Peace At the Eye of the Tempest: Remembering Sgt. Maj. R.J. Cottle

"If at the eye of a tempest peace lies, shouldn't at the heart of darkness light await?"--Bradley Kayl

Every badge is covered with a black band. Every hand that touches the casket wears a white glove. Flag draped, the remains of USMC Sgt. Maj. Robert James Cottle slowly process down the streets of downtown Los Angeles, led by a pipe and drum band. He is followed by his wife and baby girl, family, police officers, Marines (“More Sergeant Majors than I’ve ever seen together in one place,” marvels my Marine Corps uncle), and firefighters. Every eye along the route stops to watch. The six pallbearers, all SWAT officers, walk purposefully alongside the rustic open wagon—the shortest of them is my father. The man in the casket is his SWAT team partner and Brother Warrior.

For several blocks around Our Lady of the Angels Cathedral, the streets of Los Angeles are shut down. My mother is ready to jump out and hot foot the last few blocks, heels and all. But the off-duty SWAT officer in the front seat manages to weave his SUV through traffic in record time and flash his VIP badge at the final check point. Every major news station is covering the event—even the flags at the state capitol were set at half-mast, this week. KNX 1070 Radio News comes on with an update on the somber procession approaching the cathedral. They mention Dad by name.

Today, my father walks one of many routes he’s followed, both physical and emotional, since March 24th, when the call first came informing R.J. Cottle’s loved ones and closest companions that his recon group had been hit by an IED in Helmand Province, Afghanistan. Dad has flown across the country and back, following R.J. and accompanying his wife, Emily, and baby girl. He and his SWAT brothers have shared stories and drinks, laughter and tears. And after nearly four weeks, it doesn't seem to have gotten one iota easier for any of them.

Everyone deals with grief in his or her own way. As parents, we deal with our children’s sorrows, large and small, on a daily basis. Sometimes it also falls to us as children to console our own parents when they walk through the Valley of Darkness. I knew there wasn’t much I could do. I’ve never been on a call-up or shared more than a dinner with most of my father’s buddies; he has never made good on his promise to take me to a shooting range. Although I’ve heard countless hours worth of war stories, I’ve never been more than a peripheral part of that world. But I can send flowers and leave a loving note. I can call and listen. I can show up with hugs, share a black-and-tan, take out the trash, and offer a pat on the back while he tweaks the eulogy. I can be there for my distraught mother, who has been with Dad through it all. I can slip Dad a Power Bar after the Hearst pulls away and he lowers his final salute. It isn’t much…it feels like nothing. But sometimes just being there is half the battle.

I look down, straighten the creases in my slacks, and hope that it’s enough.

As we leave the parking garage and walk out into the open courtyard of the cathedral, my mother halts mid-sentence to grab the hand of the first Marine she sees and thank him for his service. Startled, he puts his hand to his heart in grateful appreciation and smiles. “You caught me off guard, there,” he says warmly. A Vietnam vet, my father’s brother remembers a time when people spit on returning soldiers. As my mother walks back, Uncle Gerry takes her under his arm. He’s clearly proud. “If you keep that up, here,” he says wryly, “you’re going to be a very busy lady, today.”

We swim into a sea of uniforms and black coats as we enter the concrete and marble hall of a church built for giants. Someone hands me a program with R.J.’s handsomely-uniformed picture on the front. Looking at his picture, I can imagine his deep voice. He’s leaning on Dad’s bar, looking at me with unblinking eyes, probably teasing me about one of my lame college boyfriends, his adam’s apple bobbing as he laughs. We continue down the hallway. I am afraid to look at his photo again, lest I lose all decorum and begin to weep.

Dwarfed and subdued, we make our way to one of hundreds of pews. I’m overwhelmed by the brown, concrete walls, the massive emptiness, the clouds letting only vague hints of daylight through the opaque windows. I know I should feel cold. Wedged in among thousands of people, instead I feel comforted and calm. Looking around, I wonder if this cathedral can contain all of the grief that is palpably held barely in check.

The officers lining the hallway outside suddenly snap to attention, saluting. The first chilling strains of a lone piper’s dirge echo off the high, flat walls. Having lived in Scotland, I still connect strongly with that distinctive, lonely sound. It tears at my heart. This same piper, Sergeant Matt MacWillie, played “Scotland the Brave” at my wedding. In fact, he sat next to R.J. at my reception. These won’t be the only tears of the morning, but they are some of the most deeply personal, for me.

R.J. ultimately receives not one eulogy, but seven, from his father, sister, and boyhood friend, as well as LAPD’s Chaplain, the Police Chief Charlie Beck, a fellow SWAT Team Element Leader—my father, and a fellow Marine Corps Sergeant Major. Each of them carries within them a part of R.J. Together, they paint a vivid picture of the man, breathing life into their stories of the tall, lanky, “one hundred forty-eight pounds of twisted steel”, as R.J. once described himself.

When my father stands to speak about his partner, it’s clear from his very first words he is only marginally coping. Unlike the others who speak that day, Dad doesn’t need a microphone. His voice booms through the cathedral in what my mother calls his “work voice”, the one that cuts through high-stress moments and gets done what needs doing, the good, the bad, and the worst. Even laughing about R.J.’s Twinkie-driven escapades, he is torn up. We all are. The weight of every one of R.J.’s SWAT brethren is my father’s to carry, their sorrow his to express. When he promises R.J.’s widow and baby girl that he will never forsake them, the soul of the entire Department is behind his husky-throated words. Chief Beck echoes the same: “The Los Angeles Police Department will stand by you until the end of time. This organization is a family. And you are part of that family. If you didn’t understand it before, understand it now.”

R.J.’s wife, Emily, and his 9-month old baby girl have been met at every airport, cared for at every turn, and promised by both the LAPD officers and Marines who knew her husband that they will never be left behind nor forgotten. Because R.J. was not killed on SWAT duty, Emily Cottle would not, under normal circumstances, receive death benefits from the City of Los Angeles. That’s the cold nature of paperwork. But, true to his word, Chief Beck has taken the unprecidented step of listing Officer Cottle's death as "on duty". A family, indeed.

It hurts to see those we have always seen as a source of strength torn apart by heartache. But these are our parents and we continue to learn from them, even after we go on to raise our own families in our own ways. We are reminded that our mothers and fathers have deep, difficult, overwhelming challenges, just as we do ourselves. And it helps us to remember, in our own moments of darkness, that someone we know and love has been there before us, trampling the path, perhaps illuminating the obstacles ahead, showing us how to cope and accept our grief as part of the natural cycle of life. Without that darkness, we cannot know how valuable is the light.

My father has finally returned from Arlington, Virginia, having followed the Sergeant Major to his final rest. I’ll meet up with him soon for a black-and-tan and a Twinkie. That’s just how R.J. would want to be remembered.

Please remember the men and women of our police departments and armed services who protect you every day from dangers both global and local—shake a hand and thank them for their service. Some rarely hear the words and you have no idea how much it means to them. Don’t wait until they’re gone.

To join us in support of Emily and Kaila, please make checks payable to “Blue Ribbon Trust for Robert J. Cottle” and send them to: Los Angeles Police Federal Credit Union, Attn: Blue Ribbon Trust for Robert J. Cottle, P.O. Box 10188, Van Nuys, CA 91410.

Photo by Mark Boster, Los Angeles Times - April 13, 2010 - All rights reserved by owner - no copyright infringement intended.

Sherlock Holmes Review (Spoiler Alert!)

Watching weekend Tweets during the opening days of Sherlock Holmes, I noticed mixed reactions. So now that I’ve seen Sherlock Holmes twice, I wanted to share my own, detailed thoughts on this great movie and some of its best—and worst—moments. (Full disclosure: the film’s Fight Coordinator is also one of my martial arts instructors.)

Maybe it’s because we’ve had some Wing Chun Kung Fu training and knew what to look for, but the first thing my husband and I agreed upon right away was that the fight scenes were a lot of fun. My husband especially loved the way the audience was let into Holmes’ head with the slow-motion “planning” of each strike. Although I could see other audience members squirming at the slow-motion, full-contact shots—and these were, indeed, filmed full-contact—the brawl in the ring was one of our favorites, a scene which, according to an inside source, wasn’t even in the original script. When Robert Downey, Jr. advocated for the inclusion of such a scene, Fight Coordinator, Eric Oram, suggested Holmes would surely take as methodical an approach to his fighting skills as he does to the other bodies of knowledge he pursues. He called the bare-knuckled, no-holds-barred match Holmes’ “fight lab”. His suggestion paid off.

The script itself was good. While movies with great ending twists, like The Usual Suspects, are fun to watch, I prefer a script that carries me along with just enough of a hint that I feel like I’ve started to figure some of it out myself—that, “I got it, I called it! Dude, I called it!” moment that makes the audience feel smart is worth its weight in ticket sales for the groundlings. Yet the movie left enough unexplained that Holmes still had the stereotypical “here’s how it was done” moments, enough to keep hard-core fans of the original author, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, from moaning in distress. (Keeping the fanboys and –girls happy seems to be Mr. Downey’s specialty, afterall.)

I thought the mysteries of the case fit Conan Doyle’s standard fare, the dialogue was true to what I’ve read of the books so far (well done all, going back to the stories for those geek-pleaser lines), and the details appeared to stick to the canon. The humor and timing were just right, though given Holmes’ strong sense of irony in Doyle’s original portrayal, I think the script could have taken even more without becoming a comedy. (Holmes, trying to convince Watson to help him pursue the case: “No girl wants to marry a doctor who can’t tell whether a man’s dead or not.”)

Granted, I’m no expert, but I happen to possess two amazing volumes of The Annotated Sherlock Holmes, (“upon [which] I can thoroughly rely”) containing four novels and 56 short stories, and filled with copious notes, diagrams, illustrations, maps, photographs, etc., and deeply-detailed analysis by the leading experts of the Holmes canon at the time of its publication (1967). The forefront of Holmes research has surely advanced in the 43 years since then (and the book as been updated, of course), but the historic photographs alone, taken of real places mentioned in the stories that now no longer exist, are priceless. I’m curious to hear what the Baker Street Irregulars and their ilk thought of the movie. I imagine them picking the story apart with the most fine-toothed combs, assuming as they do that Holmes and Watson were real people rather than characters in a novel. Then again, as long as they buy movie tickets and aren’t beating any real corpses, who cares?

The casting was wonderful in all the places that mattered. Robert’s amazing range securely held Mr. Holmes in a snug embrace, though he was (uncharacteristically) humble when discussing his portrayal in interviews. His accent (a point on which he was not humble) was as spot-on as he had bragged about. (It’s always nice when an actor lives up to the hype he creates for himself.) The only time I couldn’t understand him was when he was in his Carl Malden-with-an-eye-patch disguise, but that seemed to be primarily the result of the drunken street accent he was imitating (to get it right or to be understood—that is the question).

In one of my favorite scenes, Holmes semi-intentionally insults Watson’s soon-to-be fiancé; when she throws her glass of wine at him and Holmes is left to eat his dinner alone, he does not wipe the drink from his face. Rather, he calmly tucks his napkin into his shirt and cuts into his meat—his penance becomes the dinner’s emotional dressing. A classic Downey acting choice, that one simple omission delves into the deeper emotional conflict Holmes struggles with—he doesn’t want to lose his best friend to a marriage and is satisfied that he may have further driven a wedge between them, yet is self-recriminating enough to accept the hurt he’s caused Watson’s Mary (and, by extension, Watson) with a little self-flagellation.

Mr. Law was a perfect Watson, my reservations about his athleticism to the contrary. Though I never saw him as old, stupid, or bumbling, I initially believed he was more frail than he was portrayed in the film, due to his shoulder injury and bout with what may have been typhoid fever during the Afghan War. I’m still researching that one, but Jude Law himself effectively makes the case that an 1890s military man like Watson would have seen “some hardship” that surely would have toughened him up (see minute 2:12, onward). Both men could act their way around just about anyone, given the opportunity and the right script. And their chemistry was so thick you could chew on it. I’d wager they’re set to become one of the best screen duos in a very long time. If there was any fault in the film, it certainly wasn’t Robert’s or Jude’s. I wondered whether Irene Adler’s American accent fit the actual sound of the time, but on that point I know very little, beyond listening to the oldest “talkies” and a general understanding of the ways in which the sounds of a language can shift over time. I know nothing whatsoever about Adler from the stories, having not gotten that far yet in my reading. Rachel McAdams manages to turn her little-known criminal character into a vivacious woman far ahead of the time and place in which she finds herself. I do wish Downey and McAdams had offered us a few more intimate scenes—when she ends up in handcuffs I’m afraid I don’t care too terribly.

The other supporting actors did a fantastic job, for the most part. Lestrade perfectly fit the man I imagined from the stories—he looked and sounded as if he had leaped off the page. (I assume his literary partner, Mr. Gregson, was removed from the script from the outset to tighten things up.) And the gigantic Dredger was played with more heart than most oversized baddies. My father was a career officer, so I have a special place in my heart for Constable Clark (“Clarky”)—my favorite supporting character. Perhaps make-up could have given him a wee bit more color, though. Make-up also needed to decide just how to portray a healing cut on Holmes’ mouth. I assumed at first that it was the result of the hit he took during filming, but as I understand it now, the six-stitch injury he sustained was on the inside of his mouth. So the waxing and waning of his cut lip was an annoying distraction (continuity screw-ups tend to unsuspend my suspension of disbelief).

Guy Ritchie’s interpretation of Lord Blackwood is my biggest gripe. I had to agree with a friend of mine—he was not nearly menacing enough to fit the diabolical nature of the character. With little physical connection between him and those who assisted him in his intricate machinations, he seemed to float through frame after frame, looking anachronistic in his tight leather trench and half-slicked, half-shaved head. It was as if Guy Ritchie forgot which movie he was making. The rest of the period costuming was thoroughly Victorian—as it should be, given Oscar-winning costume designer Jenny Beavan (“A Room With a View”) was in charge—which makes Blackwood’s appearance clash even more. Given Beavan’s otherwise faithful dressing, I have to assume this was a directorial choice, one which I hope Mr. Ritchie will learn from before moving on to the sequel (which is already moving forward).

The arrangement of most of director of photography Philippe Rousselot’s shots showed his Oscar-winning talent (“A River Runs Through It”) and my favorite shot, hands-down, is one that begins tightly focused on a box that says “This Way Up”, then flips over into an overhead view of the chase scene between Dredger and Holmes.

The rest of my gripes were quibbly ones. For example, when Holmes and Watson jump out of the boat and head for the factory, they end up in water up to waist and chest, respectively—but once they’re in the factory, they appear perfectly dry. Adler and Watson pin the map onto the floor with heavy objects—twice. And how did Lestrade know where to find Holmes in that attic? Where was that attic, anyway? The same place where Holmes had been fighting in the ring? How Holmes knew about the glass knife held by Blackwood in the opening scenes was never explained. While it didn’t detract from the story, the fun of Holmes is hearing him show off what he knows and how he knows it. And the electrical device with which Holmes zaps Dredger frustrated the heck out of me—what the hell IS that thing?

And I hated the stupid crow that kept appearing at Blackwood’s crime scenes. Either Blackwood is a “magician” or he’s not. If he’s not, then leave the crow for an artistic statement in another film. In my opinion, the visual cue was distracting and sophomoric.

Finally, I noted a number of places where the trailers (both the first and second) contained scenes that were cut from the movie: The white-clad female victim from the opening scenes of the movie appearing to “fall” upward. Lestrade reproving Holmes for his methods. Holmes struggling with a scantily-clad Adler as he admonishes her to “Be a lady.” Adler’s line, “They’ve been flirting like this for hours.” (Was that last referring to Watson and the boatman, or Watson and Holmes? Was it taken out after the ridiculous homophobic flap began?) Changing the movie after the trailer’s been released is of course nothing new in the industry, but I’ve always found it annoying. And it speaks volumes about how the editing of a film has played out. I wondered whether the scenes with Adler had contained more of the sexual tension that would have added a deeper dimension to the relationship between her and Holmes.

Overall, I loved the film—along with enough movie-goers to give the inventive Avatar a good run for its money. I’d love to hear your reactions.

Happy New Year to all!

Photo credit: Warner Brothers Pictures and Village Roadshow Pictures

CSM, Please Don't Kill Geography

The San Mateo Community College District is attempting to pit Department against Department and professor against professor as the College of San Mateo is forced to cut programs and slash their budget by 22%. But the professors are refusing to play the game. Rather, a show of solidarity against this desperate race to the bottom was their overwhelming response at the Joint Faculty/Staff/Administration Emergency Meeting that convened on CSM's campus, Friday.

The job market worsens and California's Legislature sits on its hands while the state of education in one of the richest states in the world grows increasingly more grave. As an adjunct (part-time) professor at the College of San Mateo, I am smack in the middle of the worst of it. State budget cuts have necessitated, trickle-down style, major cuts at SMCCD, to the tune of $6 million. The District offices began with "suggested" cuts to a preliminary group of programs and courses--then requested that faculty ammend and add to the list to reach the target goal of culling $1.8 million from faculty funding.

Guess who was on that preliminary list?

Yep. SMCCD is trying to kill Geography.

American geographic ignorance is the butt of jokes around the world and this is what they give us. Even fewer educated people. The mother of many of the world's great sciences is being murdered--and she's not alone. Some of her children may die along with her: Anthropology, Humanities, and every foreign language Department other than Spanish may be the most jarring of the other programs on what faculty are unaffectionately calling "The List", but the losses don't stop there. And every one of them is dire and heart-breaking.

If you want your program to stay, the District told us, you need to find another program to cut in its place. The long-term repurcussions on both the structure of the college and the relationships within and between college departments carry the potential for tearing the school apart. It's the old colonial "divide and conquer" strategy that we are suffering from even today--Shia vs. Sunni, Hindu vs. Muslim, tribe vs. tribe--in regions all over the world.

But professors don't get to be professors by turning a blind eye to the world. The assembled were all viscerally aware of the strategy. And its implications.

During the meeting, faculty were each given 3-5 minutes in which to educate their peers on the need for keeping their departments intact. Some of the presentations were formal and well-prepared. Others were off-the-cuff, read from notes scribbled minutes before standing to speak. Every one of the speakers had something vital to share, and each presentation added to and informed those that went before. There was a strong sense of collegiality, of solidarity, of shared dedication to our group mission: that of educating and empowering our community. By the time all of the assembled had finished, the group was no longer feeling frightened and defeated--they were inspired, angry, and ready to take down or climb over whatever obsticles the District might try to throw in their path.

After all, the group agreed, without faculty and transfer courses the students need, there will be no students. And without students, the campus is nothing but a beautiful shell. The Board of Trustees voted to fund the construction of a new fitness center on campus. I suppose it might anchor the beginnings of a great resort. That seems to be where we're headed, at this rate.

But that wasn't why this campus was built. It was founded on the promise of a brighter future for the citizens of this region, this state, and the world. It was build to serve the diverse, dedicated students who come to CSM seeking a quality education and the opportunities that education can offer.

The assembled faculty felt that yes, funding will likely return, eventually. It may be five years, it may be ten, but it will return. Philosophy professor Dave Danielson reminded everyone that when it does, we need a viable structure to return to. Hacking and slashing at selected departments and eliminating whole programs would not leave us many options, in the long-term.

One professor of Chinese studies described the anger she had felt as she sat down at her computer Thursday night to write out what she wanted to say. But, she said, "I calmed down once I got here because I realized I am not alone--we are all in this together."

"This is like a bad harvest year," she said. "And CSM wants to kill its children for food."

As for Geography, I must admit, I'm frustrated beyond measure that I have to spend so much time justifying the importance of a discipline that is so incredibly vital to our Pacific Rim state, now more than ever. Such is the Geographer's lot in America. Sad but true.

I would love to hear your reactions. Even better, email your reactions to the SMCCD Board of Trustees. They need to know what you think of these cuts. They cannot sit in isolation--they are beholden to the community at large and they need to know the reactions of the community they serve. Tell them how you feel.

While you're at it, please remind them not to kill Geography.

Mom Rant: "I’m tired of taking care of your kid!"

On Sunday, July 12th, 3-year old Demetrius Jones disappeared. He was in the care of his grandparents when he wandered off, riding his electric toy car, and ended up in the nearby river.

Any parent’s nightmare.

Thankfully, he was found two hours later by a group of fellow campers on the lookout for him, kneeling on all fours atop his overturned car, which was lodged near the river bank in nine feet of water. He was sunburned, but alive.

This incident underscores something that’s bothered me for a very long time: caregivers who don’t pay attention because they think everyone else will.

It came to a head, last week, while visiting family in Los Angeles. My little ones and I were at the neighborhood clubhouse, one afternoon, passing the fifteen-minute adult swim time by sitting in the gated wading pool area. There were a number of small children roughly four and under playing alongside two or three adults. Two of the mothers sat at a table in the shade, completely absorbed in conversation. A three-ring binder lay open in front of them; they appeared to be having some kind of informal, flip-flop-attired meeting. When the time was up, most of the kids walked back to the pool. I noticed as we exited that someone had put a box in the door of the gate. I squinted at it for a second. The two moms at the table were still sitting head-to-head. I let it go.

Seven-year old Boo isn’t a very strong swimmer, so she still needs a grown-up nearby for those frequent panicky moments when she gets tired halfway across. And The Bug won’t even put her face in the water. So my Dad and I each took a kid and paddled around the big pool. Boo and I were hanging onto the edge at about the five-foot mid-point, when I looked up and noticed a tow-headed two-year old with flimsy, inflatable water wings walking confidently toward the deep end. He sat down near the side and started scootching himself to the edge, as if to climb down the swim ladder. There was no other adult within forty feet, on this side.

I swam up to the little guy, knowing my strange presence would be enough to give him pause. “Hey, buddy,” I smiled. “Where’s your mommy?” As most two-year olds would, he sat and stared at me, mute. I looked to my right, where some of the moms from the kiddie pool were splashing with their own gaggle of toddlers. “Excuse me,” I asked the nearest, “but is this your little boy?”

“What? Oh. No, his mom’s in there. Hey Linda! Linda!” she called to one of the women still sitting in the semi-gated area. When one of them looked up, the woman in the pool pointed in my direction. “Is this your son?” I asked. The boy’s mother walked over to the gate and stuck her head out. She was about thirty feet away.

“He’s okay,” she assured me.

“In the deep end?” I asked, incredulous.

“He’s got floaties. He’s fine,” she replied.

Okay. Let’s just suppose this little guy is a great swimmer. But the fact that he’s got water wings on at all makes me think he’s marginal, at best. And let’s just suppose that the woman assumed the bored, squinting, teenage life guard on duty would keep an eye on him. But can we talk for a second about the fact that 1) this woman had no idea where her son was in the first place and had to be shouted at to even look up from her tet-a-tet and 2) the gate to the wading pool was left open and her boy could therefore get out and go ANYWHERE? (Please note that the main gate was also being held open by a Nerf football, probably put there by someone who didn’t want to bother with digging out a key, and note also that immediately outside the main gate is a parking lot. Bad combination for small people security.) Not to mention 3) the boy’s mother was obviously expecting the rest of the pool’s occupants to save her urchin, should he get into a danger he shouldn’t have been in to begin with.

“You know that children can still drown with these things on, right?” I point out loudly, waving my hand toward the airy little vinyl pillows encasing his chubby arms. Honestly, I’m surprised they even sell these things, any more. A false sense of security is the last thing a parent needs. She opened her mouth to reply, paused pointedly. “Okay.” She clamped her lips shut and called to her boy, who dutifully came back to the (sort of) gated fold.

My father thought I was out of line. His reaction shocked me, actually, given that he’s seen horrible things happen to children as a result of neglectful parents in his long career as a police officer. I should think that making a statement might make this woman think twice (I hope so, anyway) and might even save that child’s life, in the future. Even the tiniest chance of that happening makes being a jerk worth the social disgrace.

Now, granted, a neighborhood pool is nothing like an open campground with a river nearby. But the point is still the same. Caregivers of any kind need to watch their charges—especially the littlest ones.

I know that there are moments when wee people will wander, despite our best efforts. It’s happened to me and to others I know. The key is that we make the best possible effort to prevent it. But for an adult to willingly ignore a toddler and allow him to swim, unsupervised, in the deep end of a swimming pool? Worse yet, to not even know that he’s doing it? That pisses me off to no end.

Why? Because I’m the hyper-vigilant mom who watches and worries. I can’t relax at all when kids are near any potential dangers because you just never know when something might happen. As a kid, I once saved a baby from drowning when he walked off the pool steps in the shallow end, right under his chatting parents’ noses. I was the only one who saw him do it and I was halfway across the yard. It wasn't until I jumped in the pool, half-clothed and shouting, that anyone noticed what had happened.

I was big sister to a little brother who I swear had a death wish from the time he pulled himself up on two feet. Now that I’m a grown-up, I would love to chill out like the other adults around the camp fire. But I CAN’T. Because stuff like that happens all the time.

I don’t mind watching out for other peoples’ kids. What irks me is when they EXPECT me to do it, without asking, and therefore feel okay with doing whatever suits their selfish little hearts while their kids wander around, unsupervised.

I don’t intend to keep my own kids in a rubber room for the rest of their lives. They’ll have to experience things, fall down and scrape knees, maybe even break bones. But when it happens, it won’t be because I didn’t try to do my job, the only job any parent truly can be held to: helping my kids survive into healthy adulthood. It truly makes me want to vomit, to tear my hair out, to weep uncontrollably when a child is killed or maimed because of the egocentricity of those responsible for their care.

So to all of those selfish, irresponsible parents and caregivers out there: Please, do your job.

Because the watchful parents, the lifeguards, the police officers, the fire fighters, the paramedics, the social workers—you name it—we’re all tired of doing it for you.

Photo credit: Adam Reaburn www.energeticcity.ca

Garden of Friendship

Looking around at the faces of your friends,
I see so many blooms
in the flower garden of your years spent
tilling and sowing this Earth.

It’s a vast garden
with plants of all sorts:
some are annual, seen but once a year;
some perennial, beautiful and close, year-round;
some are trees that blossom and bear fruit
then sleep, dormant, in winter,
but always with dreams and thoughts of you
not far off in spring.

Some flowers begin as unexpected weeds,
a nuisance, a thorn bush,
that suddenly reveals itself
a new species of rose
heretofore unknown, even to itself;
a treasure unpredicted,
but no less a valuable addition to the sights along your path.

Some flowers will scatter their seeds to the winds,
far beyond the walls you’ve built for yourself
and the plant you knew will die;
all you have to do is open the garden gate
into the unknown
to find it again.

Some flowers look good at the table;
some complement your hair, your clothes, your eyes;
some are tall, dominating the borders of your life;
some are small, almost unnoticed near your feet;
some just listen, swaying gently,
when you have something to get off your chest.

Talking to flowers makes them grow stronger:
you share your breath
and they thrive
giving to you the sweet oxygen
you need to survive.

Remember always that these gardens overlap,
that as each of us lies within you
in varying capacities, hues, and shapes,
so too, you lie within our imagined boundaries.
And our gardens are mightier than so many
for having been inspired by your growth,
graced by your beauty,
and enhanced by the seeds
you have sown within each of us.

May this, your latest year of so many springs past,
be your best ever, spurring each of us on to new heights
by sharing the life-giving air you exhale
with every word,
every smile,
every moment of your amazing existence
in this flower-filled world we share.

Angela Orr also posts at: Silicon Valley Mom's Blog and From Basic Training To Black Sash: A Mother's Wing Chun Journey. She can be followed on Twitter: @AngelOrr

Is The Iranian Vote "Meaningless" Afterall?

Like thousands of others, I've been following the situation in Iran all week. This morning I posted on the subject on the Silicon Valley Mom's Blog site, here. The first comment I received noted the irony of Americans giving up their freedoms in the name of security, while Iranians, who have little true security to begin with, are willing to face repurcussions in the name of having a nearly "meaningless" vote (her words) counted by the ayatollahs who will ultimately do as they please, anyway.

In trying to formulate a response, the first analogous image that came to mind was the Amazon rainforest. And do you know the fastest way to destroy a pristine environment such as the Amazon? Build a road through it.

Once people learn what democracy is all about, it becomes harder and harder to keep them from driving across that newly-paved road, claiming the land on either side, building homes and businesses, and creating physical, social, and cultural environments that never before existed in that place.

Asking for what you want, even if there's little chance you'll get it, is never meaningless. That's like saying a prayer is pointless. Even if you're not prone to religiosity, you might consider the fact that prayers, wishes, and meditations all focus our energies toward a goal. That focus can alone bring about changes. Maybe small ones, at first. But sometimes that's all it takes to move forward.

Now see in your mind's eye millions of people, every able-bodied person in a large city, filling 6-lane roads from side to side and as far as the eye can see in either direction. If you think the ayatollahs aren't paying attention to those prayers, you're sorely mistaken. Changes have already begun.

Just ask the wiped-out micro-ecosystem of the first tree felled.

Can the original environment be restored, at that point? Perhaps, over time. But only by killing all of the people.

Angela Orr also posts at: Silicon Valley Mom's Blog and From Basic Training To Black Sash: A Mother's Wing Chun Journey. She can also be followed on Twitter: @AngelOrr . For more info from Twitter sources, follow #iranelection.

Photo credits: OLIVIER LABAN/MATTEI/AFP/Getty Images; BEHROUZ MEHRI/AFP/Getty Images

LOL = Love Of Learning: Helping Gifted Children Succeed

Our school needs to figure out how to celebrate each child's abilities--at every level.

Oh, they talk a good game about differentiation in the classroom. But when it comes to day-to-day instruction, reality is far removed from this ideal. True, children struggling to keep up with grade-level materials are given extra help to even out the classroom ability level. But children who are well beyond grade-level materials are forced to suffer through "reinforcement" instruction, no matter how boring, in order to maintain status quo.

It's been my experience that students forced to stay with the group when they are well beyond the material let their grades slip. This may sound backward--how can a bright student fail a course they could run circles around? But let me ask you this: Have you ever had to sit through a meeting or a talk that centered around subjects you knew well, perhaps even better than the speaker? Were you bored to pieces? What did you do? Doodle in your notebook and make it look like you were taking notes? Did you text your best friend under the table about the snore-worthy performance at hand? Did you give a damn about any of it? I'm willing to bet you mentally checked out. I would. I did.

When I was high school, I wanted to take a theater arts class. But the timing conflicted with the advanced history class I was slated to take. So I took theater arts and signed up for the remedial history class that fit my schedule, instead. After two months, I was so bored I stopped taking notes. I stopped paying attention. I wrote poetry instead. And I started failing my exams.

Thankfully, I had a teacher who paid attention and called me on the carpet. You're too smart to fail this class, he said, so what's really going on, here?

Instead of admonishment, he gave me responsibilities. I was to help him grade exams and keep his record book up-to-date. He gave me a research project and discussed details of each day's lectures with me after class. And guess what? I started asking questions in class again--the kinds of questions that made the other students turn around to stare at me. But I didn't care any more. I'd tuned back in to KLOL, "Love Of Learning Radio".

It sounds stupid, but I'm watching it happen, even now. At mid-semester, my first-grade daughter's behavior marks started to drop. She's not being "a good listener" and her "citizenship" needs improvement. She tells me she lays on the floor during morning circle time, when the children gather for the beginning of the day's instruction. I ask her about the high points and low points of her day and they almost always involve recess.

Before she even started Kindergarten, I met with her principal to discuss how the school's philosophy and academic planning would help my child to succeed--and what we could do, as parents, to partner with her teachers. "We can't keep her from getting bored," he said. (Yes, that was a direct quote.) Can't keep her from getting bored? Then why are we here?

No, we can't afford a school like Nueva, where Kindergarten costs $24K. Even if I could send her there, I'd still object to the elitism that implies. Only the rich smart kids get help? Hm. Besides, we thought the Palo Alto School District, which is lauded by more than just local parents, would have the high-quality teachers who would know how to help our daughter. Surely they've dealt with children like ours, before. Surely they'd have a plan in place to help. GATE programs were on the books, which we were excited about. But in reality, these don't start until 4th grade. We have to hope her love of learning isn't crushed before then.

Honestly, I went through some of the same things. My parents had me tested before I'd even started school. And Hemlock Elementary in Vacaville, California was willing to work out a deal. My reading was the most accelerated part of my learning, so they pulled me out each day during reading time and put me with the highest reading group of the next grade up. I was analyzing Madline L'Engle's "A Wind In The Door" in third grade. And it made all the difference in the world.

I understand the need to keep children from becoming stigmatized or having their egos overly-inflated by "special" treatment. But won't they become more so by staying in the classroom with their peers, who copy off of their papers and worry that they're not good readers because one classmate is powering past them like a blur? Will the advanced math student get so bored with simple addition and subtraction that he starts acting out to call attention to his boredom and try to change a situation that he otherwise has no control over?

These are not just rhetorical questions. I've been that advanced kid. In secondary school, I was surrounded by others like me in some of my classes--and many of us had dealt with the same social and academic pressures growing up. I had a soul-crushing experience with a pissed-off girl in a Junior High math class who was under the impression I thought she was stupid (I didn't), and ostracized me because of it. The worst part was, I really admired the girl.

Don't get me wrong. I think it's important for children to learn how to work in groups of mixed abilities. When they have the emotional maturity to understand why it's important. But to do so day in and day out, with no hope of mentally flying free is frustrating. I fear my child, and other children like her, will end up using their intellects in destructive ways just to exercise them, or turn to other, physically-damaging escapes. These bright children have the capacity to do amazing things in and for this world. To say that they are doing so well we don't need to worry about them is doing them--and ourselves--a disservice.

I'm going to go out on a limb here and share what may be an unpopular opinion. I believe children who are academically gifted are special needs children, just as fully as students traditionally identified as such. Their needs are different. But in both cases, we ignore them at our peril.

Lady Nerdfighters Unite!

This poem has now been re-dedicated to the Nerdfighters of the world. "Who the hell are Nerdfighters?" you may ask. Here, go check this out: The Birth of the Nerdfighter (from Brotherhood 2.0) DFTBA! (Don't Forget To Be Awesome! Fight Worldsuck!)

I’M NOT

I’m not searching, I’m not leaping
I’m not waiting by the phone
I’m not begging, I’m not snatching
when a man throws me a bone
I’m not lying, I’m not trying
I’m not dressing to the teeth
these clothes that I am wearing
hide no lingerie beneath
I’m not dreaming, I’m not scheming
and I won’t put out an ad
I’m not phoning up old lovers
I’m not looking for my dad
I won’t diet, I won’t primp
no, I won’t lay down and sob
I won’t get a tuck, a lift, a suck
nor contemplate a nose job
I’m not planning, I’m not playing
I’m not clubbing every night
I won’t take part in fads
I won’t wear my jeans skin tight
I’m not reading COSMO, ELLE or VOGUE
nor books on how to please
I’m not a virgin or a slut
I’m not a bitch or tease
I’m not faking, I’m not aching
I’m not baking him a cake
I’m not baiting, nor blind-dating
and I’m not out on the take
I’m not running to a therapist
my psyche is intact
I’m a functional non-victim
I’m quite normal; it’s a fact
I’m not praying, I’m not swearing
I’ve no rep that’s on the line
I’m not changing my religion
my philosophies work fine
I’m not anxious, I’m not frightened
I’m not wallowing in sorrow
I haven’t got a mother
who wants grandchildren tomorrow
I’ve got no clock that’s ticking
I’m a woman, not a bomb
I don’t time my ovulations
there’s no rush to be a mom
I’m not buying, I’m not charging
I’m not giving it away
I’m not daring, I’m not caring
if it takes another day.
The truth is that I’m hopeful
for I’m loving’s biggest fan
but my happiness depends on me
and not upon a man.

Why Are So Many Americans Geographically Illiterate?

Most Americans couldn't find their asses even if they had a map. Why? Because they can't read the map.

The level of American geographic illiteracy is astounding. I teach Geography courses at a community college and I see it daily in my classrooms. But don't take my anecdotal evidence as the be-all and end-all; National Geographic has been conducting surveys for decades and comparing data between both developed and developing nations. Here are some highlights from the 2006 survey (they're currently conducted every four years):

• Only 37% of young Americans can find Iraq on a map—though U.S. troops have been there since 2003.


• 6 in 10 young Americans don't speak a foreign language fluently.


• 20% of young Americans think Sudan is in Asia. (It's the largest country in Africa.)


• 48% of young Americans believe the majority population in India is Muslim. (It's Hindu—by a landslide.)


• Half of young Americans can't find New York on a map.

Download the full report here.

While working on my bachelor's degree in 1995, I sat in the Cal State Northridge Geography Department's computer lab, near two girls studying for a quiz that week. They spent a good ten minutes with a blank world map, arguing over which ocean was the Pacific. With embarassed giggles, they made their best guess and shrugged it off. They had come thiiiiis close to picking the Atlantic. I almost fell out of my chair.

How did we get to this point? It certainly didn't happen overnight. Why aren't students in the U.S. given more instruction in where things are in the world, where their country fits into the bigger picture, and why people and places are interrelated in ways that affect us every day? Why have my students not had any geography since 8th grade, and then only as a single unit in a larger Social Studies course? Some teachers believe that if you've had History with all of its maps, you've had Geography (trust me on this one--it's not the same thing). Believe it or not, the seeds if this tangled vine were sown with the ancient Greeks. But pointing the finger at Hippocrates won't get you far in understanding the Big Picture. Modern politics played just as large a role, if not more so.

[the following section includes adapted excerpts from Physical Geography: Earth's Interconnected Systems, by Angela Orr, Kendall/Hunt Publishers, 2006]

Traditions of Geography
What is the core of the discipline, the central motivating question or purpose, the material which geographers should be spending their careers studying and defending? In 1964, William Pattison wrote “The Four Traditions of Geography” for the Journal of Geography, in which he attempted to synthesize the basic ideas of academic geographers into a coherent framework. Two of these, the Human-Environment Tradition and the Area Studies Tradition, both offer some insight into reasons behind the loss of geographic literacy in the United States which began in the second half of the 20th Century.

The Human-Environment Tradition
This tradition focuses on the inter-relationships between the natural and the human world. It is perhaps the oldest of the four traditions, the brain-child of Hippocrates, the Greek physician of the 5th century B.C. who wrote On Airs, Waters and Places, in which he attempted to discern the influence of nature on humans. Unfortunately, this tradition led to the embracing of the concept of environmental determinism, and the similarly disastrous concept of social Darwinism, in which it was assumed (without much in the way of true data) that the environment creates conditions of natural selection and is therefore the main determiner of the outcome of human activities. In other words, the most successful (and therefore “superior”) societies or cultures are those which developed in regions of the world dominated by certain types of climate and environmental conditions.

This dangerously-applied concept became one of many justifications for the abuses of racism and imperialism, and sadly dominated American geography well into the 20th Century. By the 1920s, however, it became evident that the most influential studies were being conducted by “armchair geographers” who rarely went out into the world and who often used inauthentic data gathered from other researchers or from anecdotal evidence, rather than authentic field work, clear observations and carefully-derived data.

For example, the climate which produced the strongest societies, according to the environmental determinists, was often the same climate of each author’s home country. For the ancient Greeks, the mediterranean climate brought about cultural perfection. For British authors, it was the west coast marine climate. For Americans, the four-season humid continental climate.

But environmental determinism could not explain the contradictions of situations such as sequent occupance, in which successive societies use and modify the same environment, yet leave vastly different cultural imprints on that place. California is an excellent example of sequent occupance, where numerous different societies (hundreds of different Native American tribes, Spanish and Russian occupiers, Mexican, European, and American settlers) all have successfully adapted to and utilized the same environment, each in very different ways,

Eventually, the hypothesis of environmental determinism was refuted by the larger academic community. Today, those geographers who define the field in terms of the Human-Environment Tradition now accept that there is an interaction between culture and nature. Neither can exist without influencing and being influenced by the other, at this stage in the human habitation of the planet.

The Regional Tradition
Geographers who focus on the Regional Tradition are charged with the characterization and description of places, of regions, as being distinctly different from one another, rather than simply a summary of their locations and associated cartographic facts. A researcher in the Regional Tradition is expected to be an expert, with encyclopedic knowledge of a particular area. This academic focus was dominant in American geography in the first half of the 20th Century, largely due to the interest in defining political boundaries after the World Wars.

However, it soon became apparent that the boundaries of a region can be constructed any number of different ways, and that there existed in geography no universally accepted method for determining which way was best for any one area. We can still see the effects of the difficulties of defining regional borders in many parts of the world, such as Israel and the former Yugoslavia, where lines drawn on a map for political convenience did not match up with real world interactions of people, environment, and economy.

Science is all about gathering information, making generalizations, and testing hypotheses. Regional studies, as it was originally conceptualized, pieced together already gathered knowledge, sought out what was unique or different, and focused very little attention on testing and theorizing. Because it was largely atheoretical and descriptive, regional studies came to be viewed as "unscientific". The Cold War era and the need for more rigorously-trained scientists led to the general academic concensus that anything unscientific was, essentially, useless.

Both the backlash from environmental determinism and the lack of scientific rigour led to regional studies being phased out of the teaching curriculum in American K-12 classrooms. Today, researchers in this tradition have begun to accept the difficulties of regional identification. The realization that Americans have become largely geographically illiterate has led to the reinstitution of regional studies as part of a new set of geographic standards being incorporated once again into the schools.

Geography Today
There has been an effort on the part of some American educators to renew geographic literacy, as exemplified by the eighteen National Geography Standards identified by the National Council for Geographic Education in 1994. It remains to be seen, however, just how well this approach is working. I certainly have yet to see it in my own classroom. Geography generally remains relegated to a position of lesser importance in both physical and social sciences in the secondary education system.

It must be emphasized here that Geography is just as important and rigorous a field of study as any other. Perhaps more so, as our country forges new connections with other nations and cultures around the world through overseas businesses, politics, military movements, humanitarian aid, financial assistance, and tourism. Our nation is made up of people from almost every country in the world, yet we know so little about those places, cultures, and environments that our citizens are often forced to rely on the knowledge, perspectives, and agendas of those offering information—information which may not be complete or accurate, whether through ignorance or deliberation.

Imagine, for example, a company based in Belgium, with production facilities in Singapore, customer assistance in India, and retail sales in the North America, Europe, and Japan. That company will need to make well-informed business decisions, taking into account the cultures, politics, finances, and environments of the places they deal with every day. Geography is an excellent field within which to formulate studies, focus groups, and reports on critical economic and security issues. The nation’s businesses and political institutions will ultimately pay the price for a deficiency of geographic education in the United States.

Turn in your seat right now, dear reader, and point south.

I rest my case.

It Takes A Lot of Shit

Our worst experiences can become the defining moments that lead us to personal greatness. In other words: It takes a lot of shit to grow great flowers.

But it doesn’t end with the worst experiences—we all know that flowers need more than dirt. Of course, we have to water those flowers, often with our tears. And when the littlest beam of sunlight finally breaks through our emotional clouds, the sprouts emerge, seed leaf and single root, extending themselves, hungrily stretching their bounds. Until one day, seemingly quite suddenly, spring is here and the sun is shining, and you look around to discover you’re surrounded by a field of blooms.

It's all going to be okay.

Like all things in nature, those flowers are transitory. We forget this fact, quite often. Being tool-wielding creatures fascinated by permanent structures--stone monuments and ancient pyramids--we expect everything around us to remain just as we see it. And we extend this belief to our best selves.

If we are built rather than grown, then it is our parents who built us—physically, emotionally, culturally. That creation takes sweat and blood and regular maintenance to remain healthy in so many little ways. When we are broken or hurting, we turn to the masseuse, the doctor, the psychotherapist—the repairmen. When it comes to our deeper selves, we can pay someone to fix the cracks, but not the structural damage. Sometimes we have to tear it all down and start again.

Personally, I think we're more organic than that. We're not starting over from scratch or patching up with Bondo. Rather I see us absorbing the decayed moments of the past as we grow atop them, in a never-ending cycle of death and renewal.

The flowers?

The flowers wilt.

My daughter has always had a love-hate relationship with flowers. She’d pick daisies and roses and random weeds out of peoples’ yards on our walks, entranced by the magic of petals and leaves held aloft by such fragile stems. Some would go carefully into her pocket. Some were given to Mommy because she knew with her child mind that I would see their beauty just as she did. After all, I was the adult extension of her tiny body, wasn’t I? Most days, I think she saw me more like a sock, keeping her warm when it was chilly, kicked off when the sun was shining and the sprinkler puddles just too inviting not to run from my grasp. Splash and pick the flowers.

But the flowers would always wilt. Their limp petals mirrored her fallen face, desperate to bring them back to life by drowning them in a glass of water. I would hide the glass behind a box of crackers, toward the back of the kitchen counter, agreeing that surely the water would help. Her emotional storm eventually quieted and a new activity replaced her fixation with a more positive outcome—beating me at “go fish” usually did the trick. Thank God we can’t have any pets in our apartment. I remember my brother’s death-watch of a beloved fish at age nine and don’t care to imagine the power of ten by which my little girl’s reaction would be magnified, watching any animal die.

Because the flowers always die.

You stand in that browning field, wondering what you did wrong. Sometimes it is something you’ve done. More often than not, it has nothing whatsoever to do with you. Action begets reaction, which begets further action, in the unbroken chain of tiny events that make up our cultural and biological history. We don’t see that daisy chain of moments. Each of us the center of our own private universes, we see only the causes and effects of our own experiences.

Those flowers died because of…me? Or you? It depends on your level of narcissism.

Sadness drowns us and we have trouble seeing the bigger picture through the tears. Because, you see, those flowers never die in vain. Did you not notice the bees? The butterflies and moths? They are the strangers, ignored; the annoyance of an acquaintance—the grocer, the mechanic, the aloof third-grade teacher. Even the people we love, all of whom leave within us gentle reminders of our essential connectedness. We may not have noticed, but each left its indelible mark on the future. Each pollinated us as the insects pollinated the flowers, surrounded by now-fallen petals at our feet. And each left within us silently dreaming seeds.

How long until they feel the safety of soft earth surrounding them?

Those fields will bloom again, my friend. They always do, year after year. Sometimes the season is longer, sometimes shorter, but always it returns, eventually. And all of the fertilizer of the wasted, worrisome, horrible, even horrific, events of our lives will feed them, just as it always has.

My Sweet Pea rarely picks the flowers, any more. We watch them bloom and smell them, touch them and love them where they live, and then we wave good-bye. They drop their seeds or hibernate for the winter. Our walks become less frequent as we move indoors with the changing season. Until spring, when we emerge like the insects from our busy hive to watch the patient gardeners carefully sprinkle the stinking manure that grows such great flowers.

And each moment passes into the next.

Will you join me as we sit patiently in the dirt? It’s so much easier to wait together. We can hold one another as we water the future with our combined tears. We’ll share the beauty of that first beam of light, the first seedlings, the first daring buds.

Together, we will celebrate the slowly-opening moments of our recovery.

Can you guess who this pancake is dedicated to...?

The world is flat. Flat, flat, FLAT. Flat as a pancake my friends.

And I am the butter that slides, melting, across the top, yellow-white into clear, softening everything it touches. Artery-coating. I am the syrup, spreading, soaking in, sweet and teeth-rotting, delicious and insulin spike-inducing. Waiting for that first knife cut. Flat and flabby-minded and waiting.

I am conservative. A simple dish found in most every town in the nation--in a restaurant or on your own breakfast table. I am all about Small Town Values. Don't ask me what those values are--I'm not sure I can tell you. I'm sure they involve pancakes, though. I'm too full of sugar to think clearly. But I am here to support you. Swallow me and I'll give you all the energy you need to keep going.

The world is a pancake, I tell you. Easy to pour. Heating up. I may be soft and fluffy on the inside, not much substance, but everyone knows the pancake. What's not to like? I am all you really need.

Never mind that the wheat that makes up my middle is imported from Mexico, where European agribusiness owners pay workers a pittance to work from morning's dark to dusk and there is no respite, just a long line of more waiting to take their place as lives dissolve--they are the water that makes me moist. Please ignore the fact that the syrup isn't maple but flavoured corn syrup, made from corn subsidized so well by the American Government and foisted so heavily onto the world market that farmers in Africa can't make a competitive profit and are forced to abandon the family farm and move away to the city, where it's crowded and hot and dangerous. And cousins and life-long friends are far away, some of them slowly starving, still clinging to the fields. I am here to sustain you--does it matter so much where I came from? Will you think these thoughts as you bite, anyway? Likely not.

You're not thinking any further than the plate. No, I know for a fact that you will enjoy this moment. I will fill your belly with a pleasant warmth and you will feel the comfort of home and love and all that is decent and right with the world. The flat world. Created by God. Don't worry--those books that say otherwise will be taken from the shelves soon. All you need is a cookbook. A pancake cookbook. What else could give you such a golden smile? I am all you need. I AM.

So embrace me! Let me change you with my comforting sameness. Let me be the food that you buy when you go to the grocery store, this week. Yes, I know I cost half again as much as last week, but I'm worth it, don't you think? Eating all of that other food out there can be dangerous--pesticides and additives and migrant workers. You don't need that in your life. In the lives of your children, born and unborn. All you need is me to nourish you.

Won't you vote for the pancake? I know you will. Because you love America. I know you'll support me. All the TRUE Americans support me. So enjoy your meal, America.

Oh, the bill? Don't worry. I'm expensive, but I'll make you a special deal, because you're a hard-working member of society. Don't worry about the high tax on that bill. I'll give you some money back.

Put it to good use, friend. Buy more pancakes.