Chewymom

Back in college, I wanted to major in Education, but my parents were vehemently opposed. They were adamant that I needed to get a my degree in a “regular” subject and go back for a master’s in education. So I majored in English. And then I got married, and the master’s never happened.

I moved to California and landed a job in October teaching a third-grade class whose teacher had quit after a few weeks. It was a private school, so my lack of a teaching certificate was acceptable.

I jumped in and tried to make sense of lessons plans and teacher text-books and such. I found it easiest to simply follow the curriculum that was handed to me and to branch out very little. Meaning I taught the subjects in the order they were presented in my teacher manuals. Our history course was American history, and it was in chronological order.

Fast forward a couple of months to January, and the Martin Luther King, Jr., holiday came and went. And then my principal called me into his office.

A parent had complained that I had failed to teach the class about MLK, and since I was from the south, she was wondering if it was because I was a racist.

Talk about stereotyping!

Thankfully my principal stood up for me to the parent, but he did ask if I planned to teach my class about Martin Luther King, Jr. Of course I did! IN APRIL when the textbook taught recent American history!

That wasn’t the only time it was assumed that because I said “y’all” and “mash the button” that I must be a racist. Another time I was talking to a colleague about my childhood and let it slip that when my mom went back to work while I was in high school, we hired a maid.

I might as well have said we had her shipped straight from Africa, that we beat her, and that we called her a slave. This was the ’80’s, folks. We had not quite progressed to the politically correct term of “housekeeper.” And besides, in the late 70s and early 80s, we DID call her a maid! She cleaned our house, got paid, and my dad even withheld Social Security and reported her as an employee.

This same colleague who expressed her shock and horror at our maid had no qualms about calling the many hispanics in southern California “wetbacks.”

We lived in the basement of a house that looked out over a beautiful valley. In the distance, we could see the tip of the San Diego Wild Animal Park. There was an ostrich farm below us, and a winery just beyond it. It was a truly breathtaking view.

Unless you glanced to the left and looked closely among the brush. And noticed the blue tarps. With Mexicans living underneath them. Literally, LIVING there. The living conditions of the Hispanic population were appalling. And the racist attitudes even worse. And again, this was the late 80s. I can’t imagine what the attitude must be like now, when the population of illegal immigrants has literally exploded.

And racism is sadly still alive and well in pockets in the south, as evidenced by the people who still tell “n-word” jokes (yes, they exist) and the life-long Democrats who refuse to vote for Obama but hem and haw about their reasons.

I long for the day when our nation can see with blind eyes–looking not at the outside, but at the heart of a person.

I’m dusting off the laptop this morning, trying to get my brain in gear and trying to remember how to log into my blog so I can write a post. I jest about dusting off the laptop. But the brain and the blog, not so much. As my lone reader who still checks in occasionally knows.

Over the summer I found that having five children under foot all day, every day tended to crowd out the things my own brain was trying to say to me. And my fingers spent more time picking up dirty socks and applying sunscreen than they did pounding out posts.

So here I am, my house has been quiet for almost four weeks now, and my brain is just now figuring out how to formulate coherent thoughts again. I alluded to it before, but I am taking the year off from classes. I have kids in 12th, 11th, 8th, 5th grades, and Kindergarten. And somehow word has gotten out that I’m at home with nothing to do. Which isn’t exactly true, although I am sitting in my kitchen in my pajamas at 10:14am. But anyway….I am on just about every volunteer list there is, which is great. And busy!

Last Wednesday I had to cancel some of my school-related activities, because I needed to spend the day waiting. We had scheduled a washing machine repair person, someone to replace a broken window, a large delivery requiring a signature, and a flooring person to replace some damaged floor boards.

So I got up before the kids and showered and dressed, so as to NOT get caught in my pjs at 10:14 am. And then I waited. And waited. And finally, at about noon, the flooring people showed up. And informed me that they would actually be SAWING out the old flooring, meaning dust EVERYWHERE in our very open kitchen and downstairs. I panicked, knowing we were expecting houseguests in two days, and I had planned to do a laundry marathon before they came, seeing as how the washer had been out of service for a solid week.

So they began sawing at 12:00. And still I waited (in the safety of the den with the doors shut). And finally at EXACTLY 5:00, the delivery came, the window person came, and the washing machine repair person came. Meaning I certainly could have done my volunteer stuff, and avoided a whole lot of dust inhalation.

And the point of this post, in case you were getting worried that I was going to ramble on forever, is actually to tell you what was wrong with my washing machine. We have a Whirlpool Duet, and we had been getting an F21 code, which means it is not draining properly. This had first happened about a month ago, and with the help of a neighbor we unstacked the washer and dryer and blew out the drain hose. It seemed to fix the problem, but that only lasted a few weeks and the code came back. We unstacked them again, blew out the hose, and nada. There was still a clog, and every time we tried to make the washer run a little to drain, it added water.

The repair guy opened up the bottom, pulled out the pump, which released about 3 gallons of water. So much for low water usage on these front loaders! And guess what was lodged in the pump????

A pocket.

That’s right, a pocket.

Which obviously makes me ask first, who is missing a pocket? And second, how did it come off of someone’s pants? And get UNDER the washer in the pump???

As it turns out, front loaders have a space between the door and the drum, and there is no filter in there. The gap has to be there for the drum to turn. So large objects easily make their way into the space and clog the drain. Things like pockets, which you know, are normally floating around independently in the machine.

So there’s a little helpful tidbit for you. Beware of small things like the usual pop tabs, tiny pencils, rocks, and most of all, pockets, if you own a front loader. Or you, too, may be out $130 for a service call. And waiting until 5:00 pm for the repair person to show up.

Sally was invited to a “Fancy Nancy” birthday on Saturday. She was in her element! They had the dress-up clothes, they did the hairdos and everything. Check out my Fancy Sally!

If you are a friend who knows me in real life, you are probably sick of me about now. Especially if you are on my personal email list and have Facebook. So to you, I apologize in advance.

For the rest of you, I’m getting madder by the minute about this movie, “Tropic Thunder.” Thankfully although those who made the movie have appeared to turn a deaf ear, the voices within the disability community are being heard. As Dave Hingsburger writes, “The Simple Jack website was pulled. The trailors were changed. The ‘Don’t Go Full Retard’ clip was removed from You Tube. The tee shirt was taken off the market. Our protests were heard all over the media. Ben Stiller had to address the controversy and found himself explaining his ‘humour’. Our voices were heard, in unison, around the world.”

During this time when all eyes are glued to NBC and the Olympics, does anybody else find it ironic and also disturbing to watch a Coke commercial, paying tribute to Special Olympic athletes one minute, and to watch a trailer for “Tropic Thunder” and hear that Newsweek and others laud it as the best comedy of the year the next minute? Let’s just say Coke will be getting a whole lot more of my business than Newsweek (which I have dropped) in the near future.

Timothy Shriver, chairman for Special Olympics gets to the heart of my concern when he says, “It wasn’t funny when Hollywood humiliated African Americans for a generation. It’s never funny when good and decent human beings are humiliated. In fact, it is dangerous and disgusting.” And that’s the point. Anyone who knows Brig knows that he is completely undeserving of this kind of hate speech being directed at him and others like him.

Brig is the kid who talks to everyone in the hall at school. Literally, everyone. He doesn’t care if your hair is greasy, if you have zits, if you are overweight, if you screwed up a big play in football, if you have food caught in your braces, or if your Walmart special clothes don’t match. He just doesn’t care. He cares about people because they are people. Sure, he may not have his math facts down. He may not read classic literature and understand it, and sometimes he is hard to understand. And he can annoy the fool out of his brothers with his Coke obsession and his embarrassing comments at youth group. But why do those characteristics make him a target for ridicule and hate speech? They should not any more than black skin or an alternate sexual preference should make someone a target.

And the really appalling thing is that it’s not the kids in Brig’s high school who are making fun of him and others like him. It’s adults! People who should know better! People who are influential in society - movie directors and stars. Would this be tolerated against any other group?? Of course not! I really can’t figure out what makes it acceptable to pick on the intellectually disabled, unless it is the fact that there probably will not be any retaliation. The one group who really can’t stand up for themselves, and probably wouldn’t want to even if they could. Folks, when someone targets a weaker person and picks on them, it’s called bullying. Not tolerated in most school systems around the country. But acceptable in Hollywood.

Click here to see what Special Olympics is doing in reaction to this movie. And click to sign the petition!

And then, out of respect for Brig and others with an intellectual disability, do not see the movie “Tropic Thunder.” Don’t see it in theaters, don’t rent it, don’t download it, don’t buy it, don’t order it from Netflix, and definitely don’t buy the merchandise that is sure to come out with catch phrases like, “Never go full retard.” Help me give a voice to the voiceless with our pocketbooks, and let’s make this movie the biggest flop of the season.

I had wanted to write a blog post about this upcoming movie, but a friend of mine wrote a letter to her editor that was so well-written, I asked permission to repost her letter. Click here to read up on the issue surrounding this movie. And click here to read another blog post that is very well-written as well. And then read this letter from my friend Amy.

Wednesday, August 13 is the release date of the movie “Tropic Thunder.” The film is expected to be a summer blockbuster, and features Ben Stiller, Robert Downey Jr., and Jack Black as self-absorbed actors filming a big budget war movie on location. Through a series of freak occurrences, they are forced to become the soldiers they are playing. Stiller’s character is a fading action star who failed in his bid for an Oscar as “Simple Jack,” a man with an intellectual disability. “Simple Jack” is featured as a film-within-a-film, with Stiller sporting a classic institutional bowl cut and bad teeth.

This film is meant to be a satire about actors and the entertainment industry, but the result is far more sobering. The damage the film will do to people with intellectual disabilities and their families is immeasurable. The word “retard,” considered hate speech by disability rights advocates, is used frequently in the film. “Simple Jack” is described as a “retard,” and until recent objections, marketing materials and a website featured the tagline, “Once upon a time…There was a retard.” Scenes include Robert Downey Jr.’s character advising Stiller’s character to “never go full retard.” This phrase is already available on a t-shirt on the Internet.

A coalition of advocacy organizations has met with DreamWorks and Paramount executives in an effort to educate them about how extremely offensive this word is. Although the companies removed offensive marketing materials, they fail to understand the impact of their decisions. Advocates have been told they are overreacting, that the intention is not to make fun of people with intellectual disabilities, that other groups are made fun of as well. As usual, they’ve been told that it’s just a word, and words have no power.

Nothing could be farther from the truth. The words we say define who we are, and define how others see us. Words that denigrate and dehumanize an entire segment of the population have far-reaching effects. People with intellectual disabilities are routinely targeted for ridicule, abuse and violence, all because of how a word defines them. What starts with hateful words ends with hateful violence, and that should not be accepted in our society.

Films like “Tropic Thunder” not only foster a negative stereotype, they tell young people that it’s okay to belittle others, especially those who can’t defend themselves. I have a child with an intellectual disability, and in a few weeks, I will be sending her back to school, along with millions of other parents of children with disabilities. The hallways have never been exactly welcoming of those with differences, and many of us are already cringing at the thought of our kids enduring “full retard” remarks.

I call on parents, schools and teachers to make sure this doesn’t happen. Avoid “Tropic Thunder”. Banish the word “retard” as hate speech in your homes and schools. Educate people about why this word is so offensive. Don’t allow my charming, funny, and yes – smart – child, and others like her, to be targeted.

The day started innocently enough. My plans involved cleaning a few rooms, lounging by the pool, and taking ONE child shopping for shoes for school.

And here’s where the day began to turn scary, because I ended up with THREE children tagging along, and I ended up in TARGET. Meaning aliens obviously sucked some of my brain cells out while I was sleeping.

The three children who came along for the ride were three who either had money to spend, or who like to nag me into spending money on their behalf. It made for a really fun shopping trip.

Not surprisingly, to me anyway, or to Chewydad I’m sure, we ended up in electronics. That’s scary, too, because that’s where serious nagging and begging takes place, and it reminds me of the Hotel California. Once you’re there, you can never leave.

But the really scary part is the man. The man who appeared to be about my age (somewhere between 25 and 100, depending on who you are and how I answer the “how old are you” question). He had on his wife-beater and was playing a PS3 video game. That was the first time we passed him by. From there, we went onto another aisle, came back, and he was still there, blocking the aisle and oblivious to anyone around him. We went over the the CDs, came back, and guess where he was! Right. Still playing. Left to look at babydolls that cry and pee, walked over to books, came back, and VOILA! The man. Still absorbed.

And I just want to know, what kind of 40-something (oops!) man has the time to stand in Target all day and mindlessly play a video game? (Maybe one who has no job and therefore can’t afford to put on a regular t-shirt over his undershirt?) And to me THAT was the scariest part of my day.

Even scarier than dragging three kids back OUT of Target without having bribed them with toys or candy.

I am trying to figure out why God has brought about a gazillion people into my life in the past few years who have children with OCD. I suppose a small part of it might be the fact that once you have a child with a disability–any kind of disability–you begin to meet more and more people who are walking a similar path. But several of these are friends I already had who down the road learned that their child has OCD. And it makes me wonder if the numbers are on the rise, just as they are with autism.

Growing up, did you know anyone with OCD? Oh, I mean we all had friends that we said had OCD. People like my mom, who could not go to bed unless the dishwasher was emptied and every dish put away, or who reminded me about five times each day to get my school books OFF of her counter already. Or like my friend who keeps a spotless house and has to rearrange the sofa cushions whenever anyone gets up off of the sofa. You know, the “ha-ha” kind of OCD. Yeah, these people are a little compulsive, but their life is not adversely affected by it.

That’s not what I’m talking about. These friends of mine have children who wash their hands until the skin is peeling off, and then they try to force their siblings to follow the same behavior patterns. They fear thunderstorms and sharks to the point that they are debilitated and cannot go to sleep. They rage when they cannot force others to comply with their obsession. These are children whose brains are literally wired differently. They do not have the filters that allow them to STOP the obsessive thoughts like most of us do. Their obsessions disrupt the entire family, and the mom has to spend hours each day working with the one child.

Interestingly in a few of these families, one of the parents had the “other” kind of OCD. One of them cleans out his wife’s car before he enters the house when he gets home from work each day. Another one keeps the house completely clean, and yet another worries about her children even more than most moms.

So what is the difference? Why is it that my generation of people with OCD, while maybe a bit quirky, were not debilitated? And yet their children are? I don’t have the answers. I have no doubt there are as many theories about this as there are about autism or early puberty or whatever other generational changes we are seeing. Too much tv? Hormones in milk? Genetics? More lenient parenting styles? Chemicals in foods and in the environment?

Do any of you readers have thoughts about this? Have you observed the same phenomenon?

I had the pleasure of getting together with some of my awesome friends from Atlanta recently, and as we chatted the topic turned to a family we all knew–one I have had no contact with since we left Atlanta six-plus years ago. This family has three children–two girls and a boy–who are probably around the ages of 13, 11, and 9. The parents are extremely well-educated and intellectual. Years ago, when we knew them fairly well, they had shared with us their standards for their family.

The girls took (and I believe still do take) ballet lessons. They listen to only classical music in their home. And by only classical, I really mean that. No praise music, etc. They changed churches because they wanted one more in-line with their views on high culture. Their son (the youngest at about age nine) still has room time (an Ezzo-practice) where he listens to classical music while he plays with his army men.

Even though they have a teenager and a pre-teen, their girls have that wholesome, Ivory-girl look to them. Very modest clothing, long hair, no makeup. They do not push their boundaries, sneak modern music into the home, beg for push-up bras and little camis, or talk of boyfriends. They truly seem to be immune from the culture.

So as my friends and I discussed this, we partially lamented how much our children are affected and influenced by the culture. We wondered how this family has pulled off this feat, so far, of keeping their children innocent and immune, while we all struggle with kids who push the limits. Maybe it is the message in the pop music that fills our kids’ ears. Maybe it’s the television, or their neighborhood friends. One of the moms in particular was sharing how painfully awkward it was for her family to be around this sheltered family, because her girls who are pretty much the same ages are in the throes of typical-teenage stuff. Wearing gaudy makeup and too-tight tops, pushing the limits and driving my friend to the bring of insanity as she constantly corrects and tries to encourage better choices. My friend feels judged and pitied by this other family for the struggles she faces and for not having chosen a higher moral path.

So I’ve mulled this over, and I realized something that was just bugging me about the whole “innocence thing.” For some families, it is simply a matter of preference. They want to pass along their love of a certain culture. They hope to instill a love of the arts. They are fed up with our plastic-loving, made-in-China-obsessed society. And there, they have my sympathy. But for others it becomes a spiritual thing. A badge of Christian honor. A sign of superior spirituality and taking the high moral road.

And while innocent children who love classical music and are untainted by the society around them sounds and looks “Christian,” is it really? Is it ultimately a closer picture of Jesus to look like an Ivory commercial? Or imagine this–a teenage boy with long hair and a skate board. His parents have (oh the horror) allowed him to have a pierced ear. He dresses in t-shirts with edgy phrases. He walks with a swagger. And every day he screws up in some way. Curses, maybe. Lusts. And daily he is driven to Jesus because he sees his messed up self and knows he cannot change on his own. He loves people and is patient with others who are messed up. He has tons of non-Christian friends–he is not threatening to them and does not judge. He just loves with a Christ-like love.

Given a choice, I’d take the latter child over the former. The innocent one might look more spiritual and might make me look better. But that appearance of spirituality is just that–an appearance. Perfect kids have no need of a savior. They never mess up. They are above the temptations of the world, and they can look down on society in general for being so messed up, while they possess all of the fruit of the spirit rolled up in a nice, neat package.

And if I’m really honest, my family is actually neither the perfect, spiritual, innocent one nor the sinful-but-loving-Jesus one. We’re somewhere in between. We waffle between being caught up in the world and loving our neighbors as Jesus loves us. As parents, Chewydad and I fluctuate between protecting our kids’ innocence and letting them experience the world in which we find ourselves. It’s a balancing act, and one we’re not too good at, as we teeter back and forth. But I know we have been the family with the perfectly-behaved kids whose primary goal was to KEEP THEM INNOCENT, and I do not want to go back. Because the fact for me was that there was a huge amount of pride caught up in that lifestyle. And a complete misunderstanding of the gospel, because we had no need of it.

So as I think about this one family, I guess my conclusion is that if they are living this lifestyle just because it is the choice they have made for their family, then more power to them. But if it has spiritual roots or a Christian label on it, then woe to them, for they missing the heart of the gospel. And that is a shame for their own children who might grow up thinking they are nice, good little Christians based on their appearance of godliness. And it is a shame for the society in which they find themselves, because they are not really a part of that society, and so the people around them miss the opportunity to know Jesus through them.

So, I hope that both of my blog readers haven’t missed me too terribly much. I had the illusion that once I finished classes and the kids were out of school, we would start enjoying the lazy days of summer. And I would blog. Instead I have traveled in and out of town more times than I can count, and when I have been here, I have either been confined to the laundry room or the pool. That, I suppose, is the one down side to having a pool–I became the instant lifeguard. For the neighborhood. Not that it’s all bad, mind you. I have quite a nice tan, considering I am usually pasty white with a few freckles.

So, a curious thing happened to me this past week. I had a glimpse of God’s sense of humor. Or maybe it was just his providence or his grace, and in my warped mind, I took it as humorous. It doesn’t take much to make me laugh. Which is why I still crack up whenever someone says, “fart.”

So anyway, I had some surprising time to think, and I became aware of a really strong sense that I needed to make a change in my plans. I’m not one to normally get all spiritual about sensing God’s direction in my life, because my God-experiences have more typically been that I weigh out pros and cons, pray, and then follow my heart. But I felt this strong sense that I needed to take a year off from school.

I had applied for nursing school at the end of May, after spending the last two years taking prerequisites and pulling up my GPA from my previous college work at Furman, twenty years ago. During which time I seemed to major in having fun. I still don’t understand why it annoyed my dad when I assured him that I was really becoming a well-rounded person.

Anyway.

I applied to nursing school and was told I would hear about my acceptance sometime in July. I don’t mean to sound cocky, but I knew that I would be accepted because the applications are ranked on a point system. There are a total of 200 possible points, and typically people with scores as low as the 140s-150s get in. I applied with the full 200 points. And until about a week ago, I had every intention of starting class in August and plugging away for the next two years so that I could graduate in 2010 and start working just in time to start putting kids through college. Since Ben has had his heart set on an out of state school since first grade.

But suddenly, I knew I needed a year off. Sally starts Kindergarten in the fall. Lots of field trips I could potentially attend–which is something I have missed out on with most of my other children since I had young ones at home. Sam will be in 5th grade–the last year in elementary school, and my last year to be welcomed by him to eat lunch with him. Drew will be in 8th grade, his last year of middle school, and although I can’t think of anything terribly significant about that, since he would rather stick pins in his eyeballs than have me show up at his school to spend time with him, still–that seems like a milestone year that I should be available to take part in. Ben is heading into his junior year with college applications and testing and such looming. And then Brig will be a senior. His last year of Special Olympic volleyball and basketball games, which take place during the school day. Not to mention the fun paperwork I have ahead as he turns 18.

I was fairly settled in my decision, but still, I kind of wondered if I was making the right decision.

I returned home after a week away and began sorting through the mountains of mail. I picked up an envelope from my community college and tossed it aside, commenting, “…and there’s my acceptance letter….” Later I tore it open, prepared to file it in my special nursing information folder. I glanced over the letter and saw blah, blah, blah…”high standards…” blah, blah, “regret…” blah, blah….WHAT??? REGRET?

I didn’t get in. My perfect 200 points, and I was rejected. My GPA was too low. Okay, now I had already decided not to go, but this was a blow to my ego! I knew I had the GPA. It’s a state law that you must have a 2.5, and I had not only earned a 4.0 at the community college (to counter the previously mentioned GPA from Furman), but I had the highest grade in many of my classes–averages above 100.

And yet the letter was confirmation. I had made the right decision. I did not need to pursue my nursing degree this fall. God’s sense of humor. Or maybe his grace, because he guided me into that decision before I got the rejection letter, allowing me to read it with mild annoyance and a bruised ego, rather than despair and shock. Had I not made the decision to take a hiatus, I would have been devastated. But I was not. Although highly offended would definitely describe my feelings.

So I marched my bruised ego right into the nursing office today to find out what happened. Because even if I’m not attending this fall, by darned, I wanted to be accepted so I could reject them! And besides, I have full intentions of pursuing my goals next year, so I wanted to be sure there really was some weird mistake, and that it wasn’t on my end.

Sure enough, rather than just trust that people at Furman University (or rather, computers at Furman University) can do math, and using the credit hours and quality points they had listed on my transcript, someone who apparently needs to go back and retake basic math had hand added my points on the bottom of my transcript. And forgotten to give me my quality points for one class, effectively making it count as an “F.” And lowering my apparent GPA. When the individual’s numbers came out different than the numbers on Furman’s computer system, the genius trusted…himself. And denied my nursing school app and wrote “nonqualifying GPA” across the top of it.

All is good now, though, because the director of the nursing program has given her approval, noted the error, and assured me that my letter of acceptance will be forthcoming.

And I will promptly reject it and restore my ego.