Sunday, November 05, 2006

Proposition 85: Vote NO, Californians!

The issue of teen pregnancy is one that I am, and always have been, quite passionate about. It started all the way back in 1970, when a relative of mine got pregnant at 15, and delivered her son just after she turned 16.  I was only 8 at the time, but the incident and its consequences were burned into my memory.  My relative was kicked out of high school, and lost not only her freedom to simply be a teenager, but it seemed to me that the friends she’d had previously were suddenly no longer allowed to hang out with her.  I don’t know if that was because their parents didn’t want them associating with the “bad girl” or if they stopped coming around of their own volition, but either way my relative’s life was irreversibly altered and she went from being a carefree teenager enjoying high school to a teenaged mother and a social pariah in the smallish town we lived in.  I swore that would NEVER happen to me, and the memory of that incident played a large part in my not having sex until after I was out of high school.  To this day, I consider it my moral duty to impress upon the teenagers within my sphere of influence that engaging in sex at such a young age is best avoided altogether, and that having a baby before finishing high school is a sure way to sabotage any decent future a girl, or her baby, might hope to have.

Not only have I been a teenager, I am the mother of one (and we actually TALK), which naturally puts me in the role of “pseudo-mom” to her friends.  And although I’m fairly confident that the parents of her closest friends are similarly honest and enjoy good relationships with their girls, I can’t imagine how awful it would be to see one of these kids (whom I’ve known all their lives) have to go through the process of getting a waiver if she for whatever reason couldn’t, or didn’t want to, tell her parents she wanted to have an abortion. I cannot imagine that I, the very person with whom the parents have for years entrusted their child’s safety and well-being, would become a criminal for answering a plea for help (even if it’s nothing more than a ride) from one of these girls who are as dear to me as my own daughter.

Proposition 85 is nothing more than shit law intended to chip away at the right of women to decide whether and when they will become mothers, cloaked in the rhetoric of “keeping children safe.” It does nothing of the kind, and in fact endangers those girls whose families are already so fucked up that they feel they can’t talk to their parents about a pregnancy. What really keeps kids safe is their having adults they can count on and confide in. In an ideal world their parents would fulfill that role, but here in the REAL world that’s not an option for many kids… so they have to be able to find other adults they can trust to advise them and act in their best interests in parental fashion, and the State should butt the fuck OUT!

I’m hopeful that Californians will once again reject this latest Parental Notification law, just like they did last year’s version, Prop. 73.  In the unlikely event Prop. 85 does pass, however, I suppose I’ll end up either spending some time on the phone and in court, or perhaps even doing time should I be called upon to skirt the law in an emergency situation.

* sigh *

(posted in response to CityMama’s call to action)

Monday, October 02, 2006

Enlightening moments while drunk and abroad…

I attended the YP Webmaster Getaway last weekend, and had a great time reconnecting with a few old webmaster friends, and getting to know some new ones, too.  In spite of my being in virtually a perpetual state of inebriation (or plain old sleep-deprivation-induced delirium) I found myself reflecting on things I’d not thought too much about before… or at least haven’t in quite some time.

First and foremost, driving past the Mexican border towns and Baja coastline one would have to be blind not to notice the strange (yet ubiquitous) juxtapositions of relative wealth side-by-side with abject poverty.  Westward glances out the window present one with the striking contrast of a newly-built large, well-appointed beachside home sitting next to a ramshackle abode that’s clearly been crafted out of whatever abandoned materials the inhabitants have been able to scrounge up.  In town after town, I saw “houses” that more closely resembled the forts I helped build as a kid: half a piece of corrugated tin here, a section of fence or plywood remnants there.  (Oh, and the “new” buildings almost all have rebar poking out of the walls and/or roof, because in Mexico, apparently as long as the building isn’t “finished,” there are no taxes assessed.  On the ride down, we wondered aloud at all the rebar “crowns,” but were informed of this loophole in Mexican tax policy by those in the know at the Baja Seasons resort.) Putting myself in the shoes of the poor souls who live in those cobbled-together casitas, it’s all too easy to understand the motivations of those who’d risk life, limb and liberty to escape across the border… they may get paid shit wages once they get here, but at least they’ll be living in a house or apartment that’s properly built, with indoor plumbing, electricity and all the other basic necessities so many Americans take for granted.

In a similar vein, I found that my “bleeding heart” continues to leak, if not hemorrhage… especially when I’m confronted with the dirty faces of children, nursing mothers and the abuelitas whose leathery, wrinkled faces, gnarled hands and hunched backs make it difficult to tell whether they’re 50 or 80, but in any case are testament to their having lived harshly enough, if not long enough, to bring them sufficiently close to the end of their lives that there’s little doubt they’re unemployable.  During a 3-hour shopping trip to Ensenada, I’d imagine at least 1/4 of the money I spent went to the “chiclet kids,” mamas with babies at their breast and a couple of abuelitas.  My cousin, Chet, chastised me, saying that the kids probably work hard at looking so dirty and pathetic (and likely go home to designer clothes, iPods and big-screen tv), and that he actually SAW one of the mamas pinch a baby to make it cry.  I admit it, I’m a sucker… and thus I must limit the amount of time I spend in places where I’ll end up interacting with beggars.  Even though I know on an intellectual level that many of these people are probably making a better living by begging than I do by working, there’s that small part of me that is all too aware that a sudden downturn of fortune can quite quickly land ANYONE in the undesirable position of having to beg in order to survive.  It can and does happen here in the U.S., and in a place like Mexico the loss of a job is more often than not a fast-track to abject poverty. Despite my disbelief, I succumb to the little voice in my brain that says, “There but for the grace of God go I,” and put a little something in the cup.  Ah well, better a bleeding heart than none at all!

Mexicans, regardless of on which side of the border they’re residing and/or their legal status as immigrants to America, are not only my fellow human beings but my neighbors - and I speak not merely of their country’s bordering mine, but of their being a large and vital force in my community for as long as I’ve lived in Southern California (which is virtually my entire life… at least the part that counts, from my teens ‘til now).  This state would not be what it is if not for the people of Mexico, who are an integral part of its history, style and culture. They’ve left (and are still leaving) their marks everywhere, from our local towns’ architecture and nomenclature to the food we eat and the cocktails we imbibe (Margaritas for Cinco de Mayo? Sí ... muy gusto!).  Even so, all of the above doesn’t even take into account the physical labor performed by Mexicans (and yes, other Latinos) whether they’re here legally or not. Unlike those people who choose to see only evidence of their preconceived notions and negative stereotypes, it’s been my experience that my Mexican friends and neighbors’ stories of coming to America and getting established are nearly identical to those I’d heard growing up from my Sicilian relatives… the first to arrive here scratch out a living doing back-breaking work while sponsoring as many family members as possible, and successive generations (hopefully) assimilate and generally have more opportunities than their forbears.  For my part, I salute Mexicans for their contributions to the society I live in and I recognize that without them California, and indeed the United States, would be a very different place… I appreciate how their culture has enriched ours; and on a more personal level, its influence on my own life and worldview.

Lastly, the “dirty old lady” in me simply won’t let me end this post without admitting to being (positively) biased, purely primal in nature.  Mexicans, and Latinos in general make some bee-you-tiful specimens of human being!  I freely admit to being enthralled by people whose ethnicity is immediately apparent in their physical makeup (and yes, to going all squishy inside sometimes, for particular male specimens, heh).  Having grown up primarily in Southern California, a goodly number of the hands-down hottest, most breathtakingly beautiful people I’ve ever known/seen have been at least a little bit Mexican; and even I, before becoming a wise old married crone, made a few bad decisions while held in thrall by el guapo con carisma latino, silly girl that I was.  It’s the coloring, it’s the accent, it’s just… chemical, I suppose!  I’m perfectly satisfied with admiration from afar these days, and even as a happily married woman I ‘m happy to report that from my observations, the stereotypical “Latin Lover” type is in absolutely no danger of going extinct any time soon.

YP 2006 Video slideshow - So many great memories, such inspiration…

Thursday, September 28, 2006

OB’s life in pictures…

I just installed this new gallery software.  No doubt I’ll be dicking around with it a bit but for now it seems to be working just fine!

Photo Gallery

Take a gander, and if you find anything weird or funky, let me know.

Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Bill Clinton and Keith Olbermann are HOT!

As a rule, I’m more attracted to younger men… but over the past few days, between President Clinton and Keith Olbermann, it’s difficult to say which one got me more tingly and breathless as they so eloquently read Chris Wallace and George Bush (respectively) the riot act.  It just doesn’t get much better!!!!

The nation’s freedoms are under assault by an administration whose policies can do us as much damage as Al-Qaeda; the nation’s “marketplace of ideas” is being poisoned, by a propaganda company so blatant that Tokyo Rose would’ve quit. Nonetheless.... ...the headline is this: Bill Clinton did what almost none of us have done, in five years. He has spoken the truth about 9/11, and the current presidential administration. “At least I tried,” he said of his own efforts to capture or kill Osama Bin Laden. “That’s the difference in me and some, including all of the right-wingers who are attacking me now. They had eight months to try; they did not try. I tried.” Thus in his supposed emeritus years, has Mr. Clinton taken forceful and triumphant action for honesty, and for us; action as vital and as courageous as any of his presidency; action as startling and as liberating, as any, by anyone, in these last five long years. * The Bush Administration did not try to get Osama Bin Laden before 9/11. * The Bush Administration ignored all the evidence gathered by its predecessors. * The Bush Administration did not understand the Daily Briefing entitled “Bin Laden Determined To Strike in U.S.” * The Bush Administration… did...not...try. Moreover, for the last five years one month and two weeks, the current administration, and in particular the President, has been given the greatest “pass” for incompetence and malfeasance, in American history! * President Roosevelt was rightly blamed for ignoring the warning signs—some of them, 17 years old—before Pearl Harbor. * President Hoover was correctly blamed for—if not the Great Depression itself—then the disastrous economic steps he took in the immediate aftermath of the Stock Market Crash. * Even President Lincoln assumed some measure of responsibility for the Civil War—though talk of Southern secession had begun as early as 1832. But not this President. To hear him bleat and whine and bully at nearly every opportunity, one would think someone else had been President on September 11th, 2001—or the nearly eight months that preceded it. That hardly reflects the honesty nor manliness we expect of the Executive.

Monday, September 11, 2006

9/11, Jesus the scene-stealer, and losing god(s)

I started this entry on 9/8, and although I’ve flogged myself for being a bad blogger and not posting, I suppose it’s fitting that it be published on 9/11 as people remember that day that took, and changed, so many American lives. Mine was but one of them, and for me that tragic day ties in with another, of which PZ reminded me.

Steve Irwin’s death is a tragic loss to his family and all the good work he’s done for the natural world.  My heart goes out to his loved ones, and the man has my respect for sharing his knowledge in such a way as to engage the interest of those who might not otherwise learn about some of the “monsters” we share the planet with.

So, in my blog-wandering, I came across PZ’s post, “Ken Ham spits on Steve Irwin’s Corpse”, wherein he describes what it’s like to attend a loved one’s “memorial” and… well, I’ll let him tell it:

My baby sister (she was in her thirties and had two kids of her own, but she’ll always be my little sis) died a few years ago of one of those sudden, massive infections - the kind of unexpected reminder of bacterial dominance that killed Jim Henson. When I attended the funeral, I was reminded of another lower life form that afflicts humanity: the minister was an ecstatic Jesus freak who, rather than talking about the young woman we’d lost, or trying to give words of reassurance to a grieving family, instead tried to turn the affair into a revival meeting, asking people to TESTIFY FOR JESUS!!! and otherwise making her superstition the center of attention, rather than Lisa and loss. It galled me no end, as you might guess, and if it weren’t for my respect for members of my family I would have grabbed her by the scruff of the neck and thrown her into the street.

Maybe I should have anyway. Goddamn all preachers, pastors, and priests.

It was a nearly identical experience that removed the last shread of tolerance I had for Christians in general, and fundamentalists in particular. In retrospect, that day was probably the one on which I decided I’d have to stop pretending that I believed in any sort of afterlife, and impress upon the people I loved how important it is for me to make THIS life a full one instead. There are people in my life with whom I have left things unsaid, or undone… and to me, it is those missed opportunities for shared moments and memories (sometimes even painful ones) that make some losses more agonizing than others, and become catalysts for sweeping changes in one’s own life.

My dear departed friend was “born again” in the late-80s/early 90s, and at the time I had been Wiccan for several years. To her credit, she did live up to her faith and take every opportunity to bring me to Jesus; and although I thanked her and told her I understood her motivation, by then I’d not been a Christian for nearly twice as many years as I had been one, or at least nominally so.  I remember clearly the day that I tearfully asked her to not let our religious differences get in the way of a friendship that began in grade school, and she said she wouldn’t.

As it happened, something entirely unrelated (but painful and catalytic in its own right) caused our contact with one another to change from an almost-daily occurrence to such infrequency that by the time she died, it had probably been at least 8 years since we’d spent any time together.  When I got married, almost 11 years ago now, I’d heard that although she wished me well, she was frightened for the immortal souls of her loved ones who attended my pagan wedding ceremony. Again, although I truly understood her POV, hearing those words - fundy “talking points” - hurt my heart.

On 9/11/2001, fundamentalists flew airplanes into buildings and killed over 3000 Americans, and when I posted on a message board that such tragedy is what happens when religious people take their invisible friends and their ancient myths too seriously, I was accused of being a godless anti-American, damned to Hell and called the foulest names in Christendom. And perhaps that day I did become godless… and definitely anti-fundamentalist… but certainly not anti-American. If the horrific aftermath of the acts of fundamentalist Muslims wasn’t enough to show convince me that I wanted no part of the Abrahamic deity, the words and acts of Christians in their response was a clear demonstration of what a monster this God is; or more particularly, just how far His followers will go in their pursuit of pleasing such a monster.

I didn’t pray on 9/11.  And although I lit a candle, I recall thinking that it was a memorial in honor of everyone who died and NOT a small ritual beseeching an invisible friend for blessings or help to defeat “our enemies”. On that day, it really hit home just how irrational, unnecessary and downright dangerous it is to give credence to invisible friends of any stripe. As the smoking ruins of the WTC stood testament to, some people are religious enough, committed enough, BATSHIT CRAZY enough to kill themselves and others at the behest of their invisible friends. Others still are batshit crazy enough to say that those thousands of Americans died because their invisible friend is punishing the country for the religious tolerance, laws and public policy He supposedly disapproves of.

Free thought, science, dissent, free speech and religious tolerance have been victimized as well since the attacks on America that day. We are being intimidated into giving up our liberties in the name of security, while on the frontlines of the Culture War you can’t listen to 3 minutes of conversation or swing a fucking dead cat in public without running into Jesus.  The god-talk everywhere was bad enough for 10 years before 9/11… it’s unbearable now.

So back to my story…

My friend died quite suddenly later in 2001, and my first thought after hearing the news was, “Where was that fucking Jesus, to whom she’d enslaved her mind and spent the best years of her life in dedicated service to? What grievous ‘sin’ did a 38 year old mother commit that she deserved death NOW, when her children are almost grown?”

If her service was any indication, that Jesus character was right there, right now, and demanded the spotlight to the exclusion of any of those mere mortals who might get up there and profane the occasion by, y’know, talking about their daughter/mother/sister/friend/wife, whom they loved and now mourned the loss of. My despair and sense of decorum prevented me from making a scene, but between my ire at my friend’s taking a backseat to Jesus and having some rather emotional, long-overdue reunions with her family members, I remember that I was having spasms in my back muscles that made it difficult to walk, and breathe.  I escaped the church with all due haste, screaming and howling in pain and rage alone in my car until I got to her sister’s house where we’d gather after the burial.

There is no afterlife, no “better place” for a person to be, especially when they were young enough to be enjoying their family and friends.  The way I see it, even if you believe in an afterlife, living as though you don’t at least ensures you’ll enjloy THIS one to its fullest.  I will never see my friend again, and unlike believers, I find no comfort in the irrational precept that her death is somehow less tragic because “she’s with Jesus,” even though I know she’d have liked nothing better than for that guy-in-the-sky thing to be true.  Despite her commitment to Christ, I can’t help but think she’d much rather have waited a few more decades before going off to “be with” Him.

I sure as hell know I’d have liked her to become a crazy old lady with the rest of us, with or without Jesus.