at LiTW fills that void. If you care at all about America's middle class, health insurance and health care, or just common decency, you owe it to yourself to go have a read. And just in general, if you're looking for a highly literate, well-reasoned progressive blogger, you should be keeping up with most things he writes. I know I'll be better about it in the future.

P.S.

When I dropped Connery off at school this morning, he ran off to play with some other kids on the playground. A few seconds later, he turned around and asked me if I was going to leave. I told him I could stay for a few minutes if he wanted me to.

He didn't.

Maybe someday I'll figure out how his mind works.