The Fierce Rookie

When my grandchildren were born, I added a descriptive word to the names given them by their parents. Thus we have the lovely Madelyn Simone, the delightful Elizabeth Holiday, the charming Henry Kyle, and the sweet Emma Belle. By the time Elizabeth was about six months old, I felt the need to add a second word to her description based upon her emerging character, and she became, quite appropriately, the delightful and determined Elizabeth Holiday. 

 

Our Lizzie is now six, starting first grade, and living up to her name as she takes to the soccer field for the first time. Having attended her team’s first two games, I have my doubts as to their prospects for a winning season. The loudest cheers from our team’s sideline have come when our goalie successfully blocks the many shots that come his way, as (sigh) we are still waiting for our first goal at the other end of the field. 

 

This past week, it was close to ninety degrees at game time, and the humidity was high as well. Some of Lizzie’s teammates were MIA, so her team had no substitutes. Whenever time was called, she staggered over to the sideline, where her trainers sprang into action (cue the music from Rocky). Her mother handed her the water bottle, her sister smoothed the hair out of her face and held a cold bottle to her neck, and her dad gave her an animated pep talk. If there was enough time, she grabbed a sweaty hug from her grandparents and headed back out to the field. By the start of the fourth quarter, she was exhausted, yet still she reached down deep for a well of energy and ran out to join her teammates one more time. 

 

As a rookie, this is all new to Elizabeth, her first foray into competitive sports of any kind. Yet there is a determination in her, even a fierceness, that is impressive. She may not be the next Mia Hamm, but I’ll take her on my team any time. Plus, with her red cheeks and her bouncing ponytail, she is adorable.

 

Saturday mornings, on a soccer field behind Jackson High School, our granddaughter is learning tremendous lessons about how to live that will shape her values far into the future. But what is she learning? Will she learn to take direction, to listen to a person older  and more experienced so she can learn about something new? Will she learn to trust her body, to  get up when she’s knocked down (and drill that penalty kick), drawing upon her reserves when the going gets tough?  

 

I wonder what she’s learning about being part of a team. Does she know that she can depend on them to have her back, or is she getting as frustrated as I am with a teammate who is counting the blades of grass while the ball sails by? At six, I’m not sure she can comprehend that not everyone has the same abilities,  nor do they put in as much effort as she does (a good lesson to learn prior to group projects in third grade).

 

Youth sports, clarinet lessons, nature hikes and swimming instructions are not just “feel-good” activities to keep kids busy; no, according to researchers at The Search Institute,  they provide vital building blocks called the Forty Developmental Assets, those preventative measures, positive experiences, and personal qualities that young people need to grow up to be healthy, caring and responsible. The more assets such as support, empowerment, positive value and identity that a child has, the higher the probability they will avoid being caught up in substance abuse, delinquent behavior, or dropping out of school. 

 

As for our Lizzie, one day, when laboring to birth her first baby or taking the bar exam, perhaps she will remember these first soccer games, knowing there are people in her corner, cheering her on. She will innately understand that just as she reached down deep within herself and ran back onto the soccer field, so too can she face whatever challenge lies before her with courage and determination. Might this be so for all children.  

 

We Remember and We Shiver

I keep a short list of ideas for this column on a scrap of paper on my desk, but those topics got bumped this week. The unfolding story of sexual harassment and New York’s Governor Andrew Cuomo has revealed some cobwebs in my mind that I thought I’d swept out long before my seventh decade of life. We remember, and we shiver. Thus, a trigger warning for those who are shivering in light of the news reports from New York.

 

Like the women in Cuomo’s circle as outlined in the AG’s report, like nearly every woman my age or indeed, of all ages, I have personal experience with sexual harassment and abuse. The images are  faded but vivid. A man fumbling with his zipper in the darkened confines of a Greyhound bus. Repeated kisses on the lips when greeted by an older colleague. The stubble of whisker brushing against the cheek in the long embrace of a community leader. Trembling while reading the obituary of a man who groomed and abused fifty years ago. Even after many years, we still smell the sweat mingling with aftershave, taste the salt of our confused tears. The body remembers.

 

For my age cohort, the images are complicated due to the lack of vocabulary available for a girl coming of age in the 1960s and early 1970s. In high school, certain boys were known to have “roamin’ hands and rushin’ fingers,” and we developed tactics to slow down the boyfriends who wrestled with the buttons of our blouses and their own raging hormones. But when those hands and fingers belonged to an uncle, a teacher, or a youth group leader, we had few words to use for their insistent touch. What do we say? Who do we tell?

 

As we got older, the hands continued to touch, now joined by off-color words and workplace demands. Writing in her column last week, USA Today’s Connie Schultz tackled this subject, and told of an incident of sexual harassment in the newsroom years ago that she initially attempted to ignore. However, when she witnessed similar actions towards a young intern, she realized that her own lack of response had made her an enabler of her boss’ advances. 

 

I bristled against that description. When used regarding addiction, an enabler implicitly accepts the abuse and allows it to continue. Since when should a victim, often with limited resources, less experience, and little power, get described as an enabler? Am I my brother’s keeper?

 

The answer is complicated. Many victims are not in a position to confront the behavior, nor should they ignore the fear they feel, as they have genuine reasons to be afraid. And, as Robin Williams repeatedly tells the long-abused Will (Matt Damon) in “Good Will Hunting,” “it’s not your fault.”

Unwanted sexual advances, whether defined as harassment or abuse, are not the fault or responsibility of the recipient, even when guilt and shame repeat the lie. 

 

But when do we have the responsibility to act, even knowing it’s not our fault? Often, as Schultz describes, it comes when another is in danger, is suffering. Ashland writer Sarah Wells pointed me to the work of Mark Labberton in “The Dangerous Act of Loving Your Neighbor.” He writes about suffering that relies “on the complicity and distraction of our ordinary hearts.” Ouch. As Wells explains, this overwhelming suffering is “too much for one person to carry . . . all the suffering in the world is not mine to bear. But some of it is.” What Labberton suggests is that we pick one focus, and make the work of justice for that single injustice the passion of our heart.

 

Our work of justice may expose a hostile work environment or care for the Afghan refugee. It plants a garden, submits a letter to the editor, or teaches a child to read, and stands in solidarity with one who suffers. Henri Nouwen reminds us that “courage often starts in small corners,” and that image offers hope as we take a step forward, establish our rhythm, and join hands with allies. Once again, MILCK’s words echo: “I can’t keep quiet . . .”  

Saving Face

The iconic music begins with the timpani’s introduction to Leo Arnaud’s “Bugler’s Dream,” followed by the brilliant chords of the trumpeters. Then, as composer John Williams describes, the enchanting and empowering notes of his “Olympic Fanfare and Theme” express the “struggle that ennobles all of us.” From the last days of July through the first week in August, the Olympic Games of 2021 provided hundreds of ennobling moments as athletes from around the world swam, ran, dove, hurdled, jumped, twisted and wrestled their way into the record books. 

 

We’re proud of our local ties to the games, as Ashlanders cheered loudly as AU alumni Katie Nagoette cleared the bar of the pole vault at 16’ 1” to claim gold for Team USA. In the high jump, Mutaz Essa Barshim of Qatar and Gianmarco Tamberi of Italy offered to share the gold medal after many jumps left them tied for the top prize. Simone Biles helped us understand the mental aspects of gymnastics, teaching us that “the twisties” are more than twist ties for the bread bag. And in a less-than satisfactory performance, Saint Boy turned out to be not much of a saint when the horse refused to make any jumps in the pentathlon, leaving German athlete Annika Schleu in tears. 

 

Speaking of tears, another Olympic story caught my attention, as it described the reactions of some of the Japanese athletes. Kenichiro Fumita, a Greco-Roman wrestler, sobbed after winning a silver medal: “I ended up with this shameful result. I’m so sorry.” As in, “I’m so ashamed because I’m not the best in the world, I’m only second-best.” Wow!

 

I tend to consider an athletic endeavor as shameful if I face-plant ten steps into a run around the block, not as “only” a silver medal in the Olympics. But for Fumita, not only did he lose the match; he also “lost face,” a public humiliation.

 

The concept of losing or saving face plays a large role in Chinese and Japanese cultures, but it’s also alive and well in the United States. I had an instance with a boss many years ago where a public disagreement led to his loss of face. In hindsight, I should have known better, not just to protect a fragile ego, but because it hurt our working relationship from that point on. Once lost, “face” is difficult to regain. It’s tempting to suggest the other person just “get over it,” but a perceived experience of shame or humiliation is not easily forgotten. Often, it becomes easier to reach towards revenge than forgiveness.

 

In her book, “Saving Face: How to Preserve Dignity and Build Trust,” Maya Hu-Chansuggests that “face” represents a person’s self-esteem, reputation, status, and dignity. She  outlines a “BUILD” strategy that includes benevolence and accountability, understanding (seeing from another’s perspective), interacting, learning and delivery – walking the talk. Somehow, we must find ways to preserve dignity and respect for those we disagree with, thus “saving face” for both of us.

 

We live in a time when strong opinions rule. We feel passionately about the Indians and/or the Guardians, as well as mayo versus Miracle Whip, not hesitating to expound loudly on those preferences. To which we answer, “to each his own.” Live and let live.

 

Consider the concept of “saving face” in relation to the COVID-19 vaccination. Because of the politicized nature of the pandemic and the vaccine roll-out, many have taken a vocal position on the debate, using shame as a powerful tool. Within some camps, changing one’s mind on the vaccine is ridiculed. I wonder, with the increased contagion of the delta variant, might some unvaccinated people struggle with losing face if they decide to get the vaccine ? Instead of racking up mountains of hurtful exchanges with each other, could we call a ceasefire of judgement? No ridicule, no shame for changing one’s mind? Could we release our concerns over losing or saving face, and focus instead on saving life? If indeed the Olympics can symbolize the struggle that ennobles all of us, as composer John Williams believes, then might our battle against the Corona ennoble, honor, and dignify who we are as humans? 

In His Time

A young friend provided some much needed guidance on her Facebook post this week: She is awaiting the birth of her third child, who still has a few weeks in protective custody before he’s due to make his appearance. She warned, “If I see you in person this next week, I am fully aware of how ‘ready to pop’ I look, and I’m positive there is only one” [bun in the oven]. 

 

Thirty-eight years ago today, I was very, very pregnant, and as I would soon discover, only one day away from welcoming Andrew John Shade to our family. Happy birthday, Drew! It had been a hot July, and I was more than ready to deliver that baby. I was convinced that July 1983 had more than thirty-one days in it.

 

All these years later, I’m well past my child-bearing years, but I’m still giving birth from time to time as writing projects come to fruition. My latest book, “The House of Women: A Feminine Presence Under King David’s Roof,” has taken longer than anything else I’ve written, longer than nine months of human pregnancy, longer than the twenty-two months an elephant waits to birth her young, and longer than the female frilled shark, who carries her babies up to three and a half years before giving birth.

 

I’m in good company in the “taking forever to write a book” business. J.K. Rowling spent five years developing the complex culture of Harry Potter, while The Lord of the Ringswas sixteen years in the making as Tolkien imagined the world that has enchanted readers for decades. With that in mind, I better start working on my grand novel today!

 

As someone who writes a regular newspaper column every week, how could it possibly take me ten years to complete a book? I do have a streak of procrastination in me, but ten years? Perhaps it had something to do with the scope of the project. In an earlier book, The Other Woman, I attempted to draw out Hagar’s story from two Genesis chapters, but now I was tackling an entire family system as I looked at every biblical woman who had a connection to King David of Old Testament fame. Since David lived in a time when polygamy was accepted, especially for powerful men, he had a number of wives and concubines (secondary wives), as well as grandmothers, a daughter, and even a beautiful woman to warm the elderly king’s cold bed. 

 

Much of my prep time was spent in research, determining what scholars have to say about these women. But I was also able to turn to a favorite pastime, day-dreaming, as I imagined what life was like centuries ago. Was it possible to learn anything from these historical women who were so often at the margin of David’s life? Three hundred and thirty pages later, I guess I found my answer to that question. 

 

I follow Heather Cox Richardson, a professor of nineteenth century American history, as she intertwines familiar and sometimes obscure moments in history with current-day political happenings. Her comparisons are striking as to how applicable the historical lessons are to us in 2021. So are the whispers I’ve heard over the past decade from women with names such as Abigail, Tamar, Michal, Bathsheba and Rizpah. As I wrote about their experiences with an abusive spouse, a rape-intent brother, a fickle husband, a demanding summons from the king, and a heart-wrenching loss, I thought of so many I know who are walking a similar path to these ancient sisters. Yes, historical voices have much to teach us. 

 

When my kids were little, we’d often sing along with the Psalty cassette from Maranatha Music, and Linda Ball’s words came to mind as I put the finishing touches on my book: “In his time, in his time, he makes all things beautiful in his time.” For the “ready to pop” mom, the lumbering elephant, the frilled shark, and the sluggish author, that’s a promise. Yes, good things do come to those who wait.

Highway Robbery

After his service in World War II, my father received his union card for Carpenter’s Union #369, and began a lifelong career in construction. When I was quite young, he had the misfortune of falling off a bridge and breaking his back. There was no paralysis, but during his long recuperation, he was unable to perform the physically taxing work his job demanded.

 

Fortunately, his brother’s brother-in-law arranged for a job as a toll-taker on the Grand Island Bridge, part of the New York State Thruway system. Dad told many stories from those days, but my favorite was the anonymous driver who handed him a char-broiled hot dog on his way through the toll lane – with mustard and pickles, just the way my dad liked it.

 

In today’s world, the job that put a perfect hot dog in my father’s hands and kept food on the table for a young family is facing extinction, as we discovered on a recent trip to visit with the sweet Emma Belle (and her parents) at a campground in central Pennsylvania. I was prepared to hand over a wad of cash  at the PA Turnpike toll booths along the way, but low and behold, there was no toll-taker holding out a hand for my money. Instead, a camera snapped a picture of our license plate. No explanation, no possibility of paying our way as we moved along the highway. Blame the nasty Corona for this too – at least that’s what the turnpike commission claims. 

 

The bill came in the mail five weeks after our trip. Opening the envelope, I was stunned at the price tag – seventy two dollars and forty cents. We’d only driven about 120 miles each way on the Turnpike. That’s highway robbery! We’ve been pandemic-enforced homebodies for quite some time, but that was definitely sticker shock.

 

As it turns out, the robber barons offered me a deal – enroll in E-Z Pass and the cost becomes a bargain at $35.30, saving me $37.10, more than a 50% reduction in the toll. Visit our website or call this number, and easy-peasy, you’re a member of the Pennsylvania E-Z Pass club, with reciprocal kindnesses for Ohio. Of course, I’d have to put money on an account with my new friends, and pay for (and be responsible for) a transponder so that Big Brother could keep an eye on my movements. I’ve watched enough Law and Order: SVU over the years to know where this is going. Talk about conspiracy theories. 

 

Aside from the ability of the government to track my comings and goings, at least on toll highways, now I would have to keep track of an E-Z Pass transponder and have my hard-earned money sitting in some government account with the expectation that I’ll travel on one of their toll roads sometime soon. With no trip to Maine on the horizon, that’s wishful thinking on their part and on mine.

 

I had to make a tough decision: is saving $37.10 worth the trouble it takes to get an E-Z Pass, when I might not use it? I gave in and went to the website, signed away my first born, provided my credit card information, and got to the final step – paying my bill. Instead of paying $72.40, the original toll, I was now paying $73.30, which included the reduced toll, the annual fee pf $3.00, and a payment of $35.00 , “on account.” So much for “let’s make a deal” or “the price is right.” I’ll have to leave a note with my last will and testament so my kids can recoup that $35.00. 

 

What’s frustrating is the extortionist price of taxation for those without their precious transponder. Some, like myself, are unaware of this penalty, while others (maybe like myself) don’t trust this newfangled technology or simply want to pay their way as they go, a lesson learned from my depression-scarred parents. Why penalize responsible people like this? 

 

As I add mustard and pickles to my next Sahlen’s hot dog (available at Buehlers), I’ll remember this, Pennsylvania. One more occupation gone to the advances of technology. At least this fever hasn’t spread to Ohio – yet. Stay tuned . . .