It's common knowledge that our attitudes shape our reality. There is no such thing as a crisis, if we choose to view it as an opportunity. If, despite our best efforts, we find ourselves poor, or ill, or depressed, it must have been because we didn't wish hard enough, didn't smile enough, didn't send enough good vibes into the universe. No one likes a complainer. If we all stopped whining, the world would be a better place.
Not so, according to Barbara Ehrenreich's new book, Bright-sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America, which traces the history of so-called positive thinking from its Calvinist roots. Rather than being liberating, the practice of positive thinking is in reality relentless self-criticism and blame. It's not that the system is broken, or that the world is full of injustice. The problem is you and your bad attitude. People who believe this are subject to all sorts of abuses, and are expected to keep a fake smile plastered across their faces as they bend over and take it.
I've been hearing this message for most of my life. I was often labeled a "complainer" or called "negative" when I opened up to people about my life and circumstances. No one wanted to hear how hungry I was, or how none of my clothes fit properly, or angry and violent my dad was when my mom wasn't around. No one was even willing to contemplate what it was like to be me, a scrawny trailer park kid scapegoated by her own family, weird and angry and alone. They rolled their eyes when I talked, told me to "get over it", "quit bitching" and once, memorably, "shut the fuck up." And this was from my friends.
So I learned to keep my mouth shut. I came to Austin at age 17 determined to recreate myself. Gone was the complainer, the weirdo, the angry misfit. A brighter, more fun girl arrived in Texas, determined to have a great time. But it grew increasingly difficult to maintain my good cheer as college became more stressful, I worked myself to the point of exhaustion, and the debt kept piling up. I struck a nice balance though, or so I felt. I had friends I could be myself around and everyone else got my polite smile and diplomatic conversation.
Working as a nanny for the conspiracy theorist's wife changed all that. Mabel* (who, unfortunately, worked from home) didn't just expect a positive attitude, she enforced it. No one in her presence was allowed to display negative emotion of any kind. There was zero tolerance for complaints, or even diplomatic disagreements. The word hate was forbidden. Use of the word crud was deemed "awful". Crying was anathema; if the children were upset, I was expected to do everything in my power to soothe and comfort them, regardless of why they were upset. Even facial expressions were carefully monitored, to the point where Thomas the Tank Engine, two-year-old Johnny's* favorite show in the world, was forbidden because "the trains frown." In Mabel's world, children were naturally pure, angelic creatures who should be frolicking happily all day, tended to by perpetually smiling adults. This attitude explains her constant disappointment; her own kids, exhausted from the dysfunctional "family bed" and hungry from only eating "healthy" food (too low in protein and fat, devoid of any sugar or salt to make it more palatable), acted up, shrieking, sobbing inconsolably, sometimes smearing shit on the walls. Sometimes Johnny would masturbate furiously while sitting on the potty, screaming at me when I tried to make him stop. She made them miserable, and I dealt with the fallout.
I tried to please that woman. I really did. I worked from 8:00 to 4:00 with no break, taking care of the kids, doing laundry and dishes, vacuuming, running errands. I learned not to ask for a break as my request would be met with angry sighs and complaints about how now she would be behind on her work. She hated to see me enjoying myself, even for a moment, so she enforced a no-reading policy, actually removing a book from a room if she suspected my eyes may have been straying from her children to the page. I grew despondent. I woke up every morning with dread in my heart. My fake smile crumbled more and more, until one day Mabel pulled me aside and warned me that if I wasn't happy there, she could replace me with someone who would be. I needed the money so I lied and said I was happy, but inside I was unraveling.
A few weeks later I finally put in my notice, proud of myself for having made it to six months. The frantic search for a replacement immediately began (revealing just how hollow Mabel's threat to replace me actually was). She applied with a nanny placement service and, foolishly, left her application out where I could read it. Under special requests she had written, "No sad sacks." Why, that's me, I thought. I'm the sad sack. Something in me changed in that moment, as I saw myself characterized in such a way. I realized that this woman had no idea who I was, how my mind worked, or what I was feeling. I had let an irrational, paranoid, spoiled, sheltered woman have complete control over my life, and she had brought out the very worst in me. But now I was free. No more false smiles or suppressed rage, no more feeling trapped in that brick fortress while the world passed by on the other side of the window. I left the house that day smiling for real.
I no longer make an effort to mask my emotions. If I'm happy, sad, mad, whatever, I let it show on my face. I express it in words. When Harrison gets swept away by an emotion, I acknowledge and name that feeling. As he gets older, I'll encourage him to name his own feelings, to understand and cope with, rather than deny, his essential humanity. I'll teach him that those who would try to control his thoughts and feelings are not to be trusted. And I'll know that every smile, every laugh, every "I love you" is genuine and sincere.
*totally made-up name
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Security Breach
Last week I finished an excellent and enlightening nonfiction book titled The Science of Fear: Why We Fear the Things We Shouldn't--and Put Ourselves in Greater Danger. It was like reality tonic, a refreshing purge of knee-jerk, irrational ideas. The book's thesis is that we are programmed by evolution to have a skewed sense of risk that errs on the side of what we perceive as caution. By becoming aware of these inherent biases, we can recognize them in our own behavior and work to compensate for them. I put the book down and went to bed, satisfied that my family and I were quite safe, relatively speaking.
I was awakened a mere twenty minutes later by my dog Mary Jane, shivering at my bedside. This was an odd occurrence; she always sleeps in the chaise lounge in the living room, only getting up to go outside when the baby wakes up for his nighttime feeding. She was poking me with her snout, gesturing with her head toward the hallway. I waved her off but she persisted. I got up with a sigh, thinking maybe she had diarrhea or something. Better to get up and put her out than to have a mess to clean up in the morning. My third dog, tiny little Bailey, squirmed out from under the covers to join us, not wanting to be left out. My first dog, the large, old, and morose Dahlia, stayed put on her bed.
The three of us went down the hallway, Bailey in the lead with Mary Jane on her heels, me straggling behind after a quick glance at the sleeping baby. As Bailey rounded the corner into the darkened kitchen, she recoiled with a volley of high-pitched barks. Mary Jane, her hackles raised, charged into the darkness, also barking. I heard the glass patio door rattle in its frame. I froze in the hallway, stage-whispering, "Shut the fuck up!", thinking only of the baby waking and the ensuing loss of sleep for us both. I wondered if there was an animal on the patio, maybe a raccoon, skunk, or strange cat, foraging for spilled dog food. I peered around the corner and felt a rush of cold air on my face.
The patio door was wide open. Beyond it, cold darkness. My sleep-addled mind reeled. Why was the door open? I looked to my left, into the darkened living room and surprised myself by saying, "Hello?" No reply. I hurried to the back door and closed and locked it. Behind me, the dogs were still growling, pacing the kitchen. I glanced around. Everything looked the same. I walked into the living room, the dogs trailing, and turned on a light. The room was quiet and empty. Everything looked just as it had when I went to bed. I looked at the garage door but couldn't bring myself to look in there.
It couldn't have been a person, I told myself. A person wouldn't have run off when threatened by a ten-pound min-pin/rat terrier wearing a hand-me-down baby sweatshirt. A person would have taken something, or ... Jesus. I hurried down the hall to check on my baby again. He was in his crib, still sleeping soundly despite the dog outburst.
Everything seemed to be in its right place. So why was the fucking door open? My mind leaped to a conclusion. It was my husband, Bill. He was the last one to bed, the last one to let the dogs out and the cats in. I could see it all so clearly. I imagined our cat Big Boy, who is scared of Bill, balking about coming inside. So Bill leaves the door open as he performs some minor task, starting the dishwasher maybe, hoping the cat will dart in while his back is turned. But this dumb version of my husband forgets all about the door, thinking only of resting his beer-soaked bones, flicking off the kitchen light and heading to bed without a second thought.
I stormed into the bedroom and shook him none too gently by the shoulder. "Hey," I said. "Did you leave the back door open?"
His eyes fluttered open and he looked at me, confused.
"The back door, I said. "It was wide open. Did you leave the door open?"
He hates it when I talk to him like that. "No," he said in a wounded tone. He rolled over, his back to me. He knew he hadn't left the door open. His nagging wife was wrong. End of discussion.
I was irritated that he didn't share my alarm. It had to have been him who left the door open. The alternative, that a malicious stranger had been in my house while my family was sleeping, was unacceptable. To acknowledge that would be to open myself up to a great surge of fear. Adrenaline would flood my body, causing my heart to pound, my hands to sweat. I would lie awake in bed all night, on a solitary vigil against an unknown intruder, my ears attuned to every little sound, checking on my baby every few minutes, a prisoner to my imagination. There would be no sleep that night.
I have always wondered if I am prone to denial, if I could alter my perception of reality by refusing to see what was right in front of me. As it turns out, the answer is yes. I am and I can. You see, I just barely get enough sleep as it is, and the subconscious thought of a night of wakeful terror sent the rationalization center of my brain into overdrive. This same persuasive voice had, in the past, convinced me that a Tuesday morning was, in fact, a Saturday, that my alarm had been set in error, and that the sensible thing to do was to roll over and go back to sleep. In that instance, I had overridden it and dragged my sleepy butt into work, thus keeping my horrible job. But as tired as I've been since my baby was born, the thought that my husband had left the door open slid right past my bullshit detector and became a conviction. I tumbled into bed and was asleep within seconds.
My husband woke me up the next morning. "You said the door was open last night, right?"
"Yeah," I said. "Thanks for that."
He didn't take the bait. "I think someone might have been in the house."
Delayed terror from the night before seized me. I sat up. "What? Why?"
"It looks like someone messed with the computer."
"Is anything missing?
"I can't find the digital camera. Was it on the desk?"
I was pretty sure it had been. "Maybe it's on the coffee table."
It wasn't.
We walked around the house together, taking inventory, piecing together clues. A likely scenario started to form, a bit of narrative to impose some structure on this bizarre event.
A man, alone, walks down our quiet street at night, around the time when most people have just gone to bed. Normally he would do this kind of work during the day, but he's growing desperate for money. Maybe he's hoping to find something to steal, some cash, a stereo, an iPhone, something he can trade down at the corner, at the duplex where different cars are always pulling up for a few minutes at a time. The guy is peeking in windows and checking yards for tools or yard supplies carelessly left outside.
He opens our neighbor's back gate and tries to peek in the windows, but the blinds are drawn, the locks secure. Nothing to steal there. He heads to our back yard, leaving the neighbor's gate open, and uses his knife to slash the nylon tie keeping the gate closed. He leaves it open for a quick getaway and peers into our kitchen window.
Paydirt. A desktop computer, just sitting there. He quickly and quietly assesses his options. The patio door is old and rickety, kept locked by a metal latch and a wooden bar wedged across the bottom. He uses his knife to jimmy open the lock and, as quietly as possible, rock the door so the bar will slide up, allowing him to maneuver it open.
In the living room, Mary Jane's ears prick up. She is suddenly on alert, nostrils flaring. She hears a frightening, stealthy noise, from the kitchen. She creeps from the chair and slinks to the threshold, where she encounters a horrifying sight. The dark figure of a man, hunched over the desk, messing with the family's things. She darts down the hall to go get Mommy. Mommy will know what to do.
Unaware of the dog's presence, the thief spies a digital camera and slips it into his pocket. He then sizes up the computer on the desk, tossing a framed photo of a black lab and a couple of loose CD's onto the desk chair. He decides to go for the monitor first; it's small, easy to carry, and can be unhooked quickly. He moves a speaker to get easier access, and that's when all hell breaks loose.
A dog barks, a shrill burst of sound. No one could sleep through that, and he's caught, utterly fucked if he doesn't get out now. He bolts out the patio door and across the yard, through the back gate that leads down to the creek. No one will find him back there. It's dark and the footing is treacherous so he half slides, half tumbles down the hill to the creek bed. His clothes are now caked with mud, his hands and knees bruised and abraded from the rocks. He just knows that those people called the cops, why wouldn't they, it was obvious they were being robbed. He hustles to put some distance between himself and the house, constantly looking up for police helicopters, comforting himself that at least it wasn't a total wash. At least he got a digital camera, and that could be traded in for at least one fix.
We'll probably never know more about him than that. There's a remote chance that he'll be caught somewhere else, and that crime will be connected to this one. That's why we called the cops, filed a report, and alerted the neighbors. The immediate danger was past, but whoever this guy is, he's still wandering around out there somewhere, trying to fulfill his deranged needs.
A part of me wanted to overreact, to buy a gun and set a trap, to take advantage of living in Texas and the right to protect the homestead that goes along with it. But that would be an irrational reaction. Instead of imagining all the horrible things that could have happened to me and my family, I'm going to focus on what actually did happen. The precautions I take will be directly proportional to the legitimate risks I face.
To deter future thieves, we put padlocks on the gates, extra locks on the windows, blinds across the kitchen window and patio door. We put up a Beware of Dog sign. Bill trimmed the wooden bar to fit the door better and we started wedging it in higher, making it virtually impossible to open from outside. We now leave the patio light on all night; anyone lurking will be harshly exposed. Eventually we'll get a better patio door, but for now our makeshift security measures will have to do.
I had grown complacent about the actual dangers of living in my neighborhood. There is crime here, after all. And while it doesn't make sense for me to never leave the house for fear that my neighbors might kill me, it also doesn't make sense for me to make it easy for criminals to get into my house.
After the cops left, I contemplated the book I had just read. I had been smug in the knowledge that my own sense of risk was rational and balanced. But I was wrong; I am just as subject to bias as the next person. This time I got lucky, losing only a digital camera. Thanks to the lessons about safety that we took to heart, there will not be a next time.
I was awakened a mere twenty minutes later by my dog Mary Jane, shivering at my bedside. This was an odd occurrence; she always sleeps in the chaise lounge in the living room, only getting up to go outside when the baby wakes up for his nighttime feeding. She was poking me with her snout, gesturing with her head toward the hallway. I waved her off but she persisted. I got up with a sigh, thinking maybe she had diarrhea or something. Better to get up and put her out than to have a mess to clean up in the morning. My third dog, tiny little Bailey, squirmed out from under the covers to join us, not wanting to be left out. My first dog, the large, old, and morose Dahlia, stayed put on her bed.
The three of us went down the hallway, Bailey in the lead with Mary Jane on her heels, me straggling behind after a quick glance at the sleeping baby. As Bailey rounded the corner into the darkened kitchen, she recoiled with a volley of high-pitched barks. Mary Jane, her hackles raised, charged into the darkness, also barking. I heard the glass patio door rattle in its frame. I froze in the hallway, stage-whispering, "Shut the fuck up!", thinking only of the baby waking and the ensuing loss of sleep for us both. I wondered if there was an animal on the patio, maybe a raccoon, skunk, or strange cat, foraging for spilled dog food. I peered around the corner and felt a rush of cold air on my face.
The patio door was wide open. Beyond it, cold darkness. My sleep-addled mind reeled. Why was the door open? I looked to my left, into the darkened living room and surprised myself by saying, "Hello?" No reply. I hurried to the back door and closed and locked it. Behind me, the dogs were still growling, pacing the kitchen. I glanced around. Everything looked the same. I walked into the living room, the dogs trailing, and turned on a light. The room was quiet and empty. Everything looked just as it had when I went to bed. I looked at the garage door but couldn't bring myself to look in there.
It couldn't have been a person, I told myself. A person wouldn't have run off when threatened by a ten-pound min-pin/rat terrier wearing a hand-me-down baby sweatshirt. A person would have taken something, or ... Jesus. I hurried down the hall to check on my baby again. He was in his crib, still sleeping soundly despite the dog outburst.
Everything seemed to be in its right place. So why was the fucking door open? My mind leaped to a conclusion. It was my husband, Bill. He was the last one to bed, the last one to let the dogs out and the cats in. I could see it all so clearly. I imagined our cat Big Boy, who is scared of Bill, balking about coming inside. So Bill leaves the door open as he performs some minor task, starting the dishwasher maybe, hoping the cat will dart in while his back is turned. But this dumb version of my husband forgets all about the door, thinking only of resting his beer-soaked bones, flicking off the kitchen light and heading to bed without a second thought.
I stormed into the bedroom and shook him none too gently by the shoulder. "Hey," I said. "Did you leave the back door open?"
His eyes fluttered open and he looked at me, confused.
"The back door, I said. "It was wide open. Did you leave the door open?"
He hates it when I talk to him like that. "No," he said in a wounded tone. He rolled over, his back to me. He knew he hadn't left the door open. His nagging wife was wrong. End of discussion.
I was irritated that he didn't share my alarm. It had to have been him who left the door open. The alternative, that a malicious stranger had been in my house while my family was sleeping, was unacceptable. To acknowledge that would be to open myself up to a great surge of fear. Adrenaline would flood my body, causing my heart to pound, my hands to sweat. I would lie awake in bed all night, on a solitary vigil against an unknown intruder, my ears attuned to every little sound, checking on my baby every few minutes, a prisoner to my imagination. There would be no sleep that night.
I have always wondered if I am prone to denial, if I could alter my perception of reality by refusing to see what was right in front of me. As it turns out, the answer is yes. I am and I can. You see, I just barely get enough sleep as it is, and the subconscious thought of a night of wakeful terror sent the rationalization center of my brain into overdrive. This same persuasive voice had, in the past, convinced me that a Tuesday morning was, in fact, a Saturday, that my alarm had been set in error, and that the sensible thing to do was to roll over and go back to sleep. In that instance, I had overridden it and dragged my sleepy butt into work, thus keeping my horrible job. But as tired as I've been since my baby was born, the thought that my husband had left the door open slid right past my bullshit detector and became a conviction. I tumbled into bed and was asleep within seconds.
My husband woke me up the next morning. "You said the door was open last night, right?"
"Yeah," I said. "Thanks for that."
He didn't take the bait. "I think someone might have been in the house."
Delayed terror from the night before seized me. I sat up. "What? Why?"
"It looks like someone messed with the computer."
"Is anything missing?
"I can't find the digital camera. Was it on the desk?"
I was pretty sure it had been. "Maybe it's on the coffee table."
It wasn't.
We walked around the house together, taking inventory, piecing together clues. A likely scenario started to form, a bit of narrative to impose some structure on this bizarre event.
A man, alone, walks down our quiet street at night, around the time when most people have just gone to bed. Normally he would do this kind of work during the day, but he's growing desperate for money. Maybe he's hoping to find something to steal, some cash, a stereo, an iPhone, something he can trade down at the corner, at the duplex where different cars are always pulling up for a few minutes at a time. The guy is peeking in windows and checking yards for tools or yard supplies carelessly left outside.
He opens our neighbor's back gate and tries to peek in the windows, but the blinds are drawn, the locks secure. Nothing to steal there. He heads to our back yard, leaving the neighbor's gate open, and uses his knife to slash the nylon tie keeping the gate closed. He leaves it open for a quick getaway and peers into our kitchen window.
Paydirt. A desktop computer, just sitting there. He quickly and quietly assesses his options. The patio door is old and rickety, kept locked by a metal latch and a wooden bar wedged across the bottom. He uses his knife to jimmy open the lock and, as quietly as possible, rock the door so the bar will slide up, allowing him to maneuver it open.
In the living room, Mary Jane's ears prick up. She is suddenly on alert, nostrils flaring. She hears a frightening, stealthy noise, from the kitchen. She creeps from the chair and slinks to the threshold, where she encounters a horrifying sight. The dark figure of a man, hunched over the desk, messing with the family's things. She darts down the hall to go get Mommy. Mommy will know what to do.
Unaware of the dog's presence, the thief spies a digital camera and slips it into his pocket. He then sizes up the computer on the desk, tossing a framed photo of a black lab and a couple of loose CD's onto the desk chair. He decides to go for the monitor first; it's small, easy to carry, and can be unhooked quickly. He moves a speaker to get easier access, and that's when all hell breaks loose.
A dog barks, a shrill burst of sound. No one could sleep through that, and he's caught, utterly fucked if he doesn't get out now. He bolts out the patio door and across the yard, through the back gate that leads down to the creek. No one will find him back there. It's dark and the footing is treacherous so he half slides, half tumbles down the hill to the creek bed. His clothes are now caked with mud, his hands and knees bruised and abraded from the rocks. He just knows that those people called the cops, why wouldn't they, it was obvious they were being robbed. He hustles to put some distance between himself and the house, constantly looking up for police helicopters, comforting himself that at least it wasn't a total wash. At least he got a digital camera, and that could be traded in for at least one fix.
We'll probably never know more about him than that. There's a remote chance that he'll be caught somewhere else, and that crime will be connected to this one. That's why we called the cops, filed a report, and alerted the neighbors. The immediate danger was past, but whoever this guy is, he's still wandering around out there somewhere, trying to fulfill his deranged needs.
A part of me wanted to overreact, to buy a gun and set a trap, to take advantage of living in Texas and the right to protect the homestead that goes along with it. But that would be an irrational reaction. Instead of imagining all the horrible things that could have happened to me and my family, I'm going to focus on what actually did happen. The precautions I take will be directly proportional to the legitimate risks I face.
To deter future thieves, we put padlocks on the gates, extra locks on the windows, blinds across the kitchen window and patio door. We put up a Beware of Dog sign. Bill trimmed the wooden bar to fit the door better and we started wedging it in higher, making it virtually impossible to open from outside. We now leave the patio light on all night; anyone lurking will be harshly exposed. Eventually we'll get a better patio door, but for now our makeshift security measures will have to do.
I had grown complacent about the actual dangers of living in my neighborhood. There is crime here, after all. And while it doesn't make sense for me to never leave the house for fear that my neighbors might kill me, it also doesn't make sense for me to make it easy for criminals to get into my house.
After the cops left, I contemplated the book I had just read. I had been smug in the knowledge that my own sense of risk was rational and balanced. But I was wrong; I am just as subject to bias as the next person. This time I got lucky, losing only a digital camera. Thanks to the lessons about safety that we took to heart, there will not be a next time.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Everybody Play Nice
This post may seem like a departure from my usual thoughts on parenting, but I think it suits the evolving purpose of this blog. When I started this blog, the focus was on my infertility and pervasive sadness. Then, when I renewed my interest in it, the focus shifted to caring for a newborn and trying to make decisions based on reason instead of fear. Now my thoughts turn to my budding skepticism, and how to best model rational behavior for my son. His social development is really starting to emerge, and he looks to me for cues on how to respond to the world. It's a huge responsibility and I take it very seriously.
I'm pretty new to the world of skepticism. It's only been since my baby was born last June that I even apply that label to myself. Since then I've realized how exhausting and frustrating it is to be a skeptic in the face of overwhelming idiocy. There are a lot of ignorant jerks out there (both in the real world and on the internet) and no amount of reason or common sense can get through to them. It's tempting to call a spade a spade and tell people like anti-vaccinationists, creationists, and 9/11 truthers that they're a bunch of jackasses who should leave the room (or comment thread) while the grownups are talking.
Unfortunately, that's counterproductive, and only serves to further reinforce the notion that skeptics are arrogant, conceited eggheads. There are a lot of people whose minds aren't made up yet, and acting like a jerk will only discredit your cause. Not to mention that, if there are no other skeptics around to rally to your cause, you can find yourself quickly alienated if these topics of conversation come up in a social setting. As someone who has all-too-frequently felt alienated, I know how unpleasant and lonely this can be. Better to just bite your tongue and go along to get along.
Or is it? Lately I've been made aware of a third option, one that requires far more patience and carefully thought out speech than most of us are used to. Instead of starting from the premise of "you're wrong, idiot," a skeptic should simply counter misinformation with fact. No raised voices (or all caps), no name-calling, no broad generalizations. None of the latter techniques will get your point across, as they immediately put people on the defensive and give them permission not to listen to anything you have to say. In other words, be nice.
This is going to be a huge challenge for me. I'm generally not a jerk, but damn I get mad at stupid people. In fact, the name of my blog is an homage to the late comedian Bill Hicks, whose hate-filled tirades are legendary (and hilarious). Like many smart, angry people, Bill Hicks felt like the lone voice of sanity in a world of morons. It can be very liberating to just say exactly what you think, eviscerating your enemies verbally, cutting them down to size. This style of oration works well in comedy; not so much in the real world.
I don't want Harrison to be an asshole. It'll be hard enough to be raised an atheist and an intellectual without the added burden of an abrasive personality. So it's up to me to not be an asshole, even to someone who richly deserves it. I worked in child care for most of my 20's, and it's been my observation that kids who are jerks have parents who are jerks. If I want Harrison to be a decent kid who other kids don't mind hanging out with, I have to teach him how to speak his mind respectfully. Which means (sigh) that I have to be respectful, too.
I'm pretty new to the world of skepticism. It's only been since my baby was born last June that I even apply that label to myself. Since then I've realized how exhausting and frustrating it is to be a skeptic in the face of overwhelming idiocy. There are a lot of ignorant jerks out there (both in the real world and on the internet) and no amount of reason or common sense can get through to them. It's tempting to call a spade a spade and tell people like anti-vaccinationists, creationists, and 9/11 truthers that they're a bunch of jackasses who should leave the room (or comment thread) while the grownups are talking.
Unfortunately, that's counterproductive, and only serves to further reinforce the notion that skeptics are arrogant, conceited eggheads. There are a lot of people whose minds aren't made up yet, and acting like a jerk will only discredit your cause. Not to mention that, if there are no other skeptics around to rally to your cause, you can find yourself quickly alienated if these topics of conversation come up in a social setting. As someone who has all-too-frequently felt alienated, I know how unpleasant and lonely this can be. Better to just bite your tongue and go along to get along.
Or is it? Lately I've been made aware of a third option, one that requires far more patience and carefully thought out speech than most of us are used to. Instead of starting from the premise of "you're wrong, idiot," a skeptic should simply counter misinformation with fact. No raised voices (or all caps), no name-calling, no broad generalizations. None of the latter techniques will get your point across, as they immediately put people on the defensive and give them permission not to listen to anything you have to say. In other words, be nice.
This is going to be a huge challenge for me. I'm generally not a jerk, but damn I get mad at stupid people. In fact, the name of my blog is an homage to the late comedian Bill Hicks, whose hate-filled tirades are legendary (and hilarious). Like many smart, angry people, Bill Hicks felt like the lone voice of sanity in a world of morons. It can be very liberating to just say exactly what you think, eviscerating your enemies verbally, cutting them down to size. This style of oration works well in comedy; not so much in the real world.
I don't want Harrison to be an asshole. It'll be hard enough to be raised an atheist and an intellectual without the added burden of an abrasive personality. So it's up to me to not be an asshole, even to someone who richly deserves it. I worked in child care for most of my 20's, and it's been my observation that kids who are jerks have parents who are jerks. If I want Harrison to be a decent kid who other kids don't mind hanging out with, I have to teach him how to speak his mind respectfully. Which means (sigh) that I have to be respectful, too.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
The Perfect Birth
We've seen it a million times, played out in movies and on sitcoms until it seems perfectly normal. A pregnant woman (slim and lovely everywhere but her tummy) awakens in the night to labor pains. She shakes awake her spouse, who fumbles around in a panic, putting his pants on backwards, losing his car keys and finding them again, before they get into the car and speed to the hospital or birthing center. They are met at the entrance by a kindly, efficient nurse who ushers the laboring mother into a wheelchair and whisks her into a delivery room. There she writhes around in the bed, screams at her husband, and, when her wisecracking obstetrician arrives, is told to push. After a few intense minutes, the baby emerges, wet and screaming, and is placed on the mother's chest. She is enraptured, transformed, a member of the eternal Sisterhood, connected to all women throughout all time. Proud papa cuts the cord, the goo is swabbed off, and baby is brought to the breast for the first time. Mommy looks into baby's eyes, the angels sing, and they are instantly and profoundly bonded. Variations of this scenario have become engraved in our consciousness and we've come to expect, even demand, that this is how our own births should go.
For the vast majority of women in the world, this simply doesn't happen. For most, birth is a drawn-out, arduous, dangerous process. Things can and do go wrong, and the outcome of a birth can not be predicted in advance. Complications, both maternal and fetal, arise frequently. Breech presentation. Preeclampsia. Gestational diabetes. For some women, myself included, the baby just won't fit through the pelvis. Luckily for me, I live in a wealthy and prosperous nation. My pregnancy was carefully monitored and, when the disparity in size between his head and my pelvis became apparent, a C-section was scheduled. Many women in the world are not so lucky; they labor for days until the baby dies, at which point it is removed, piece by piece. These women are often left with fistulas, causing them to be incontinent, and shunned by their families and villages. They lose everything, their babies, their husbands, their societal status, due to nothing more than being unlucky enough to be born into a third-world society, devoid of modern obstetrics.
Devastating loss is not confined to the third world. Even with our amazing technological advances, women in more advanced countries still lose babies. I used to attend a support group for pregnancy and infant loss, and I've seen firsthand the sorrow and guilt a mother faces when she loses a child. I've seen pictures of a stillborn baby, so beautiful and perfectly formed, so tragically still and lifeless. I remember, and will never forget, the names of the dead. Brisa, Meredith, Bridget Bell. These are all children that never were. Their parents hold onto those names, as they hold onto anything that connected them to their lost children. In their short time on earth, these babies were beloved.
In light of these tragedies, questions of pain management, birth plans, laboring positions, and the birth "experience" seem trivial. To a woman who has experienced loss, any birth that ends in a live baby is a success. If that baby is healthy and the delivery is not nightmarish, well, that's icing on the cake. And to any idealist who insists that there's only one right way to give birth and that mothers are entitled to have it that way, I have only two words: fuck you.
In my case, the knowledge of this suffering stripped away not only my delusions, but my very ability to delude myself. I could no longer kid myself that certain things were "meant to be" or to believe that old cliche that states "everything happens for a reason". It was a rough road to skepticism and, while I'm not happy to have gone through such heartache, I am glad to have my blinders stripped off and the world laid bare. Because, although nature can be cruel, it can also be full of majesty and wonder, and when you open yourself up to sad truths, you also open yourself up to profound joy and awe.
When I heard my baby cry for the first time, as he was yanked through an incision in my abdomen, I felt that sense of awe, along with a wash of relief. After nine months of constant worry, he was finally out, and he was wonderfully, gloriously, alive. I didn't mind that he was promptly whisked away to be poked, prodded, tested and weighed. I knew he was in competent, professional hands, watched over by his proud father. The nurse put a cool hand on my brow and told me I could take a nap if I wanted, while they stitched me up. I closed my eyes and reveled in the knowledge that we had both made it, that my beautiful son and I had the rest of my lifetime to get to know each other.
Birth is only the beginning of motherhood, as a wedding is only the beginning of the marriage. The rite of passage isn't nearly as important as what follows. Thanks to the incredible stroke of luck that had me born in America, I am now a mother. And no woman on this planet, living or dead, has ever loved her child more than I love mine, regardless of how that child was born.
For the vast majority of women in the world, this simply doesn't happen. For most, birth is a drawn-out, arduous, dangerous process. Things can and do go wrong, and the outcome of a birth can not be predicted in advance. Complications, both maternal and fetal, arise frequently. Breech presentation. Preeclampsia. Gestational diabetes. For some women, myself included, the baby just won't fit through the pelvis. Luckily for me, I live in a wealthy and prosperous nation. My pregnancy was carefully monitored and, when the disparity in size between his head and my pelvis became apparent, a C-section was scheduled. Many women in the world are not so lucky; they labor for days until the baby dies, at which point it is removed, piece by piece. These women are often left with fistulas, causing them to be incontinent, and shunned by their families and villages. They lose everything, their babies, their husbands, their societal status, due to nothing more than being unlucky enough to be born into a third-world society, devoid of modern obstetrics.
Devastating loss is not confined to the third world. Even with our amazing technological advances, women in more advanced countries still lose babies. I used to attend a support group for pregnancy and infant loss, and I've seen firsthand the sorrow and guilt a mother faces when she loses a child. I've seen pictures of a stillborn baby, so beautiful and perfectly formed, so tragically still and lifeless. I remember, and will never forget, the names of the dead. Brisa, Meredith, Bridget Bell. These are all children that never were. Their parents hold onto those names, as they hold onto anything that connected them to their lost children. In their short time on earth, these babies were beloved.
In light of these tragedies, questions of pain management, birth plans, laboring positions, and the birth "experience" seem trivial. To a woman who has experienced loss, any birth that ends in a live baby is a success. If that baby is healthy and the delivery is not nightmarish, well, that's icing on the cake. And to any idealist who insists that there's only one right way to give birth and that mothers are entitled to have it that way, I have only two words: fuck you.
In my case, the knowledge of this suffering stripped away not only my delusions, but my very ability to delude myself. I could no longer kid myself that certain things were "meant to be" or to believe that old cliche that states "everything happens for a reason". It was a rough road to skepticism and, while I'm not happy to have gone through such heartache, I am glad to have my blinders stripped off and the world laid bare. Because, although nature can be cruel, it can also be full of majesty and wonder, and when you open yourself up to sad truths, you also open yourself up to profound joy and awe.
When I heard my baby cry for the first time, as he was yanked through an incision in my abdomen, I felt that sense of awe, along with a wash of relief. After nine months of constant worry, he was finally out, and he was wonderfully, gloriously, alive. I didn't mind that he was promptly whisked away to be poked, prodded, tested and weighed. I knew he was in competent, professional hands, watched over by his proud father. The nurse put a cool hand on my brow and told me I could take a nap if I wanted, while they stitched me up. I closed my eyes and reveled in the knowledge that we had both made it, that my beautiful son and I had the rest of my lifetime to get to know each other.
Birth is only the beginning of motherhood, as a wedding is only the beginning of the marriage. The rite of passage isn't nearly as important as what follows. Thanks to the incredible stroke of luck that had me born in America, I am now a mother. And no woman on this planet, living or dead, has ever loved her child more than I love mine, regardless of how that child was born.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Cohabitation is Eeeevilll
We took our boy to the pediatrician last week for his six month checkup. As usual, we waited way too long (over an hour) to actually see the doctor. And, as usual, we soothed our impatience by reminding ourselves that we love our son's doctor, and so does our son. Dr. H is affable, friendly, a little goofy-looking. He reminds me of a Muppet with his big smile and googly eyes behind his thick glasses. When he bustles into the exam room, full of good cheer, we always feel better about the excessive wait in the claustrophobia-inducing well-baby waiting room, the incompetence of the front desk staff, and the rudeness of his young nurses.
This visit was no different, at first. After Harrison's weigh-in and measurements, we were presented with a packet of photocopied pages outlining milestones, vaccine schedules, feeding requirements, etc. etc. My husband (who is kind enough to accompany us when he can) flipped through the packet while we waited for the nurse to come in with the array of required shots. He was stunned to come across a sheet of paper titled: COHABITATION. According to this document, "research" shows that cohabitation (living together without being married) causes many "problems for the couple, children of the union, and society." It goes on to claim that cohabitating couples are more likely to engage in domestic violence, more likely to cheat and bring home STD's, and more likely to get a divorce if they do eventually get married. Men, according to this same elusive "research" see cohabitation as a convenience that allows them to be violent towards their partners and (are you ready for this?) to be accepting of date rape.
Holy fucking shit. Who does our doctor think his patients are?
My first problem (and there are many) is with the supposed research these claims are drawn from. There is not a single citation for any of these sources. Obviously it is assumed that we the patients are not smart enough to question extraordinary claims such as these, or to evaluate the sources who make the claims. We are expected to take it as gospel simply because our doctors have proclaimed it to be so. I rather suspect that the source of this information is a religious-based organization, which brings me to my second problem: proselytizing. I wholeheartedly resent anyone trying to influence me to join, support, or conform to their religious beliefs. The doctor's office is no place to push a religious agenda. It is none of our pediatrician's business whether his patients are married or merely shacking up. I shudder to think how a couple of gay parents would be viewed by this same "research".
Bill and I lived together for a long time before we got married. We were as close as any married couple and, while we were not without our disputes, our home was free from STD's, violence, and rape. Since we got married, a few things have changed. I took his last name, we started filing taxes together, and people have finally gotten off our backs about living "in sin". We don't love each other more than we used to, we still fight with about the same frequency and intensity, and we still have consensual, monogamous sex.
This misguided judgment of my family's history is the last straw. We're good parents who love each other and our baby wholeheartedly. It's time to find a pediatrician for whom only our medical history is relevant. God has no place in my marriage and, ideally, will have no place in my son's doctor's office.
This visit was no different, at first. After Harrison's weigh-in and measurements, we were presented with a packet of photocopied pages outlining milestones, vaccine schedules, feeding requirements, etc. etc. My husband (who is kind enough to accompany us when he can) flipped through the packet while we waited for the nurse to come in with the array of required shots. He was stunned to come across a sheet of paper titled: COHABITATION. According to this document, "research" shows that cohabitation (living together without being married) causes many "problems for the couple, children of the union, and society." It goes on to claim that cohabitating couples are more likely to engage in domestic violence, more likely to cheat and bring home STD's, and more likely to get a divorce if they do eventually get married. Men, according to this same elusive "research" see cohabitation as a convenience that allows them to be violent towards their partners and (are you ready for this?) to be accepting of date rape.
Holy fucking shit. Who does our doctor think his patients are?
My first problem (and there are many) is with the supposed research these claims are drawn from. There is not a single citation for any of these sources. Obviously it is assumed that we the patients are not smart enough to question extraordinary claims such as these, or to evaluate the sources who make the claims. We are expected to take it as gospel simply because our doctors have proclaimed it to be so. I rather suspect that the source of this information is a religious-based organization, which brings me to my second problem: proselytizing. I wholeheartedly resent anyone trying to influence me to join, support, or conform to their religious beliefs. The doctor's office is no place to push a religious agenda. It is none of our pediatrician's business whether his patients are married or merely shacking up. I shudder to think how a couple of gay parents would be viewed by this same "research".
Bill and I lived together for a long time before we got married. We were as close as any married couple and, while we were not without our disputes, our home was free from STD's, violence, and rape. Since we got married, a few things have changed. I took his last name, we started filing taxes together, and people have finally gotten off our backs about living "in sin". We don't love each other more than we used to, we still fight with about the same frequency and intensity, and we still have consensual, monogamous sex.
This misguided judgment of my family's history is the last straw. We're good parents who love each other and our baby wholeheartedly. It's time to find a pediatrician for whom only our medical history is relevant. God has no place in my marriage and, ideally, will have no place in my son's doctor's office.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Feeding Ain't Easy (But It's Necessary)
Feeding a baby is one of those frustrating tasks where you have to rely on conventional wisdom, teasing out sensible advice from baseless truisms. Everyone's an expert, convinced that they have the nutritional key to raising a healthy, well-fed child. The problem is, there's a lot of different information floating around out there, a lot of it contradictory. Even among actual experts, such as pediatricians and lactation consultants, there's a lot of disagreement. And it's not something that can be easily cleared up through scientific experimentation; who on earth would enroll their child in a study where they could possibly end up malnourished or poisoned? So it's left to us, the parents, to figure out how best to feed our babies.
Take breastfeeding, for example. To new moms today, it is touted as the best, dare I say the only way, to properly feed your newborn. If you feed your poor defenseless child from a bottle of formula, you are condemning him or her to a life of bad health, below-average intelligence, and emotional attachment issues. Any woman can breastfeed, with the proper support and motivation. At least, that's what breastfeeding advocates (or lactivists, as they're sometimes called) swear by. If for some reason your breasts don't produce milk, it's because you weren't trying hard enough. You have failed your second test of motherhood (the first being an unmedicated "natural" birth).
This is, of course, total horseshit. What should matter, above all else, is that your child has enough to eat. If you can produce enough high-quality milk from your breasts, well, good for you. I'm serious. You're very lucky. Some women have problems, and this is where sound reasoning has to trump feelings of inadequacy.
My baby, for example, was born big and hungry. His blood sugar was dangerously low minutes after his birth. There was no question of whether or not a bottle of formula was appropriate. It was medically necessary to prevent long-term damage to his brain and organs. My husband informed me of this about a half-hour later, as I lay in the recovery room after my C-section. My first question upon hearing this, and the only one that really mattered to me, was, "Is he all right?" And yes, he was just fine.
While I still wanted to breastfeed (hey, it's free, readily available baby food), I didn't consider it a massive failure to have a false nipple inserted into my son's mouth before my real one could get there. I brought him to my breast as soon as I could. But it quickly became apparent that my colostrum just wasn't doing it for him. Rather than watch him scream with hunger, I supplemented with the formula provided by the hospital.
You're probably expecting me to say that he's now a formula fed baby, and doing fine, but actually, he's a titty baby all the way. You see, instead of feeling like I had failed hat breastfeeding and giving up, I stuck with it. It hurt at first, and sucked hard (no pun intended), but I was determined. Eventually, my milk came in, abundantly, and as soon as it did, bottles were history. If I had bought into the false either/or dichotomy of breast versus bottle, we'd be struggling now to pay for his formula, adding extra stress to our lives and further straining our budget.
He's five months old now, and we've added solid food to his diet. There are as many different opinions on this subject as there are kinds of parents. Some experts advocate starting early, around four months, and introducing baby to a variety of flavors and textures right off the bat. Others caution to exclusively breastfeed until six months, at which point single grains can be introduced, one at a time with at least a week between them. Some people say to introduce veggies before fruit. Others say it doesn't matter a whit what order foods are introduced in (I tend to agree). Some people are convinced that babies can easily develop food allergies if the wrong food is added at the wrong time. So how do we parents know who to listen to? Which of these experts has the right answer?
Hell, don't ask me. I'm trying to figure this stuff out, too. Ultimately I've had to rely on that old standby, observation and common sense. Basically, I'm feeding him stuff and seeing what happens.
I take precautions, of course. No big chunks that he could choke on, no citrus (too acidic), nothing too hot or spicy (though I do love to add a sprinkle of cinnamon to his fresh applesauce, and will continue to do so until someone gives me a good reason not to). Instead of having a rigidly timed feeding schedule, I feed him when he's hungry and stop when he's full.
How do I know I'm feeding him the "right" way? Because he's doing fucking great, that's how. He's robust, good-natured, and energetic. He sleeps well, poops fairly often, and has yet to come down with sniffles or a fever.
I worked in child care for many years and have seen scores of pale, listless, underfed kids. And all too often, they were the result of parents who chose one expert's advice to follow, at the exclusion of all others. They believed they were feeding their children the right way and nothing could change their minds.
The point is, I don't have all the answers. No one person does. It doesn't hurt to listen to the experts, but we all have to figure it out for ourselves, based on what seems to be working for us and our babies.
Take breastfeeding, for example. To new moms today, it is touted as the best, dare I say the only way, to properly feed your newborn. If you feed your poor defenseless child from a bottle of formula, you are condemning him or her to a life of bad health, below-average intelligence, and emotional attachment issues. Any woman can breastfeed, with the proper support and motivation. At least, that's what breastfeeding advocates (or lactivists, as they're sometimes called) swear by. If for some reason your breasts don't produce milk, it's because you weren't trying hard enough. You have failed your second test of motherhood (the first being an unmedicated "natural" birth).
This is, of course, total horseshit. What should matter, above all else, is that your child has enough to eat. If you can produce enough high-quality milk from your breasts, well, good for you. I'm serious. You're very lucky. Some women have problems, and this is where sound reasoning has to trump feelings of inadequacy.
My baby, for example, was born big and hungry. His blood sugar was dangerously low minutes after his birth. There was no question of whether or not a bottle of formula was appropriate. It was medically necessary to prevent long-term damage to his brain and organs. My husband informed me of this about a half-hour later, as I lay in the recovery room after my C-section. My first question upon hearing this, and the only one that really mattered to me, was, "Is he all right?" And yes, he was just fine.
While I still wanted to breastfeed (hey, it's free, readily available baby food), I didn't consider it a massive failure to have a false nipple inserted into my son's mouth before my real one could get there. I brought him to my breast as soon as I could. But it quickly became apparent that my colostrum just wasn't doing it for him. Rather than watch him scream with hunger, I supplemented with the formula provided by the hospital.
You're probably expecting me to say that he's now a formula fed baby, and doing fine, but actually, he's a titty baby all the way. You see, instead of feeling like I had failed hat breastfeeding and giving up, I stuck with it. It hurt at first, and sucked hard (no pun intended), but I was determined. Eventually, my milk came in, abundantly, and as soon as it did, bottles were history. If I had bought into the false either/or dichotomy of breast versus bottle, we'd be struggling now to pay for his formula, adding extra stress to our lives and further straining our budget.
He's five months old now, and we've added solid food to his diet. There are as many different opinions on this subject as there are kinds of parents. Some experts advocate starting early, around four months, and introducing baby to a variety of flavors and textures right off the bat. Others caution to exclusively breastfeed until six months, at which point single grains can be introduced, one at a time with at least a week between them. Some people say to introduce veggies before fruit. Others say it doesn't matter a whit what order foods are introduced in (I tend to agree). Some people are convinced that babies can easily develop food allergies if the wrong food is added at the wrong time. So how do we parents know who to listen to? Which of these experts has the right answer?
Hell, don't ask me. I'm trying to figure this stuff out, too. Ultimately I've had to rely on that old standby, observation and common sense. Basically, I'm feeding him stuff and seeing what happens.
I take precautions, of course. No big chunks that he could choke on, no citrus (too acidic), nothing too hot or spicy (though I do love to add a sprinkle of cinnamon to his fresh applesauce, and will continue to do so until someone gives me a good reason not to). Instead of having a rigidly timed feeding schedule, I feed him when he's hungry and stop when he's full.
How do I know I'm feeding him the "right" way? Because he's doing fucking great, that's how. He's robust, good-natured, and energetic. He sleeps well, poops fairly often, and has yet to come down with sniffles or a fever.
I worked in child care for many years and have seen scores of pale, listless, underfed kids. And all too often, they were the result of parents who chose one expert's advice to follow, at the exclusion of all others. They believed they were feeding their children the right way and nothing could change their minds.
The point is, I don't have all the answers. No one person does. It doesn't hurt to listen to the experts, but we all have to figure it out for ourselves, based on what seems to be working for us and our babies.
Monday, November 2, 2009
J.B. Handley: Christ, What an Asshole
One of my talents has always been to see things from another person's point of view. It's what makes me a good writer and a generally nice person. I notice and size up other people while I go about my daily activities, driving or grocery shopping. I try to be courteous and thoughtful, so as not to piss anybody off and bring about unwanted confrontation. For the most part, I avoid problems, and everything goes smoothly.
But I have little tolerance for assholes. I honestly can't figure out where they're coming from. Why would anybody want to act like that? Why would somebody driving an SUV and yakking on a cell phone swerve into my lane, and then flip me off when I honked? Nothing makes me more angry than pure, unbridled assholishness, especially when I'm out and about with my son and some jerk puts him in danger.
Which is why people like J.B. Handley really stick in my craw. The guy's posts and articles make me cringe. Not only does he spread dangerous misinformation that puts my child and others at risk, but his posts ooze with hate and condescension towards anyone who makes even the most diplomatic argument against him. He's a bully, the kind of person who probably made fun of nerds like me when he was a kid, the ones who made going to school so miserable.
So I wasn't at all surprised that he said awful things about Amy Wallace, a female journalist bold enough to take on the volatile topic of vaccine rejectionism. And I admit to feeling a sense of sadness and defeat at reading such hateful things about someone I had grown so quickly to admire. The comments on her article seemed to prove that any attempt at reason or sanity on this topic is followed immediately by vitriol, the written equivalent of being flecked with someone's spittle while they shout at you, jabbing a finger in your face.
But J.B. Handley is one asshole who isn't getting away with it, not this time. He didn't anticipate the level of backlash his foolish words would unleash. Not just among feminists, but among anybody with a shred of reason or civility. And guess what, haters? Up till now you've been the loudest, but there's a lot more of us than there are of you.
But I have little tolerance for assholes. I honestly can't figure out where they're coming from. Why would anybody want to act like that? Why would somebody driving an SUV and yakking on a cell phone swerve into my lane, and then flip me off when I honked? Nothing makes me more angry than pure, unbridled assholishness, especially when I'm out and about with my son and some jerk puts him in danger.
Which is why people like J.B. Handley really stick in my craw. The guy's posts and articles make me cringe. Not only does he spread dangerous misinformation that puts my child and others at risk, but his posts ooze with hate and condescension towards anyone who makes even the most diplomatic argument against him. He's a bully, the kind of person who probably made fun of nerds like me when he was a kid, the ones who made going to school so miserable.
So I wasn't at all surprised that he said awful things about Amy Wallace, a female journalist bold enough to take on the volatile topic of vaccine rejectionism. And I admit to feeling a sense of sadness and defeat at reading such hateful things about someone I had grown so quickly to admire. The comments on her article seemed to prove that any attempt at reason or sanity on this topic is followed immediately by vitriol, the written equivalent of being flecked with someone's spittle while they shout at you, jabbing a finger in your face.
But J.B. Handley is one asshole who isn't getting away with it, not this time. He didn't anticipate the level of backlash his foolish words would unleash. Not just among feminists, but among anybody with a shred of reason or civility. And guess what, haters? Up till now you've been the loudest, but there's a lot more of us than there are of you.
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