Obama Cares

After attending last night’s “Together We Thrive: Tucson & America” event at the University of Arizona’s McKale Center, I’ve changed my mind about the president’s lack of “gumption.” That’s what I said in “Time to Take a Stand,” my blog post written on last week’s terrible Saturday.

I was devastated. I’m not a crier so I use words to convey my emotions. I was angry.  I stand by my view that targeting public officials is out of the American mainstream and is extremely harmful to our society.

Last night the president hit the perfect tone: “As he did in Philadelphia, on the subject of race [in March 2008], he embodied with his own rhetoric what a mature, measured, yet passionate political voice sounds like.”

Although I was at the McKale Center  as a member of the press — with nearly 14,000 people — I really felt like a Tucsonan. So I jumped up repeatedly, clapping loudly and even whooping occasionally because it was cathartic.
Reporters sitting in the row behind me were speaking Spanish and French to news bureaus in other places. I didn’t care if it was politically incorrect for a journalist to applaud.
I have decided to resist calling right-wing politicians loonies, sickos and wackos in my blog. It is my personal writing but as one of the most ethical and professional journalists I know, Ethan Wilensky-Lanford, recently told me, “it’s better to be understated.”
President Obama was a role model for me last night. “Part of our nature is to demand an explanation, make sense of what seems senseless,” he said, noting that the discussion has begun on gun safety laws and the adequacy of the mental health system. Both are concrete, essential goals.
More important, he said, “Let’s make sure that we’re talking with each other in ways that heal, not in ways that wound.”
There were so many affecting parts of his speech. Here’s a gem: “What we can’t do is use this tragedy as one more occasion to turn on each other. That we cannot do. That we cannot do,” he said passionately.
“Let’s use this occasion to expand our moral imagination…sharpen our instincts for empathy, remind us of all the ways our hopes and dreams are bound together.”
One of the most poignant moments in Obama’s talk came when he empathized with the parents of Christina-Taylor Green, saying that in her, “we see all our children.”
“I want to live up to her expectations,” said the president. “I want America to be as good as she imagined.”
It felt good to even contemplate a glimmer of that America again. And of this I’m certain: Last night I fell in love with Barack Obama again.
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Healing, bumper stickers and mental illness

I’m still heartbroken. I’m also emotionally exhausted. I won’t talk too much.

This morning I attended a healing service at Congregation Chaverim for Gabby Giffords and the other shooting victims. More than 150 people were there, around eight police cars full of police people, and around 20 news media folks. Since I’m one myself, I’m pleased to report that they were appropriately respectful.

Driving away from Chaverim I found myself behind a pick-up truck sporting this bumper sticker: “Keep the change. I’ll keep my freedom, guns, and money.” Pretty weird on this day of all days, don’t you think?

Later, I started thinking about yesterday’s horrific rampage becoming another opportunity to malign people with mental disorders. To me, killing innocent people is the height of craziness. People who want to be compassionate and contributing members of society don’t qualify.

Then I read today’s Whatever blog by John Scalzi, which is well worth considering. One of his friends raised the same concern: “Maybe you could remind folks that the people with mental disorders are around them, right now, being mentally disordered? Also, being lawyers, parents, farmers, soldiers, nurses, truck-drivers, teachers, college students, judges, 5th graders, fishermen, mechanics, martial arts instructors, writers, and general good folks. Just like them,” his friend wrote.

They are usually not your violent criminals. I recently interviewed Ray Lederman, a child and adolescent psychiatrist, for a story about reducing the stigma of mental illness.

“People with mental illness are more likely to be victimized by violence than being the perpetrators of violence,” Lederman told me.

I’m not sure how the topics in my headline meld. You can figure it out. Or if I do, I’ll let you know. Good night.

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Time to take a stand

Rep. Gabrielle Giffords is alive after being shot in the head this morning outside of the Safeway at Ina and Oracle in northwest Tucson. Gabby, as anyone who’s met the Congresswoman calls her, had made her weekly trip from Washington, D.C. to meet with local constituents.

I’ve interviewed Gabby many times. Even though I personally don’t always agree with her, she’s smart, personable and I trust her. During the recent  mid-term election campaign, with all its nasty lies, she consistently took the high ground.

Others did not. It’s time to take a stand. The truth is — with all the yapping about Second Amendment rights — per capita ownership of guns is way higher than it was when our forefathers were conducting the American Revolution. That particular jabbering is just an excuse for the condonation of violence, or more specifically, the supposed “rights of the individual” in American society.

When Sarah Palin literally targeted Democratic members of Congress prior to the election, a gun sight appeared over Giffords’ district on a map that appeared on Palin’s website sarahpac.com. Today her home page offers condolences to Giffords and other victims of the shooting and wishes for “peace and justice.”

Back in March, after Giffords voted for the health-care bill, she was asked about Palin targeting her. Sarah Palin has got to realize there are “consequences” to encouraging violence, said Giffords.

Jesse Kelly, Giffords’ recent opponent in the November mid-term election, followed Palin’s advice with his own outrageous targeting of Giffords.

On his Myspace page, shooting suspect Jared Loughner’s latest post was “Good-bye friends.” For a young man to carry out such a violent act — with a legally concealed weapon in wacky Arizona — he’s clearly mentally unsound.  Inflammatory political rhetoric only feeds his instability.

“You don’t have to accept the federalist laws,” the suspect said on his Youtube page. Oh you don’t, why not? Not when you have powerful people with unlimited access to the media espousing violence.

Where will this craziness end? I was disappointed that President Obama didn’t have the gumption to take a stand in his statement today.

Gabby Giffords read the First Amendment on the floor of the House of Representatives just a few days ago. As an old social studies teacher, I staunchly support the First Amendment.

For the sake of America’s sanity, let’s urge our political leaders to practice self-censorship. If they’re mad as hell and they can’t take it anymore, let them talk among themselves. If you’re angry, paranoid or terribly unhappy please seek help (although funding for behavioral health has been severely cut in Arizona).

A nine-year-old child and a federal judge were wantonly killed on a sunny Saturday morning when folks just wanted to buy groceries or say a few words to their  Congresswoman.

For a moment I wanted to get in my car and drive back to Maine, flee this loony state. I’m heartbroken.

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Ethan’s 30!

I remember everything about Jan. 6, 1981. It was -20 degrees at 11:47 a.m. Someone was revving a motorcycle engine beneath the window of the Ellsworth Hospital birthing room. I had the flu the night before with a temperature of 101.

Driving by sea smoke rising over iced-up Southwest Harbor, we arrived at the hospital around 8 a.m. We started walking up and down the hallway, me wearing a brick-colored corduroy jumper that my friends passed around as a shared pregnant outfit, heavy long underwear underneath.

Ethan was fast, sort of like a freight train, understandably tired after his ordeal. So was I but I asked for a brownie. Wearing a tiny yellow cap, he kept falling asleep instead of nursing.

When he was a few hours old, our friends Claire and Jay brought big sister Brook in, and I’ll never forget her sitting on the bed where he was born, holding him, looking into his eyes.

Siblings have the longest relationships. Who knows what Brook was thinking? She was excited about having a steak dinner with pumpkin pie and hot chocolate before we were sent home to avoid a blizzard.

Thirty years later, Ethan spent both Thanksgiving and Christmas with Brook and her boyfriend, Gianmarco. This makes me very happy.

People often say that parents sacrifice so much having children. I used to think about how Brook would be 8 when Ethan was 5; she would be 18 when he was 15, and so on. I wondered what they would be like. But I’ve always felt that they have given me so much more than I’ve ever “sacrificed.”

So this is a little mushy, but what can I say? Happy Birthday Ethan, and thank you Brook for being the best big sister ever.

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To use or not to use

I’m not talking about drugs. “Doesn’t Twitter, Facebook, and blogging sound like bad sex?” my friend in Maine asked on the phone the other day. “Do you want to blog? No, I don’t want to blog with you!” would be her consistent response.

She went on to tell me about someone who lives in Chicago, who has hooked up her phone or computer to sound like a crackling fire. “Why would anybody want to do that?” My friend is outraged about the virtual experience, why anyone would bother.

I can’t answer her question. I’m betwixt and between my own Gemini self blogging — gee, it gets me to write — and becoming a Facebook addict. But there’s so many interesting articles that people post, movies they’re seeing, political rants. And I genuinely like hearing what folks I like but may not ordinarily be touch with are doing.

I gave up on Twitter. Too many people and it takes too much time to read. Too much nonsense. Do I really care if someone I don’t know in Belgium has a baby who won’t take a nap? Do you care if I just got up to get another piece of chipotle chili dark chocolate that Dan gave me for Christmas?

I’m told by people I respect that to be with it you have be in tune with social media. So I have a website, a blog, which may or may not help me get more freelance writing/editing jobs.

Around 10 years ago, Chicago academic friends showed me how to access the Mona Lisa at the Louvre in Paris online. They were so excited. “Can you believe it? We’ll be able to view works of art anywhere in the world on our computer screens,” they said.

“Oh, I’ll never do that,” I told them. “That’s too high-tech for me.” Now it seems like another lifetime when I went to a library to do research. I even want a tiny MacBook Air or at least an iPad to carry in my purse.

I’m addicted to e-mail. I don’t think I could have moved to Tucson eight years ago without being in constant and immediate contact with my dearest friends on Mount Desert Island.

My friend back on MDI only engages in absolutely essential e-mailing to publishers and such (guess I don’t have to be concerned about her reading this).

I understand a certain reluctance to dive headfirst into the techno abyss. I used to refer to myself as a techno-peasant. I’d now call myself a recovering techno-peasant.

Then there’s my brother. He refuses to clink on a link, although he uses e-mail. When I recently told him how much fun I’m having playing lexulous (online Scrabble) with my kids, he blurted, “Play games online! I’d rather watch an ant crossing the street.”

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Controlling — and opening — minds in Arizona

Ethnic studies end in Arizona on Jan. 1. The conservative state legislature is really calling for an end to teaching about social justice. What the hell. It’s OK to teach about a genocide relating to one ethnic group, such as the Holocaust, but not about its relationship to other genocides.

Isn’t a major goal of studying genocide figuring out how to stop it from happening again? Will ignoring the history of genocide move us in that direction?

The wacko state legislature also wants to end campus gun bans. “If an assailant comes into a classroom with intent to do harm, it’s minimized by a law-abiding citizen that’s allowed to carry (a weapon) concealed,” says Sen. Jack Harper, R-Surprise.

That’s right, we’re going to trust that more Arizonans “carrying” will protect us. The initial vigilantes will be “qualified” faculty on university and community college campuses, but Harper also aims to qualify certain students as wild westerners in the future.  A return to vigilante law to herd off a possible attack?

The fears of police chiefs are unwarranted, says the legislator. Oh really? I’m not sure how many students have been murdered on Arizona college campuses, but I don’t think more people carrying guns will help.

So the state legislature raises the paranoia level.

With Arizona racing to the bottom of spending on public education (they’re nearly there at #49), I understand why parents choose to send their kids to private schools — if they’re lucky enough to afford them.

Expansive learning opportunities are plentiful at local private schools or a few of the charter schools where the legislature doesn’t institute its obsessive fears.

After a hiatus of six years, I’ll be returning to teaching starting next week. The Jewish Federation of Southern Arizona’s Hebrew High is offering an exemplary program to teens: “A Commitment to Remember.”

Local Holocaust survivors will tell their stories to a small group of high school students, who will commit to sharing the survivors’ stories through 2045 (100 years after the end of World War II) and beyond.

Students will keep journals, interview survivors and discuss what they’ve learned.  Their questions, epiphanies and the survivors’ historical testimonies will be presented at the public Yom HaShoah commemoration on Sunday, May 1 from 2 to 4 p.m. at Congregation Anshei Israel, 5550 E. Fifth Street.

Now that’s education.

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“Generosity”

What a title. What an author. Eight of Richard Powers’ nine novels now reside on our coffee table, each waiting to be chosen by Dan or me for reading next. Dan has already read half the titles; Powers is that good. A MacArthur fellow, he teaches at the University of Illinois.

Enrolled as a physics major in 1975, Powers turned to literature because “the sciences demanded, even encouraged, an intolerable specialization.”

Dan keeps raving about his books that balance story and neuroscience, and I’ve flipped through the pages of a few titles. Last week I opened “Generosity: An Enchantment,” and saw psychologist and “An Unquiet Mind” author Kay Redfield Jamison’s  quote from “Exuberance.” I couldn’t resist.

“Exuberance carries us places we would not otherwise go — across the savannah, to the moon, into the imagination — and if we ourselves are not so exuberant we will, caught up by the contagious joy of those who are, be inclined collectively to go yonder.”

Exuberance. Moods. Is happiness genetic? Powers explores these questions in “Generosity.” How can an Algerian refugee who’s known tragedy in her life be so joyful? Is her happiness real?

The book’s protagonist, Russel Stone, is a writing teacher enamored of his student, the Algerian/Canadian Thassa Amzwar. She catapults into the news because of a near rape, which doesn’t come close to breaking her. Having escaped from a country that experienced a ten-year bloodbath, “Thassa has emerged from that land glowing like a blissed-out mystic.”

I don’t want to give away too much of the story. Plus, I still don’t understand it all so I’d like to discuss with other readers. Maybe I’ll suggest “Generosity,” which won the National Book Award (as did Powers’ “The Echo Maker”), to my book group.

“Generosity” may be a newly important book in my life. Added to the intrigue is Stone’s early writing career set in Tucson, and the geneticist character Thomas Kurton’s “smart house” that he retreats to in Maine. Uncanny, don’t you think?

It’s always so exciting to discover a new author who resonates. Hello Richard Powers.

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Getting stuff done

I’m not getting anything done because I feel crappy, but part of my brain seems to be working. Going to the doctor soon to see if I have a sinus infection.

But Quack! Quack! Congress got something done in what was to be a presumably do-nothing lame duck session.

I understand that politics rules but if only the prez could institute everything that Pulitizer Prize-winning Princeton prof and NYT columnist Paul Krugman suggests. He was interviewed last night on Rachel Maddow’s special leadership series at the 92nd Street Y in New York City.

A we’re all in this together attitude isn’t vaguely on the minds of most Republicans in Congress. What Republicans said during the Great Depression, noted Krugman, “sounded humane” compared to a complete loss of sanity today.

Newt the creepy newt Gingrich has said we shouldn’t give money to people for “doing nothing.” Not to mention that laid-off Americans who receive unemployment benefits have paid into this system for security during their working years.

And, said Krugman, “the blackmail will resume” for Congress to keep extending upper-level income tax cuts beyond the two years in the bill that President Obama signed this week.

That’s about all the thinking I can do today. I tried. I’m reading “Generosity,” an intriguing book by Richard Powers. I’ve watched “Easy A” (on the stupid side) and “Letters to Juliet” (gorgeous Tuscany scenery and romance galore). Mostly I’ve slept and walked around complaining, sighing, “Oh Boy.”

Think I’ll go to Casa Video on my way to the doctor’s and pick up more videos, and this week’s Tucson Weekly with terrifically inspiring “Local Heroes” stories, including mine about Jill Rich.

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A family of Schragers

Their posed photograph at cousin Alan’s bar mitzvah sits on my desk. Only seven of the twenty-seven Schrager family members are still alive. It was more than 50 years ago when Sid, my smiling father, had his arm around two women — my mother with her eyes closed, and the sexier NY cousin Bess. I probably only met her that once but how can I forget her strapless gown?

Aunt Lee, my mother’s younger sister and mother of the bar mitzvah boy, wore a stunning icy blue taffeta dress. She was a redhead, as was my mother, whose hair appears much darker in the family photo.

And there I am, sitting on the floor in the first row wearing a ruffled organza dress. The photographer must have told us to put our arms out in front of us, which we kids did, except for the blond boy whom nobody ever recognizes.

Like my mother, Ida Schrager Wilensky, my eyes were closed. I remember nothing about that day. But I will tell you that my svelte, adorable Aunt Esther just died last year at age 98. The last time I saw her was in Atlantic City around 15 years ago.

“Does Ethan have a fake I.D.?” she asked immediately, wanting to show my game teenage son around the casinos. “Uh, no,” I replied, but Ethan was a tall 15-year-old with facial hair.

I remember his smile and reply, which was something like “Alright, Aunt Esther!”

In the formal Schrager photo my older brother, Joel, sat immediately to my left and in front of our beloved “Bubbie,” or grandmother, known by her Yiddish name Sima, meaning celebration.

In her final years, Bubbie alternated between living in Philadelphia with Aunt Lee and her family, and with us in Waterbury, Conn.

I’m an optimist: Although sad memories linger, such as my mother swearing at Bubbie in Yiddish when she dropped an egg on the floor, I prefer to conjure the image of Bubbie and me dancing  after school to American Bandstand.

When the family photo was taken, I was around seven, the baby of the Schrager cousins.

These days, Joel and I talk by phone every week. I got back in touch with cousins Linda, now Sita, and  Gloria, now Nikki, around 20 years ago. We’re still alive, and boy/oh girl, do we have stories to tell.

Happy holidays to all Schragers, Sanchezes, Smiths or Santoris. May you have a lively and peaceful new year.

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An author’s racket: Clive Cussler

Do you know any bestselling authors whose names appear on their book covers but they didn’t write their books?

We were at Changing Hands Bookstore in Tempe on Friday evening, looking for a way to pass the time. Clive Cussler and his son Dirk were scheduled to appear at 7 p.m. I’ve always enjoyed listening to authors, and have set up many author events when I owned Oz Books.

Maybe I’ll learn something about writing, I mistakenly thought.

The two Cusslers hopped onto the small stage, launching into the obligatory writer stories. First some repetitive and boring blabber from Dirk about getting his dad to begin work on their latest adventure saga, “Crescent Dawn.”

Each instance of approaching the older Cussler ended with “I skulked away with my head down…” But the Cusslers had their adoring fans, carrying shopping bags laden with hardcovers waiting to be signed, which wasn’t lost on Clive.

I don’t even remember his writer’s story, but I was surprised that he so quickly asked the audience, “Are you ready to have some books signed?”

A treasure hunter and diver, the 79-year-old Cussler didn’t look his age. His bronzed face made him look like an adventurer.  Hearing him talk briefly about diving down into the ancient Alexandria, Egypt library confirmed that indeed he was.

Dressed in a big sweatshirt and casual pants, Cussler appeared ready to hightail it back to the Biltmore for a few gin and tonics. But his die-hard fans had some questions. Someone asked about the collaboration between father and son, “How much do you each write?”

“Oh, Dirk wrote about 99 and 44 [/100] of the last four books”  (like the old Ivory soap ad), Clive told the audience. Father and son have a formula that sells books. Many readers like to know what they’re getting into. A little mystery, some history, tension, perhaps a battle or conflict, more tension, and denouement. I guess they deliver.

I looked at the first page of “Crescent Dawn,” and was bored with the overblown descriptions. I prefer more subtle fiction with lots of introspection, complex characters, language that won’t let me go.

Clive had been in advertising before writing his first novel. His son Dirk was a financial planner. Do they know how to make money? You betcha.

What a racket they’ve got going!

I like the sound effects on Clive’s website, tingly ship bells, ocean swooshes. I clicked on a listing of his books. Canned music played that you’d hear when your dentist puts you on hold.

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