MALALA

It was Wednesday, October 10, that I first read about Malala Yousufzai. The 14 year old girl from Pakistan who believed in the absolute right of every human being to be educated, began a blog, at age 11, under the pseudonym Gul Makai, for the BBC. Her blog was about life under the Taliban. In 2009, she began publically speaking out about girls' education in Pakistan--which marked her not only as a female activist, but as a target to religious extremists.

Malala was riding home with other schoolmates, on a bus, in the northern Swat Valley, when a gunman walked up to the vehicle and shot her in the head. (A second girl was also shot.) The Taliban quickly took credit for the attack--clearly stating it was an example to other females in the country.
Incensed, I wanted to write a full blog about the situation on Wednesday, when I read about it. However, at the time, Malala had been airlifted, by helicopter, to the frontier city of Peshawar. A military hospital had just taken her in...the story was still unfolding. I decided to wait. To pray. To see.

Yesterday, I was e-mailed a beautifully moving piece by my friend, the writer Malcolm Boyd. It is a "love letter to Malala". I want anyone who needs a complete perspective on the situation, (and the young woman), to track down this piece. After reading it, I realized, anything I could have said about her, and the situation, was better said by Malcolm. So, I will send out this notice and those of you interested in world activism, or heroism by even the youngest among us, will do your own research.
His perspective is far more eloquent than mine.

As I post blogs about everyday life in this part of the world, reflecting the changing anxieties, tragedies and triumphs of middle class America, I am reminded, constantly, in other places in the world, women are still property. Women are murdered for attempts at education, let alone attempts to gain the vote. Women are mutilated, raped, destroyed--not for who they are, as individuals, but as "lessons" for others--lessons in power, war and genocide. This is not "new". Unfortunately, in the West, it is seldom even "news".

As I check in on FaceBook and see the joy of friends celebrating milestones with their families; or the requests for prayers or advice ; or even recent triumphs of new undertakings--be they college graduations, new jobs, relocation successes or signing the papers for a house--I can't help but think of other places on the planet where social networking is a lifeline. Issues such as "will I make it home from school, today",  or "will my family still be alive when I get there", are the subjects of other Tweets, posts and blogs.

Somehow, this makes me a little sick, and decidedly sad.

I hope we can learn to extend our humanity, even as we stay in touch.
Like it or not, as Malala has proven, we are citizens of the world; what matters in Pakistan, should matter here.  

INTERNET DATING

Call me a Luddite, but it seems to be an oxymoron: Internet Dating.  I mean, isn't a date a social interaction, in the flesh, where you and someone physically go someplace and engage in an activity? If Internet connections count as a "date", then, every e-mail I send, or any type of game interface I do, would be a technical "date" in cyberspace, right? (Extending that thought, would animated characters I engage with, in a game, be considered "dates"--at least in digital worlds? (I won't even get into sexual politics...).

My friends, all well-meaning, (every time I've been single, or between relationships), suggest cyber hook-ups as a cure-all to the blues.

"Minns, if not just eye-candy, go for a service that matches you according to your interests and a psychological profile! There's six or seven billion people on the planet--there's got to be someone you are attracted to!"

How often have I had this argument tossed at me?  Okay,I will admit, I did fall into the trap, at least once (or twice...). Always, in the end, it seemed that I'd wake up one morning and feel sick to my stomach--without ever having been in the same room, at least the same physical room, as the person I was "dating". Too many unanswered questions would arise--was the person lying? That was always number one. (Is the photo really them? If it is, WHEN was it taken? What has transpired in their lives since that photo took place? WHO took the photo? Which one of the people in the group is really the person I'm communicating with?)

I mean, since Cyreno started writing letters for his friends, people have attempted to hoodwink others into falling for them. How many Shakespearean characters use this ruse? Even the Greeks are dishonest--whether it is the number of enemies vanquished, the number of slaves owned, the size of the palace (or anything esle, for that matter), the laurels accumulated--fibs are ways we manipulate each other. Cyber-connections are rife for that. (I'm not even talking about stalkers and pedophiles...)
Masking who we really are seems to be a historical keystone of the human race.

There is also Photo-shop, make-up, prosethetics, lighting and camera angles, etc. to consider. (I have a Californian friend who showed up for a date after corresponding with a guy for months, only to find a paraplegic in a wheel-chair, who needed a  nurse's aide for his oxygen, waiting for her on the edge of Santa Monica pier. Never once had he mentioned his physical challenges--or that they would always need a "chaperone" in attendance--or that he couldn't feed himself solid food. Would it have changed her response when he asked her out to the beach? Perhaps. The point is, however, that we deserve to make these dating choices for ourselves, based on reality. By manipulating reality, he took away her choice. (He also squashed his date: she saw him waiting for her, rose in his lap, nurse by his side, on the appointed hour, and she crossed the street, running...) Neither ever contacted the other, again.

Then, there is the endless parade of people who send in pet photos instead of head shots. What does that mean? "I am a dog."  (That's my first interpretation.) "I am looking for a person who resembles my dog." (That's my second choice.) "I can only relate to canines...if you are a cat lover, don't contact me." Or, how about the message that: "You will have to also date my dog."  "I am already in a relationship--with my dog--you will take second place, always." I could go on and on. What are folks thinking? (The same misunderstanding, on my part, is attached to head shots of horses, cats, motorcycles, cartoon characters and tattoos.) Body parts are also weird. (I don't date parts of human bodies...ever...)

When it comes to match sites that seek to pair you up according to your interests and values...how many Liberals are there in the world?  How many fans of "The Hunger"?  How many people pray?  Or kayak?  Or listen to "Annie Lennox"? These are hardly in-depth, profile points...(How many people stretch the truth on those questions, anyway? I mean, who is going to answer "yes" to a question that asks if you steal? Or hoard? Or lie?)

Of course, the biggest question in America is the question we all face as we log into a dating site, looking for "love": who is desperate enough to go on these sites? Why aren't they already in a real relationship? This is question we are asking ourselves, about ourselves, as we zoom through a thousand "profiles" with Annie Lennox blaring in the background...Who are WE? Why aren't WE paired up? (Who would ever choose Me??)

There are success stories. Or, sort- of- success stories. (Or, they started out successfully...) But, like fifty-one percent of all American marriages, most end up re-posting, down the line. When friends tell me they've found "The One", and then add the tag: "We met on-line", I can't help but freeze my best smile into place; reminding myself that I must not judge; I am working on becoming a non-judgmental human being; only God judges; "judge not lest you be judged"; etc. I take lots of tiny sips of whatever I'm drinking; or lots of tiny bites of whatever I'm munching. I chant in my head, and wish for the best, and send angels and elementals and Light to surround my friend. But, honestly, my heart sinks.

We are  human. We are flesh. It is written in almost every holy book: we aren't meant to be alone. I think that means we are meant to interact in physical reality. Perhaps we are really just energy and light. But, on this plane, in this dimension, that energy and light has taken a concrete form. However painful (at times) or complex and unknowable it is. We are. Cyberspace is another way to connect for a while; it can offer a path toward or a bridge to, but it isn't a real meeting for a fully realized human romance. Not really. For that, we need touch. Face to fleshly face. That's scary.

So, what's a body to do?

Keep the heart open wide. Be prepared to take a plunge, if the person enters one's real-life. Date in the third dimension; spend time in the same place; the same room. Share more than video-games and e-mail. Feed each other; take in each other's scents. Take a walk or a drive or a sail. Visit the woods or the beach or the mountains. (Stay out of the desert...) Sing to each other. Tell stories. Hold hands. Really kiss. Explore dislikes as well as likes. Be honest. Talk. Listen. Argue. Share. Be kind. Get to know the whole human before taking the long-term plunge.

Save Skype for when you are apart.

         

BLOGTOWN, U.S.A.

When I read the "New Yorker" or "Time" or "The Village Voice", there are certain sections that are like road maps for my mind. (I won't share which as I don't want to bias anyone...) I know, in choosing those publications, whether it be on-line or in my hands, I won't read the entire issue--however I WILL read my favorite bits. It is almost a religious vow. (At least, obsessive.) Always, it comes down to these details: information I must have for my life at this time; entertainment I must have for my life at this time; delicious stylings by the writer.

When I read "The New York Times" or "The Boston Globe" or "The Washington Post",  I seem to need to read everything--even the ads. (All the ads...) Sure, there are favorite columnists and sections in each where I know I'll glean more information that is useful than from others. But the total experience of reading the particular publication over-rides the bits and pieces therein. I have only a certain amount of allocated time to get through my reading, each day. I want to know where I will spend it. Upfront. This gives me more choice and a better quality of life.

 So too, would we benefit, if it were so in the Blogosphere.

Why people, who merely want to announce family events, choose to create what they label as "our blog", do so is a pet peeve of mine. FaceBook, MySpace , Twitter,and other social media outlets (including family websites) exist for this purpose. Anyone who knows your family, or has reason to become familiar with your family, will be able to  find the information, visuals, etc. on those sites. Those places were created for just this purpose: to keep people informed about the daily details of your whereabouts; the banal and dramatic moments of your blood kin and friends! But it doesn't mean those details are blogs!

I admit it: I'm a writer who follows the lives and work of others of my ilk. Given the fact that print media is still relegated to those "in the power spots", or those whose ideas reflect the tastes of the majority, it became exciting when blogs emerged. Suddenly, the voices of the voiceless would be given a platform--a platform easily accessed--and best, unedited by powerbrokers or mainstream interests. Blogs seemed to be the underground columns of the freepress that used to pepper city sidewalks in the sixties and seventies. Checking the numerous sites created (for free) that allowed excellent writing to emerge, my fanship grew. I could follow writers I didn't agree with, as well as writers whose styles illuminated my life. I could follow student writers, noting how they grew; using the growth as examples to my own students, in class. If a particular favorite blogger wrote something boring, I could go on to the next blogger, and find something much more interesting or enlightening, for that day. It was a readers' (and a writers') Paradise. (Well, almost.)

 The Blogosphere had been born, with a house promised for every  head.

Then, perhaps like any human endeavor, it became populated with those just out to sell something. Or to toot their own narrow horn. Or to get a few minutes of public notice. It began to resemble those holiday tomes. I wanted freedom of expression to reign, (I also needed some kind of index--where could I spend time away from the "family Circus notes" and get to writers who were practicing their crafts? To writers who showed style, content and concern with a wider world?) While I might adore little Tina's new kitten, I don't need a blog post about it--unless there is something deeper happening--a lesson or a theme or a product that revolutionizes the cat (or the kid)! A blog post should be a mini-drama in a few columns. It should contain something that jars us, or changes our thinking, or challenges a response.

This is MY post, and this is my thinking. It is what I'm trying to do here--and what I want to read from others. It is what I look forward to and spend my lifeforce on. Please help define the boundaries in Blogtown. Think before you create. Re-read before you publish. Save the "we did this on vacation" prose/information for the holiday cards. Or FaceBook. Or MySpace. Or Twitter--social media outlets that cry out for exactly those tidbits and visuals.

Let's create a BlogTown where there is real writing; abstract thinking; debate; style; exciting information; transformative culture and open ended questions.

(If you disagree, well, here's the great part: start your own blog!)   

OCTOBER RAIN

Where do the jays hide? The sparrows and robins and mourning doves? Do the wet leaves make cool blankets for the squirrels or merely plaster their furry hides against the backs of chimney posts and abandoned eaves? Does the chipmunk roll into a striped ball, napping...dreams of deep winter slumber around the edges of the dripping nest?

My kayak's orange hull peeks from under the blue cover, drinking in the only water it has encountered this fall. Around it, like flattened children, the orange leaves skim the ground, easily as slick. "Before November, Before November!" I send mindwaves to the dry-docked boat. I mean it. The lake has filled my consciousness each morning--only to be pushed away by cries of students or parents or the ping of rain.

Upstairs in the haunted attic recesses, the rain swells the wood another season. I know there are splintered holes that will need repair. But not before the passing of the parents. Not before my own decisions about New England promises and four seasoned future. A brown-tinted ripple the size of a penny has decorated the ceiling since I arrived. It doesn't grow, but is constant. A shadow of what is to come. A reminder of  pebbles carelessly flung into ponds, sending out secrets to the farthest shore.

Does my heart still hold any secrets?

The light splashes against the garage; the roof; the windows of my neighborhood. Clouds drop down upon our heads.(Blessings in a country of thirst, as we have become.) The summer's long past. Autumn rages, just outside. The back yard smells like New England cemeteries-- dank moisture rising from the lawn; the soil singing a final chorus, before the deafening frost.

This is what I remember. This is what I've come home to.

This is my inheritence and my legacy, so far from the Pacific shore.