tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-69197513265504855492024-03-12T22:06:53.084-05:00Musing MommyInteresting finds, thoughts, rants and ramblings of a mom who doesn't quite fit in anywhere except with their muse and their family.Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.comBlogger156125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-30120734962694429472021-10-28T02:01:00.001-05:002021-10-28T02:01:36.775-05:00Musing on Starset <p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> I haven't posted in here in forever. With my kids older, only one still calling me Mommy, writing SFF novels full time, and having transitioned to a nonbinary man... there just aren't as many parenting topics to hit, and well, I don't think anyone still reads here anyway, lol.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: x-large;">That doesn't mean I'm not still around, so why not share a band I love?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="387" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/jE4przMkUqo" width="467" youtube-src-id="jE4przMkUqo"></iframe></span></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br />All I can say about Transmissions is that it is the music I've been waiting for my whole life. Cinematic rock with a sci-fi theme that hits my synesthesia in all the best ways. AND I love the lyrics. It's perfect.<br /><br /><br /></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="375" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/XOxQaKAO6rU" width="450" youtube-src-id="XOxQaKAO6rU"></iframe></div><br /><br /><span style="background-color: white; color: #0f1111;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Vessels: Starset did it again. I can listen to this whole album from start to finish--and I do, regularly. Everglow took a long time to grow on me, landing as the weakest song at the end (mostly due to the intro), but I even love that now. I bought this right after it was released from the band's website, and I was in love with it the moment I started listening. My favorites are definitely Monster, Unbecoming, and Bringing it Down, but the focus on space travel in most of this album just speaks to me deeply. I love it. The sound paints pictures of galaxies being birthed and dying, of love and loss, of monsters inside and the sense of never giving up.<br /><br /><br /><br />Divisions: </span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="365" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/fUzUo8KcBA0" width="439" youtube-src-id="fUzUo8KcBA0"></iframe></div><br /></span><span style="color: #0f1111; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Bought it and promptly launched it in GrooVR. What was beautifully apropos for Vessels is disturbingly ironic for Divisions. An album about a society trapped in VR, played in VR. Experiencing some cognitive dissonance here.</span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0f1111; font-family: times; font-size: large;">That said, with the exception of just one song (Faultline is, hands down, the worst song lyrically and sound-wise, that they have produced--it sounds like it was written by an abuser gaslighting their victim), everything that wasn't working for me before with the album became wonderful when the album is played through beginning to end.</span></p><p><span style="color: #0f1111; font-family: times; font-size: large;">There were style choices that deviated from the core sound enough to not work for me (and even trigger my misophonia at first), and given their record, I expect they can do better dubstep (it was good, but it wasn't exceptional, which I think they're totally capable of--and dubstep is not a mistake in style choices for them or this album).</span></p><p><span style="color: #0f1111; font-family: times; font-size: large;">Definitely not my new fave, but still worth 5 stars because there are some amazing songs on this, and I still love it overall. </span><span style="color: #0f1111; font-family: times; font-size: x-large;">I updated to say that after time with this album, it has grown on me quite a bit. Echo is my favorite song, not only on the album, but of all songs I listen to right now.<br /><br /><br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="376" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/bBsjz2h0yKs" width="451" youtube-src-id="bBsjz2h0yKs"></iframe></span></div><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><span style="background-color: white; font-family: times;"><br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;">Horizons: </span><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="color: #030303; letter-spacing: 0.2px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Well, as usual, the music is phenomenal. I can turn on Transmissions and Vessels, just let them play, and float away. Divisions had one song I cut out. Out of three albums, ONE song. Starset is my favorite band. They still are, but the lyrics aren't here this time. I always loved the SFF story and the relatable side feels.</span><span style="color: #030303; letter-spacing: 0.2px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span><span style="color: #030303; letter-spacing: 0.2px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span><span style="color: #030303; letter-spacing: 0.2px; white-space: pre-wrap;">There are still some songs staying true to that mission: The Breach, Leaving this World Behind, Dreamcatcher, Infected. There were some that mostly made it: Otherworldly, Earthrise, This Endless Endeavor (still in competition for the best song on the album regardless--damn, it hits). But the middle of the album was a miss for me. Too... weak for the power of the music behind it. I like GOOD breakup songs. Starset has had some amazing ones that made me feel with them. Not these. (With one exception...)</span><span style="color: #030303; letter-spacing: 0.2px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span><span style="color: #030303; letter-spacing: 0.2px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span><span style="color: #030303; letter-spacing: 0.2px; white-space: pre-wrap;">But that ending. Something Wicked. I couldn't breathe. I'm not 100% with the lyrics, but I legit don't f**kin care. That song. That was what I wanted from this album. That feeling. So many Starset songs give it to me, and so few on this album, but that song just... Well.</span><span style="color: #030303; letter-spacing: 0.2px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span><span style="color: #030303; letter-spacing: 0.2px; white-space: pre-wrap;">
</span><span style="color: #030303; letter-spacing: 0.2px; white-space: pre-wrap;">So, musically, great album. Lyrically, the worst Starset has ever done (for me, anyway, I know it's probably perfect for plenty of people). But saying "the worst" a band like this has done isn't an insult. I won't be adding the full album to my Communications playlist, which is a disappointment, but the songs I do add (most, but the fewest of any prior album) are still wonderful.
</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #030303; letter-spacing: 0.2px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #030303; letter-spacing: 0.2px; white-space: pre-wrap;">There you have it. My full musings on my current favorite band.</span></span></span></p>Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-87468837860412551682020-02-20T12:42:00.000-06:002020-02-20T12:48:25.098-06:00Musing on Criminal Justice<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="419" src="https://images.freeimages.com/images/large-previews/960/prison-1311786.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Image by <a href="https://www.freeimages.com/photo/prison-1311786" target="_blank">Griszka Niewiadomski</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I finally went back to college in 2017. My husband got a job at a college, so I got an employee scholarship. Now, obviously, my major has always been planned to be psychology, but I could only take that as a minor at this college, so I majored in Criminal Justice (a full return to my original Forensics/Psychology double plan when I was 18, in a way, only from a different angle). I completed all of my CJ classes, and I only had 3 electives left (I was planning to take Ancient Egyptian Art and two more psych classes) to graduate when my husband changed jobs. We were going to pay for me to finish when we lost our home and it became impossible. So, I have all the pieces of a degree without the actual degree itself (which is depressing AF). I was set to graduate manga cum laude with a 4.0 and having made the Dean's List both years. I'm bitter, but I still have the education, and the reason I got it was to share it.<br />
<br />
I made a tweet thread that received a request to make it into an article because it explains in mostly accessible language a bit of the history of the U.S. criminal justice system and why it's not prisons, but our model, that is so toxic and why. This is a copy of that thread.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Original question: "I'm not against prison abolishment especially for non-violent crimes but my problem as a victim is that I have yet to hear workable solution for the more violent crimes. What is the alternative to prison for them? Because I have yet to have this answered."</span><br />
<br />
The following response has not been edited from the original reply beyond choosing line breaks and removing thread-continuing ellipses:<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Restorative and Reparative justice systems, which still incorporate jail and prisons, but not by the horrific retributive U.S. model. There is no reason not to make prisons communities that teach and rehabilitate, other than $$. It works in other countries. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">There ARE crimes that don't allow for rehabilitation, or criminals themselves that are too dangerous to help. It happens. But those models I spoke of address that as well.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It's not prisons, but the system which we use that's the problem.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I was a criminal justice major for this very thing. I'm a strong supporter of system reform. I wasn't actually expecting American classes to be a lot of help, but it turns out that we know all of this, and the people running the system don't care. What they care about is being re-elected. So, it kinda works like this:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">People hate crime, for obvious reasons. But people also seek out others to hate/look down on, very often to feel better about their own shortcomings. Criminals are cool to hate. After all, they've hurt people in a way that we've defined as deserving of punishment. Through most of history, this has been usually flogging, dismemberment, or death. Then we decided "hey, maybe that's too much. Maybe it's better to lock them up so they can reconsider their errors, at least for smaller stuff." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">This was really recent, like more recent than the U.S. itself. Just locking people up didn't do a lot, and flogging and death continued to be used more. Then the idea of work for rehabilitation came up. It was the "idle hands" thought, but also a belief that training for work after would help keep people out of crime and give them more work opportunities. Eventually, flogging was dismissed as cruel in the mid-20th century, and the 60s saw it abolished. The view shifted to a more sympathetic outlook for offenders, realizing that these are people who have made mistakes (at least the white ones). So, a push was made for rehabilitative justice. The thing is, we didn't really know what worked for that, and so, the crime rate didn't change.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Then more vice crimes started being added (will of the people), and the crime rate went up accordingly. People didn't see "we have more laws;" they saw "we have more crime." People got scared. They started demanding "something be done."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Eventually this led to the "tough on crime" rhetoric. This sounded good to the people with money, of course. They didn't see themselves as criminals, even as they committed the same vice crimes, theft, and traffic crimes that increasingly saw people getting locked up. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Thing is, what people always really agreed should be punished were the harmful crimes: burglary, rape, murder, etc., but there were all these theories about how they were tied to vice crimes, etc. So, this is how the average citizen started supporting the rich minority's control through laws that they had the most influence on. Because police funding is directly tied to monetary contributions, those who give the most get a free pass. Without their money, the police can't operate. So, the rich and the majority cultures control policing and law making. The same goes for prison policy. When the mob demands "something needs to be done," then policy makers do it. They find "acceptable targets" (ftr, these are taught by field training officers, not the policing institutions themselves--it's post-education police culture that leads to targeting of minorities, sex workers, etc.). The numbers in prison going up comforts the mob. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">By the 80s, people had forgotten that these prisoners were people, their neighbors and potential friends. They got mad about "three hots and a cot" and anything they saw as "underserved," ignoring/ignorant to the fact that these people were the subject of ongoing experimentation, often through torture, and slave labor. The average person didn't KNOW this. They bought a fantasy of clean living, libraries, lounging around watching tv, food security, access to things many poor don't have, and they demanded worse conditions. They also were ignorant to how many people in there never did anything more than they themselves have done. Or even less. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">So, the idea of switching to restorative justice, which allows lower punishment at the discretion of the victim, and prisons that mimic society so that when offenders return to the community, they are ADJUSTED to the community already rather than trapped in the prison culture nightmare that leads to recidivism (reoffending) and poor life quality? Americans get mad. They have been raised to believe in vengeance. That's what collectively has been associated with "justice." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Did you know the sex offender list is PROVEN to INCREASE sex crimes and prevent rehabilitation? Yet the same people who talk about CJ reform will talk about how mad they are when a rapist isn't put on the list. It makes them significantly more likely to rape again. The only sex crimes that are likely to be repeated are by pedophiles. That's the only group that doesn't respond at a high percentage to rehabilitative efforts (I don't have my papers/textbooks to pull the percentage, but recovery is low and requires voluntary submission to rehabilitation). Rape is a crime we want extinguished. So, people are unwilling to listen to data. Then we get to murder. Even murderers are rehabilitated successfully under restorative justice models that max out at 30 years. Again Americans want murderers to never see the light of day again. Thing is? Severe sentences like death and life imprisonment increase violent crime rates. This doesn't match the expectation, so you get backfire effect presenting the data.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It was really visible in the cops in my classes. They outright rejected all of this. They twisted things, using their bias and prejudice they brought to or acquired on the job. They sell that bias to the public. The public eats it up. People demand crime control (a failed model that we still practice) and policy makers deliver.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm sorry, that was a LOT of tweets to say public demand > policy NOT scientific data > policy. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I hope you wanted a whole ass condensed history of the system 😅 let me end with an article on better systems: <a href="https://businessinsider.com/why-norways-prison-system-is-so-successful-2014-12">https://businessinsider.com/why-norways-prison-system-is-so-successful-2014-12</a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">And one more thing: The two countries with the harshest crime control models are the U.S. and Australia. These are also the two countries with the highest incarceration and recidivism rates.</span><br />
<br />Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-80010840623832439752018-08-07T03:05:00.000-05:002018-08-07T03:05:19.760-05:00False Dichotomies and Binary Thinking<span style="font-size: large;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj9NuNX13W0ob5yvWiZD8Sginf_jxz2G1-OCjoEdvAhTefHfuqqreiWhNY10MbT7vGZMS1kamhQ4obcqvNzxEFgrT4RQBpHUMYHzpgwR_SpGMUG4YsRMMKkj2gzNQ3UNFj3ezXJzJgJr8/s1600/nobinary.jpeg"><img border="0" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhj9NuNX13W0ob5yvWiZD8Sginf_jxz2G1-OCjoEdvAhTefHfuqqreiWhNY10MbT7vGZMS1kamhQ4obcqvNzxEFgrT4RQBpHUMYHzpgwR_SpGMUG4YsRMMKkj2gzNQ3UNFj3ezXJzJgJr8/s640/nobinary.jpeg" width="640" /></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">(Originally published on LinkedIn)<br /><br />The
false dilemma is a logical fallacy that presents two options as the
only available choices in a matter when at least one other option
exists. When parents have toddlers, they're told to give them two
choices for simplicity, so that they feel they have some control over
their life, some power, but they aren't overwhelmed with options. <br /><br />This
is also how sex and gender are presented to us: you're either male or
you're female. For most people, that isn't a problem. They readily agree
with the sex they were assigned at birth, and they take pride in either
conforming or not conforming to their gender roles. Not conforming is
really only a pride point for those assigned female at birth because
aspiring to be male is socially acceptable, but the feminine is seen as
weak, "silly," and undesirable. Anything attached to the feminine is
immediately considered only for those with a vulva. When something is
attached to the masculine, it is considered a sign of strength and
power, and thus, all are invited to participate--most of the time.<br /><br />From
before birth, from the moment parents get a glimpse of their
offspring's genitals, they begin socializing them to either the feminine
or the masculine. Expectations are lain in the moment that genitals are
announced. "It's a girl!" is followed by per-condemnation of her sexual
agency, sympathy expressed to the father as though a girl is a
disappointment that can only bring stress. This is, of course, a
self-fulfilling prophesy if the parents so choose. "It's a boy!" is
followed by dinosaurs and sports and dreams that he'll be a doctor or
lawyer or something big and important.<br /><br />But there's a third
occurrence that brings silence. No joyful declaration of the genitals
unless the doctor has already decided how they are going to alter them
without consent. "Intersex." Neither male nor female. Perhaps more one
or the other. Many intersex individuals are missexed as male or female
because their external genitalia is all that is used to determine how
they will be socialized.<br /><br />A growing body of support for intersex
people condoning the non-consensual body modification is also attempting
to bring light to the existence of intersex people, often offensively
and inaccurately termed "hermaphrodite," as though they are an insect.
Few people would deny the legitimacy of red-haired individuals, but they
are only 2% of the population--the same percentage as intersex people.
But intersex people force a reminder on society that their aggressive
sexing and gendering of each other is often inaccurate. If not, then
there would be a name all people know for the third sex, and a third
gender, and the same joy (with maybe a little trepidation for possible
medical complications) would be present in the announcement, "It's an
[intersex baby]!"<br /><br />Still, some acknowledgement that intersex
people exist is present in the collective consciousness. But rather than
see them as valid and natural, they are treated as an aberration,
something to apologize for. A neutral pronoun identifier is rejected,
and they are expected to conform to whatever sex they were ultimately
assigned and blend in as one of the two dominant genders. Their own sex
may even be hidden from them deliberately by their parents or the doctor
that incorrectly sexed them at birth. They are an affront to the false
dichotomy of sex.<br /><br />Worse, there are those whose genital expression
and reproductive systems match a chromosomal pattern that has been
deemed male or female who know that they are not the gender they were
told to conform to. Transgender. <br /><br />There is an interesting story
out there of a little boy whose mother decided that she wanted a girl so
badly that she gave birth unassisted, assigned him female at birth,
dressed him in girl's clothing and told everyone he was a girl, sent him
to an all-girls' school, and he grew up believing that he was one. He
said the he thought that maybe his penis would fall off when he reached
puberty so that he would look like other girls. He socialized female.
But then one day, it was all blown open when a teacher removed his dress
to protect him from a hot liquid spill and saw that he was male.
Immediately, he was removed from his home, and everyone was in an
uproar, calling it abuse. What he called abuse was what followed: having
his hair cut against his will, being told to behave as a boy and
develop masculine interests that he simply did not have, until he was
finally placed with a family that allowed him to be himself. He
concluded that he was definitely male, but his interests were still
considered feminine--and he was still happy with himself. <br /><br />Transgender
children grow up in the same situation, only their genitals cannot
announce to someone that they are being forced into an unnatural
situation for themselves. Instead, a conspiracy forms around them to
ignore that they are being harmed even more than that little boy was
because no one will rescue them from the situation. In more and more
cases now, parents are realizing that their children's genital
configuration is not more important than their health and well-being.
Children whose expressed gender identity is honored grow up happier and
healthier, even if they end up being cisgender.<br /><br />However, this is
still primarily granted to female to male and male to female
individuals. Female to third gender and male to third gender children
are lost. They are given a false dilemma: are you male or are you
female? Neither is a valid answer that is not being acknowledged enough.
There are many nonbinary identities, from fluid (going from male to
female and back) to agender (lacking gender) to bigender (simultaneously
both), and more. Growing up, some of these children may present as
fully transgender, or they may present as gender nonconforming within
their assigned sex. "Tomboy" is a false identifier that some trans boys
and nonbinary individuals assigned female at birth (AFAB) can cling to
for a better way to tolerate or escape the pain and/or confusion of
being misgendered. <br /><br />Cisgender girls will use their own
identification as a tomboy to de-legitimize the experiences of trans
AFAB people, claiming that because their gender confusion vanished, it
must do the same for anyone else who experiences it. This is an
aggressive form of transphobia that is used to prevent medical care of
trans boys and nonbinary AFAB children rather than acknowledge that
there is no harm at all in giving children the safety and support to
explore their genders until they are able to give words to their own
identity. If a third gender were automatically acknowledged, yes, there
would be more third gender children because they already exist, and they
would then have the words to say so. Just as naming anything leads to
discovery of more of that thing.<br /><br />This isn't some new experiment,
either. Third genders have existed in many cultures throughout history
with no cultural pain. It is confusing why ours is so insistent on
denying something that has existed as long as humans have had a sense of
gender identity. The best explanation seems to be that dominant groups
simply will not tolerate outsiders. Once schema is formed, it wants to
be defended. The only cure for this is to establish societal change that
adds third gender into the schema children are programmed with, but it
is the adults that resist this, that reinforce the myth that there are
only two sexes, only two genders, and that there is no difference
between what is between one's legs and what is in one's heart and soul.<br /><br />Cisgender
people may be under the mistaken belief that transgender girls
(assigned male at birth--AMAB) exist because they are told that dolls
and dresses are for girls, and those "boys" are interested in such
things and therefore confused that they are girls. That simply isn't
true. Many boys, both cis boys and trans (AFAB) boys enjoy dolls and
dresses, but they avoid them in their attempt to conform to
stereotypical gender roles. Trans boys may be socialized female, but
many recognize that males are supposed to behave in a certain way, and
they internalize it. Trans (AMAB) girls do the same. They may show more
interest in feminine iconography--dolls, dresses, makeup--simply because
they want to be seen as what they are: girls. For quite some time, in
order to transition, one had to prove that they were female enough to be
acknowledged medically. Preferring pants and sports might get a sporty
trans girl denied legitimacy. The lack of connection with gendered
objects and clothes exists in trans people just as it exists in cis
people. Just as there are cis girls who love sports and wear "boyshort"
underwear and hate makeup and dresses, there are trans girls who feel
the same. That doesn't make either group male.<br /><br />But what about the
third gender? Why do they know that they are neither male nor female?
It is the same way that cisgender and binary transgender people know
that they are male or female. In the past, Western world third gender
people did what they could with what they had, just as all trans people
had to. It may have been easier to be "eccentric" post-Humanism, in the
Renaissance and beyond. For binary trans people, it was simpler to move
somewhere that no one knew them and assume their true gender while
hiding their assigned birth sex. Records of people who did this exist.
This is how the medical establishment insisted trans people transitioned
at one point, but that is no longer the case. With the growing body of
evidence that nonbinary people have been erased via language rather than
scarcity by establishing them into language, there is hope that in the
future, this is a false dichotomy that will eventually be abandoned as
unscientific, inaccurate, and antiquated, just as many sexist notions
throughout history have been left behind.</span>Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-16291860568132752932017-07-21T00:00:00.000-05:002017-08-14T01:23:11.242-05:00Castles<span style="font-size: medium;"></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsIUBkS3FhBe-g79b2x2TwA6fAQIi72OVUngLZ_ogvZ0F_c7xKjEmwjiJkiGC2R8XAis7cSeytAewFUqZDPXb6bxCT9kcczecQj4ITKUKfkqE850CDIOlvqavVFv4CTFdWi7leKPdQyqJU/s1600/Castles3c_Ebook.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1119" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsIUBkS3FhBe-g79b2x2TwA6fAQIi72OVUngLZ_ogvZ0F_c7xKjEmwjiJkiGC2R8XAis7cSeytAewFUqZDPXb6bxCT9kcczecQj4ITKUKfkqE850CDIOlvqavVFv4CTFdWi7leKPdQyqJU/s400/Castles3c_Ebook.jpg" width="278" /> </a></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">In July of 2012, I had the pleasure of announcing that I had become a published author, with <a href="http://musing-mommy.blogspot.com/2012/07/hotel-of-lost-souls.html" target="_blank">my first book</a>, <i>Hotel of Lost Souls</i>. Last February, I had the joy of announcing the sequel, <a href="http://musing-mommy.blogspot.com/2013/04/pet.html" target="_blank"><i>Pet</i></a>, and then in December, their sequel, <a href="http://musing-mommy.blogspot.com/2013/12/bridges_22.html" target="_blank">Bridges!</a></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">Then, November of 2014, I released <a href="http://musing-mommy.blogspot.com/2014/11/predators.html" target="_blank">Predators</a>. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">If you like vampires and Urban Fantasy (especially Anita Blake or Sookie Stackhouse), then you should like my books! <i>Hotel </i>and <i>Pet </i>were a blend of Urban Fantasy and Psychological Horror. <i>Bridges</i> and <i>Predators</i> are much more Urban Fantasy/Dark Fantasy. They explore the relationships
between the characters and Zack finding his place in his world. It's
about life and death and life after death. </span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: medium;">From the back cover:
</span>
<span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>If someone ever tells you that being a newly changed vampire is easy, they're either gifted, lying, or they're not going to live very long. You can be pretty sure that they don't have a family to balance.<br /><br />Zack Henderson has learned the hard way just how right his sire was when he warned him that there would be unexpected, harder challenges brought on by his new nature.<br /><br />Now he and Sarah are back home and finding their places in this new world into which they've been reborn. But has too much changed, and can they keep their family together in the face of events beyond their control?</i></span></blockquote>
<i> </i><span style="font-size: medium;"></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />
You can read a <a href="http://hskallinger.blogspot.com/2016/12/castles-chapter-one.html" target="_blank">sample chapter</a> on my writer's blog or on Amazon or Lulu, and if you like it, you can purchase it from <a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/castles-hs-kallinger/1126682681?ean=2940154438237" target="_blank">Barnes and Noble</a>, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B073VC1ZMR?ref_=pe_2427780_160035660" target="_blank">Amazon</a>, <a href="https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/castles-17" target="_blank">Kobo</a> or <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/733331" target="_blank">Smashwords</a>. All the links for purchase are available at <a href="http://xakana.wixsite.com/hs-kallinger" target="_blank">my website</a>.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">You don't need an eReader to read my eBook, either! You can read the book now on your phone, tablet, iPad or computer using the <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/u/free-nook-apps/379003593/">Nook App</a> or the Amazon <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html?ie=UTF8&docId=1000493771">Kindle App</a> (both of which are free!). If you're using an iPad or iPod, you can get <a href="http://itunes.apple.com/us/app/stanza/id284956128?mt=8">Stanza</a>, a free eReading app and read any format that you like! Several other apps are available, too.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: medium;">If nothing can replace the feel and smell of a real book for you, head on over to Lulu and pick up a<a href="http://www.lulu.com/shop/hs-kallinger/predators/paperback/product-21913205.html" target="_blank"> </a><a href="http://www.lulu.com/shop/http://www.lulu.com/shop/hs-kallinger/castles/paperback/product-23290701.html" target="_blank">slightly-larger-than-average paperback</a>!
You'll get to experience it the way it was meant to be read! eBooks
can't display the little artsy touches at the beginning of each chapter
or the fonts that the handwritten notes in the story use. With a physical book, you get back cover art, too! </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span>Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-76767809721567750692017-06-22T16:57:00.000-05:002017-06-22T16:57:31.790-05:00Musing on "Colorblind"<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.freeimages.com/photo/boogie-diddle-s-world-1251347" target="_blank"><img alt="Original Image" class="img-fluid" src="https://images.freeimages.com/images/previews/4e4/boogie-diddle-s-world-1251347.jpg" style="width: 100%;" /></a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">No, I don't mean the ocular condition. I'm talking about the refusal to acknowledge that race exists and acting like that's a good thing. Saying, "I don't see color."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It's racist.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Ouch, right? You're not a bad person, so you can't be racist, right? Uh, sorry, no. You can totally do amazing things that make everyone think you're above reproach and believe in your heart that you would never do anything racist and still do racist shit. And if you teach your kids to be "colorblind," well, then, you're teaching them to be racist.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Why? Well, because you're saying that you have to ignore someone's skin color to see them as a good person. Oh yes, you are. Hey, I remember reacting to being told this wish shock and denial. That's okay. <a href="http://theoatmeal.com/comics/believe" target="_blank">It's probably new information, and that registers as 'wrong' in our brains.</a> Our generation was raised being told that we shouldn't judge people by the color of our skin, and we internalized that to mean that we <i>shouldn't see the color of their skin</i>.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">But that's wrong. There is nothing wrong with their skin, but it means that they have lived a very different life, had a different experience from you, and <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lauren-casper/my-children-arent-colorblind-and-neither-are-yours_b_7637052.html" target="_blank">they don't get to pretend that racism is a thing of the past or something that happens far away. </a>Saying you don't see color is privilege. <a href="https://www.facebook.com/drew.brathwaite/posts/10155660887564057" target="_blank">POC don't get to do that. Only white people get to do that.</a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"I don't see color."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">That's a lie. A comforting lie we tell ourselves to excuse reactions we don't understand why we have because we don't want to be racist. Because we want to believe that all that shit sorted itself out already, and there's nothing but isolated incidences of racism by some far off boogeymen who don white sheets or swastika tattoos. Because we don't see that it's happening all around us... until we do. And then it's like waking up in someone else's nightmare and realizing that you were a part of it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://www.romper.com/p/honestly-sometimes-im-uncomfortable-with-my-children-making-white-friends-59619?utm_term=share" target="_blank">"I don't see color."</a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: large;"> '...one day at my son Beck's preschool, I was talking to another mother about being black and raising a mixed son. She turned to me and said, "We don't even see Beck's color! He's just Chance's friend!" </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: large;">It felt like someone had kicked me in my stomach. When someone says they don't see color, they're simply stating that they refuse to acknowledge someone else's ethnicity, thus erasing their background and culture. I couldn't respond to what she said. She stood there smiling at me, as if I should be thanking her for saying that, when all I wanted to do was shake her and say, "How do you not see that he's black? It's OK to see that!"'</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-size: large;">That's what comes from you pretending you don't see color. You see it. You're refusing to acknowledge that it means anything. It does. If I was to call you a racist, how fast would you hide behind the color of your friend's skin? Boom. You see it. Your kids see it. What they don't see is anyone talking about it, and what topics don't we talk about? Bad ones. So they aren't seeing 'dividing people by race is bad.' They are seeing, 'acknowledging that racial disparity exists is bad.' Just like you are proclaiming when you claim not to see color.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://www.freeimages.com/photo/preschool-girls-outside-60-1438674" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img alt="Original Image" class="img-fluid" src="https://images.freeimages.com/images/previews/2d5/preschool-girls-outside-60-1438674.jpg" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"I can't talk to my kids about that! They're too young/aren't ready!"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Black kids don't get sheltered from talking about race. Why should our children be? You know what that raises? Racists. Maybe social racists, but if you say that you don't see color, that IS racism. Don't like that? Too bad. I've been guilty of that, too, and I'm not going to do it any more. I certainly don't teach that crap to my kids. We've discussed color and race and slavery and discrimination and racism.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It didn't traumatize them. They listened. They didn't argue, even though they've never seen it in person. They listened. They <b>didn't</b> say they hadn't done it, so they were okay. They said it was never okay, and that we shouldn't let people do that.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">And we <i>keep</i> talking about race. <a href="http://www.slate.com/articles/double_x/the_kids/2014/03/teaching_tolerance_how_white_parents_should_talk_to_their_kids_about_race.html" target="_blank">It's not a one and done conversation.</a></span> <br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">If we really want to end hate and bigotry, we have to disabuse ourselves of this idea that equality means sameness. Parents of white children, do not teach your kids to "not see color/race." Do not teach them that we're only equal if we're the same. It's a lie.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">We need to teach our children to see. To see each other. To see ourselves. To see privilege. To see injustice... and fight to end it, even when it's uncomfortable, even when it's hard. Even when it comes from ourselves.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-49643138933126921022016-11-09T22:50:00.001-06:002016-11-09T22:50:59.645-06:00Musing on November 9, 2016<span style="font-size: x-small;">Have you ever been terrified, angry, helpless, sick -- and competely numb? </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Because I am</span>.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Dear affected friends:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">You don't have to be okay. You don't have to be respectful. You get to mourn. You get to hurt, and fuck every single person out there shaming you. Fuck everyone saying you have to fight to make things better. I know you already do. I know that your pain and fear isn't going to stop that fight. I acknowledge that pain. I acknowledge that your fear is valid. I love you. Mourn. Let it happen. We're still fighting. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">If you're in a place right now where the fact that you're breathing means that you're fighting, I love you.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"> If you know that your privilege will protect you from this, but you are still holding your hand out to those you know will suffer, I love you.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Until you live in the shoes of a homosexual, a minority, as a non-Christian, as a rape victim, as a woman who has needed an abortion, who has a disability, who is scared that a man who mocks these people and who certainly doesn't stand for basic civil rights, don't. Just don't."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">White, middle class people trying to spread "hope" -- please stop. Just stop. The KKK is celebrating. Medical companies are already preparing to shut down. Children are asking their parents if they're going to be kicked out of the country they were born in. Minority colleges are on lockdown for safety. Acts of violence have already started.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">You enjoy your false hope. The rest who have been paying attention have to face reality, and that means that people, innocent people, are going to die. Your hope is a lie, and the rest of us are choking on it.</span>Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-49340096545898326952016-07-05T14:54:00.000-05:002016-07-05T14:54:35.251-05:00Musing on The Pledge of Alliegance<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE9pkL47TUg-UXqkbGxKKJvtQxVSsH5xDpUSH_h2GkODruGhd-g5Gd92559_KbRudTLOPmJneuPfM2uSsyiAdWSiACsq1RRSlBitpqXP4G-M5QkV74TFY_EH-Arn6FXrrOvsq57nLPqM4h/s1600/pexels-photo-41056.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE9pkL47TUg-UXqkbGxKKJvtQxVSsH5xDpUSH_h2GkODruGhd-g5Gd92559_KbRudTLOPmJneuPfM2uSsyiAdWSiACsq1RRSlBitpqXP4G-M5QkV74TFY_EH-Arn6FXrrOvsq57nLPqM4h/s640/pexels-photo-41056.jpeg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">Inspired by this (incorrect, but close) meme and the time of the year:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqVdaF-qCPrAjEfkOLTzAEDzVaNBCAzPFB1hBlC2gIq6lYrdKMNnbCEFcmgwFerUMK2avAIfVA0Z1XNwDQRuXSNoCdern3JGM1vQ8oPBmH4K2cEz_bngie6Jmkw2Bap9hu6DwXVAfu33QP/s1600/flag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqVdaF-qCPrAjEfkOLTzAEDzVaNBCAzPFB1hBlC2gIq6lYrdKMNnbCEFcmgwFerUMK2avAIfVA0Z1XNwDQRuXSNoCdern3JGM1vQ8oPBmH4K2cEz_bngie6Jmkw2Bap9hu6DwXVAfu33QP/s320/flag.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: small;">I went looking for the history of Francis Bellamy to share. My favorite site lost its domain, so I'm going to save a cached version here along with some other interesting information found elsewhere. I am not the original author of the majority of the information here. I have included my notes from other sources interspersed through the text and highlighted some text of particular interest.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: large;">Francis Bellamy (1855 – 1931), a Baptist minister, wrote the original Pledge in August 1892. He was a Christian Socialist. In his Pledge, he is expressing the ideas of his first cousin, Edward Bellamy, author of the American socialist utopian novels, Looking Backward (1888) and Equality (1897).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Francis Bellamy in his sermons and lectures, and Edward Bellamy in his novels and articles, described in detail how the middle class could create a planned economy with political, social and economic equality for all. The government would run a peace time economy similar to our present military industrial complex.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The Pledge was published in the September 8th issue of The Youth’s Companion, the leading family magazine and the Reader’s Digest of its day. Its owner and editor, Daniel Ford, had hired Francis in 1891 as his assistant when Francis was pressured into leaving his baptist church in Boston because of his socialist sermons. As a member of his congregation, Ford had enjoyed Francis’s sermons. Ford later founded the liberal and often controversial Ford Hall Forum, located in downtown Boston.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">In 1892 Francis Bellamy was also a chairman of a committee of state superintendents of education in the National Education Association. As its chairman, he prepared the program for the public schools’ quadricentennial celebration for Columbus Day in 1892. He structured this public school program around a flag raising ceremony and a flag salute – his ‘Pledge of Allegiance.’</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">His original Pledge read as follows: <b>‘I pledge allegiance to my Flag and (to*) the Republic for which it stands, one nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.’</b><span style="color: #660000;"> <span style="background-color: #fff2cc;"><span style="color: black;">He considered placing the word, ‘equality,’ in his Pledge, but knew that the state superintendents of education on his committee were against equality for women and African Americans.</span></span></span> [ * ‘to’ added in October, 1892. ]</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Dr. Mortimer Adler, American philosopher and last living founder of the Great Books program at Saint John’s College, has analyzed these ideas in his book, The Six Great Ideas. He argues that the three great ideas of the American political tradition are ‘equality, liberty and justice for all.’ ‘Justice’ mediates between the often conflicting goals of ‘liberty’ and ‘equality.’</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">In 1923 and 1924 the National Flag Conference, under the ‘leadership of the American Legion and the Daughters of the American Revolution, changed the Pledge’s words, ‘my Flag,’ to ‘the Flag of the United States of America.’ Bellamy disliked this change, but his protest was ignored. <span style="font-size: small;">(<span style="color: #20124d;">my note: this was apparently to further integrate immigrant children so they wouldn't be confused as to where their loyalties lie</span>)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">In 1954, Congress after a campaign by the Knights of Columbus <span style="font-size: small;">(<span style="color: #20124d;">*<i>in response to the Communist threat of the times, President Eisenhower encouraged Congress to</i></span>)</span>, added the words, ‘under God,’ to the Pledge. The Pledge was now both a patriotic oath and a public prayer. <span style="font-size: small;">(<span style="color: #20124d;"><i>note: </i></span><span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-align: left; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><span style="color: #20124d;"><i>President Eisenhower said, "In this way we are reaffirming the transcendence of religious faith in America's heritage and future; in this way we shall constantly strengthen those spiritual weapons which forever will be our country's most powerful resource in peace and war."</i></span>)</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Bellamy’s (<span style="color: #20124d;"><i>daughter objected to this alteration</i></span>) granddaughter said he also would have resented this second change. He had been pressured into leaving his church in 1891 because of his socialist sermons. In his retirement in Florida, he stopped attending church because he disliked the racial bigotry he found there.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">What follows is Bellamy’s own account of some of the thoughts that went through his mind in August, 1892, as he picked the words of his Pledge:</span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: large;">It began as an intensive communing with salient points of our national history, from the Declaration of Independence onwards; with the makings of the Constitution…with the meaning of the Civil War; with the aspiration of the people…The true reason for allegiance to the Flag is the ‘republic for which it stands.’ …And what does that vast thing, the Republic mean? It is the concise political word for the Nation – the One Nation which the Civil War was fought to prove. To make that One Nation idea clear, we must specify that it is indivisible, as Webster and Lincoln used to repeat in their great speeches. And its future? Just here arose the temptation of the historic slogan of the French Revolution which meant so much to Jefferson and his friends, ‘Liberty, equality, fraternity.’ No, that would be too fanciful, too many thousands of years off in realization. But we as a nation do stand square on the doctrine of liberty and justice for all…</span></blockquote>
</blockquote>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: monospace; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Bibliography:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br style="background-color: white; color: black; font-family: monospace; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;" /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: monospace; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Baer, John. The Pledge of Allegiance, A Centennial History, 1892 - 1992,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: monospace; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Annapolis, Md. Free State Press, Inc., 1992.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: monospace; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">Miller, Margarette S. Twenty-Three Words, Portsmouth, Va. Printcraft Press,</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: monospace; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">1976.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: monospace; font-size: small; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; letter-spacing: normal; line-height: normal; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">UShistory.org</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmR6Or1sUDMOIqcgi6iQKSbkH5uec8K08zBqsIt__hJXeEX5J6wLMRYlOIAzwDJIVe7AY1jbkkm0aZmQwWTrTXtVawnmaiTg5BVFdwB7U4aTdyzwRjD6Rgbs_tLCsYSZxhbaClDxYkDpj5/s1600/pledge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmR6Or1sUDMOIqcgi6iQKSbkH5uec8K08zBqsIt__hJXeEX5J6wLMRYlOIAzwDJIVe7AY1jbkkm0aZmQwWTrTXtVawnmaiTg5BVFdwB7U4aTdyzwRjD6Rgbs_tLCsYSZxhbaClDxYkDpj5/s640/pledge.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><pre class="snippet"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #999999;"><i><code>Photo credit: <a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/usdagov/5189870816/">USDAgov</a> via <a href="https://visualhunt.com/">Visual Hunt</a></code></i></span></span></pre>
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<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: small;">From different sources: </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: large;">The original Bellamy salute, first described in 1892 by Francis Bellamy, who authored the original Pledge, began with a military salute, and after reciting the words "to the flag," the arm was extended toward the flag.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: large;">At a signal from the Principal the pupils, in ordered ranks, hands to the side, face the Flag. Another signal is given; every pupil gives the flag the military salute — right hand lifted, palm downward, to a line with the forehead and close to it. Standing thus, all repeat together, slowly, "I pledge allegiance to my Flag and the Republic for which it stands; one Nation indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all." At the words, "to my Flag," the right hand is extended gracefully, palm upward, toward the Flag, and remains in this gesture till the end of the affirmation; whereupon all hands immediately drop to the side.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The Youth's Companion, 1892</span></blockquote>
</blockquote>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">Obviously, this salute was dropped during WWII in response to the similarity to the Nazi solute. Many places started fashioning their own version, and a school decided that the hand would just remain over the heart, which was what was eventually adopted.</span><br />
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #20124d; font-size: small;">While I'll teach my children the pledge (in all forms, including the history of), I will never force them to recite it by rote for the primary reason that something recited blindly becomes meaningless. I didn't even really think of the words (except to mumble when the objectionable "under God" came up) as a child. I just parroted the sounds, not even really recognizing them as words with meaning. Most people I know who look at it objectively agree that they did the same. Further, a pledge without meaning or intent is null and void.</span><br />
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<b><span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">Further reading:</span></b><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="http://www.ushistory.org/documents/pledge.htm"><span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">http://www.ushistory.org/documents/pledge.htm</span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.usflag.org/history/pledgeofallegiance.html"><span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">http://www.usflag.org/history/pledgeofallegiance.html</span></a><br />
<a href="http://www.cnn.com/2013/12/22/opinion/greene-pledge-of-allegiance-salute/"><span style="color: #20124d; font-size: large;">http://www.cnn.com/2013/12/22/opinion/greene-pledge-of-allegiance-salute/</span></a></blockquote>
Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-82675296586692211192016-02-03T17:06:00.002-06:002016-02-03T22:37:00.246-06:00Annika's Birth Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNKdip0wIF4MHI6mJMSTitTpH6n8JMqmk-zJl9PkGhlYsApYVGuA6A6DKoVR83oluSDaNpJQ40j5Lbd1cVSOqynZLspS4nirs6HbGP_Vq-fTVzf9X0FkLh8MQRGwIiEZhiryyFinzdK-ba/s1600/2016-01-21+19.10.29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNKdip0wIF4MHI6mJMSTitTpH6n8JMqmk-zJl9PkGhlYsApYVGuA6A6DKoVR83oluSDaNpJQ40j5Lbd1cVSOqynZLspS4nirs6HbGP_Vq-fTVzf9X0FkLh8MQRGwIiEZhiryyFinzdK-ba/s640/2016-01-21+19.10.29.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #999999;">(warning, this is a graphic, uncensored natural birth story)</span></span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">To start Annika's story is to begin with a surprise. We had always planned to have four children. But after Kat, it never seemed like the right time to plan our last baby, and I was getting older, already having fertility issues and coming from a family with a history of early menopause. We couldn't really plan to have one, but every month, I mourned when my period came. I knew I wasn't done having children.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Finally, on Beltane (May Day) of 2015, after a couple years of not bothering with protection because it seemed obvious we didn't need it, I teased my husband, "It's Beltane, and I'm ovulating. You <i>know</i> that we're asking for it."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">He replied with, "I'm not worried."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">As the time for my period approached and I started getting crampy and PMS-y, I messaged one of my best mom-friends and cried that I didn't want to get my period. She consoled me, understanding that I meant that I wanted to be pregnant, but I thought my husband wasn't on board with that, and I had been spending months mourning the loss of the dream of four. To make matters worse, my mom-sister, the mom of Kat's twin, had discovered she was expecting.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I took a pregnancy test just to get the idea of the baby out of my head. It was negative. But I felt off, no longer like my period was coming, having clear pregnancy symptoms (that I blamed on my mom-sister as sympathy symptoms) and I dug it out of the trash (knowing that anything I saw was totally invalid)... to find a <i>pink</i> line. I started obsessing over the color. Evaporation lines don't have the dye color in them.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">My period still didn't come, and I took another test. Brandon came to say good-bye on his way to work while I still had a minute left on the test. I tried to stall him without telling him what I was doing. Finally, my 3 minutes was up, and I looked down at the two pink lines.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiikCOO3FgSSr_2cGCJnr9CmempX1AovkbbEdauZLl-o7K9ejfcX_WiZIhyJMSaMUoiYAlHwdhPJ7pSDRu783Ppfh6-Hgpa6g8NtrBuPu7JITi6HUyki3GfBiKTda2KeDYDbkANJ6O2Ys_7/s1600/2015-05-16+12.08.58.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiikCOO3FgSSr_2cGCJnr9CmempX1AovkbbEdauZLl-o7K9ejfcX_WiZIhyJMSaMUoiYAlHwdhPJ7pSDRu783Ppfh6-Hgpa6g8NtrBuPu7JITi6HUyki3GfBiKTda2KeDYDbkANJ6O2Ys_7/s320/2015-05-16+12.08.58.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I spent the next week freaking out because I didn't know how he felt about it, and I wanted the baby <i>so</i> badly. I finally brought it up and found out he was happy, too, just trying to figure out the logistics of how we'd manage everything.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">One thing I knew: as tight as money was, I wanted my midwife from Kat's birth again. I wanted my doula, too, but both were semi-retired. Nevertheless, I messaged both. My doula didn't catch on that I was asking because <i>I</i> was pregnant right away, and immediately offered when she found out I was. My midwife was available for late January/early February. The cost was... daunting, but I knew it needed to be her. I know other perfectly good midwives, but I needed Rachel.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyNKhbsLCHUsoIANXyuooFSf2x9eYU-K89QVebSgk_lNUoCPnI3F9ufvx5J5iUCieaI5C5METq3ynARjsAOrQ77_dr7dktcL40T-GSjqAJHjHm-MglVbvmFkmp9hLJg1Ka_3TPG9cUPhc7/s1600/2016-01-04+18.28.25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyNKhbsLCHUsoIANXyuooFSf2x9eYU-K89QVebSgk_lNUoCPnI3F9ufvx5J5iUCieaI5C5METq3ynARjsAOrQ77_dr7dktcL40T-GSjqAJHjHm-MglVbvmFkmp9hLJg1Ka_3TPG9cUPhc7/s320/2016-01-04+18.28.25.jpg" width="240" /></a>Fast forward through a horrible first trimester that I thought was going to kill me -- not hyperbole, but I was worried that my heart was going to give out under the stress, and I was too weak to walk further than the bathroom and back, prepare food to feed myself, etc. Past the second trimester where things got better, but were still difficult. Through the easy, comfortable third trimester, where I had adapted to the SPD and barely felt pregnant. I was still quite comfortably pregnant, happy to be pregnant when everything started.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Normally, I have a lot of prodromal labor, but I really only had two or three sets of a little over 2 hour sessions of it. I was still having painless Braxton-Hicks-feeling contractions right up through labor. I had a feeling through quite a bit of my pregnancy that she might come early, and this strange idea that it would start with my water breaking -- something that hasn't happened to me before. I also figured she would either be my smallest or my biggest ever baby. I was, however, 'realistically' expecting her at the beginning of February, hoping Naomi wouldn't have to share her birth month.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj374G31CnWbFcAjIg-zj_-t3yTd1gstMvEgkTlWKWIjdOAzCXT6PlwFGJ-z_PusuF9Gc9gfzGIzjvfhf0csrh4TaYvbl8W6wd2H3NMOM57uWIQlZLOWb1bocIdTvn1lQOY5WcwK-suf0hI/s1600/2016-01-11+20.20.17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj374G31CnWbFcAjIg-zj_-t3yTd1gstMvEgkTlWKWIjdOAzCXT6PlwFGJ-z_PusuF9Gc9gfzGIzjvfhf0csrh4TaYvbl8W6wd2H3NMOM57uWIQlZLOWb1bocIdTvn1lQOY5WcwK-suf0hI/s320/2016-01-11+20.20.17.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><span style="color: #666666;">Prodromal labor sucks</span></i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Annika had other plans.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I woke up on January 20th at 1:20 am, thinking that I was peeing. I quickly got out of bed and hurried to the bathroom, discarding my soaked pantiliner and underwear on the floor. I noted that there was no smell or color of urine and wondered if it was my water leaking. It was a tiny amount, though. I decided that leaving it would let it sit out to smell later to see if I was imagining things. I went back to bed and apologized to my husband that I'd peed in bed, but I hadn't gotten any in the bed at least.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">At 2:40-something, I woke up again, and felt a rush of liquid. Thinking that I was peeing myself again, I hurried back to the bathroom. I felt a pop as I crossed onto the linoleum, and I soaked through the Always Infinity pad I was wearing as well as my underwear. The fluid was clear and smelled sweet. I stared at it as I sat on the toilet and waited to see if more came, starting to worry. Where were my contractions?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I decided to call my midwife, feeling awful about it being the middle of the night. I told Brandon that the baby was coming, that my water had broken, as I collected my phone and returned to the toilet to pass more water and call my midwife. It turned out Rachel was in Jefferson City for a conference, which was 150 miles away. In a winter storm of snow and ice.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We talked, and she asked me to check baby's position (as she had spent most of her time transverse up under my ribs, although she always moved down for midwife appointments). I told her I'd check her heart rate with my Doppler, too, to make sure everything seemed okay in there, which made her happy as she'd forgotten I had one. She told me to call her back as soon as I felt the need to call my doula.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Instead, I texted her that Annika was "high transverse" because I felt her just under my ribs, and found her heart high on my fundus, on the right side. She loved being ROT/right oblique, which drove me a little nuts because she used it to sneak back up to transverse over and over, despite me trying inversions, etc. to get her in launch position. I also put on gloves and tried to feel for the baby. In retrospect, I believe I felt her head, although I didn't know that was what I was feeling at the time.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">This scared my midwife, who'd just listened to a case about a compromised cord in a transverse baby, and with my meager, painless contractions, she was worried that the baby might have her cord either wrapped around her body (as she was a very active little starfish in there and kept bouncing back up like she was tethered) or about to prolapse. So she sent me to the hospital for a position check and monitoring.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">She asked if I wanted her to send her assistant to meet me there, and I did. Once I was done with that, I sat on the floor and cried my eyes out. I didn't want another cesarean. The idea of facing my bedroom stairs, or even trying to get in my house, while recovering from major abdominal surgery, sounded impossible. All my work for an HBAC appeared to be going out the window, and I had to process and deal with all the feelings that invoked. Brandon held me while I worked through it.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"They're going to take my baby and wash off all her vernix and bathe her and do everything without me and not let me see her or hold her," I sobbed in between other fears. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Once I was in control enough to speak sensibly again, I called my doula and told her what was going on and she planned to meet me at the hospital, too. I repacked the emergency bag after removing all my cloth diapers that I knew wouldn't fit a 39-weeker. We got the kids ready and left, exhausted and worried.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">On the way there, I berated Annika for her positioning and pleaded with her to move down. With my water broken, there was no way to move her externally. I told her that we would be seeing Rachel soon, so shouldn't she get ready for an appointment? I felt her move down to oblique while we stopped for gas to make it to the hospital. I still wasn't having pain or any intensity with my contractions.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzGj3lNLuDWG_9728jwjmJGnq2O11AEI9dP_oGMeu8_wlwnvZx5GvKn7tPThC9-ogOLduX6ApsmEkLURRxFbYfvTaeG7FHEaSpLpCxO-vi_UbSQnDyV7UJW0nrIJY220ywqvraiUThOz7o/s1600/2016-01-20+06.08.11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzGj3lNLuDWG_9728jwjmJGnq2O11AEI9dP_oGMeu8_wlwnvZx5GvKn7tPThC9-ogOLduX6ApsmEkLURRxFbYfvTaeG7FHEaSpLpCxO-vi_UbSQnDyV7UJW0nrIJY220ywqvraiUThOz7o/s400/2016-01-20+06.08.11.jpg" width="225" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I kept prodding her and pleading as we went in, so not wanting to have her still be transverse when I got checked. I was also scared of how they were going to react to me leaving if she wasn't. I decided to tell them my water had only broken at 4am (it was 5am by the time we got there) so they wouldn't worry too much and harass me. After all, if she was still in that position, it didn't matter. Babies can't come out if they're lying sideways across the exit.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">After trying to give a urine sample and only producing a trickle, I was put on monitors, although they messed up the contraction monitor and put it on my flab instead of my fundus. I had my husband, doula and Lexi, the midwife's assistant, there to help me through the most emotionally difficult part of my labor. Brandon waited with the girls while I was checked because the room was very small (they only wanted one person to go in with me, but the look on my face when they said that got me my whole party until it was time to actually do stuff).</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQPNCnR5VAdv77FQKNwWiE2lsk1etzenueqeGRQO1h-w1WPGIBdnYj0g3VQ5mQYzq6Qh1A2SUDHC29RzaKwoiyFfcDWGNbJCMcF_qrs0USx32cKGZOBC-5a4AXXRrTGiIx7RfEzAA-k5Wr/s1600/2016-01-20+06.07.51.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQPNCnR5VAdv77FQKNwWiE2lsk1etzenueqeGRQO1h-w1WPGIBdnYj0g3VQ5mQYzq6Qh1A2SUDHC29RzaKwoiyFfcDWGNbJCMcF_qrs0USx32cKGZOBC-5a4AXXRrTGiIx7RfEzAA-k5Wr/s320/2016-01-20+06.07.51.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was at a 2, 50% effaced, and her head was down (+2 if I remember correctly). The resident also insisted on testing me for broken waters, which I thought was hilarious and ridiculous. I offered to show her the full adult diaper I'd worn over. I'd already soaked through both my samples <i>and</i> a towel. While baby wasn't engaged, her head was down, and that was a huge relief. And I tested positive for broken waters. They decided that no ultrasound was needed. Then the misplaced contraction monitor made itself a nuisance by not picking up the beginning or end of my contractions and making it look like I was having late decels.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">My midwife, in the meantime, unbeknownst to me at first, was driving back as fast as she could through the weather in the middle of the night/buttcrack of dawn, to come up to check on me and be there for me. Lexi texted her everything that was going on and passed on her advice to me (which was to wait and be monitored). When they said late decels, I looked them up to understand why that mattered, on alert to the word "decels" as that's a standard bullshit technique to force an unnecessary cesarean.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJZXkGHkGjSK9ACYtO3YnTYRBXNXPp6IGTYojQJrbwAGhsYY89-QOtkcwUn_jtVK-RD7jOfQeMuzCA_nLTToEGvdOQ0by10tDW0g6fUyPO1Pm4qPgHfTMjexEGJC9BXNaMLF6V6ahkCdMs/s1600/2016-01-20+06.09.13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJZXkGHkGjSK9ACYtO3YnTYRBXNXPp6IGTYojQJrbwAGhsYY89-QOtkcwUn_jtVK-RD7jOfQeMuzCA_nLTToEGvdOQ0by10tDW0g6fUyPO1Pm4qPgHfTMjexEGJC9BXNaMLF6V6ahkCdMs/s320/2016-01-20+06.09.13.jpg" width="180" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">When they said 'placental insufficiency,' my BS meter blew up. I'd grown 2 super healthy babies' placentas for over 41 weeks with no insufficiency. I wasn't buying that on a 39 weeker who had shown no problems whatsoever where I had been on a high protein diet and worked to take care of said placenta.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I said, "You're not bullying me into a cesarean, but thanks for trying." They quickly backpedaled and said that they had no intention of doing that and said their cesarean rate was really low (my midwife said that that was true -- although incredibly unlikely that it was their stated '10%' -- because they transferred their high risk patients to another facility). But when Rachel said that I needed to stay and be monitored, I did, even if I was dubious (she was still scared about the possibility of the cord being tangled up, and late decels would certainly mean that something could be up with the cord).</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I moved the monitors to better positions (I kept moving the Doppler monitor to chase Annika down, as she was trying to 'run' from it as she had the whole pregnancy, and she was 'running' right into my pelvis, where she belonged), and the contractions started actually being picked up. I noticed that she kicked the contraction monitor at the right moment to cause it to draw what looked like a pregnant woman. Her kick made a boob after a contraction-face while the next contraction made the belly. We got a laugh out of it.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It was obvious before very long that she was quite healthy in there. My blood pressure was insanely high, so I removed a layer of shirts from under it, and it 'magically' dropped (I'll give it a bit of white coat syndrome, too, but it was largely that they were reading me through two shirts). My midwife arrived and talked with the on call doctor about what was going on, looked over the monitors and asked to check me (she asked both me and the OB).</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I was now a 3, and she was definitely head down (and going off how I had to keep moving the Doppler monitor, she was moving down with contractions pretty steadily), and my midwife thought she felt a little hand up there, too. My midwife hypothesized that perhaps Annika popped her own water grabbing at things up there, and that was why it didn't accompany my normal contractions.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We decided that everything was okay, and I requested to leave AMA. Before we left, the new on call doctor came and introduced himself in case we would be back later, talked to my midwife, and overall, they were all very nice about me leaving. He just wanted to make sure I was close by (I was 12 minutes from the hospital), and then we left for my house. Tara, my doula, did a food run to McDonald's on the way.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdQ7yAqzj50WHtpNc4wil5EQ0akv0Gy7v4pkGOutwYDsjxFPW_RcWjszJKwmAqulJCpNocOAfISaKxzViD722PCrU_hzpQCc0n3qFOBohpFG-hUmVzBKBAP0-_Aw3INlbt25Cf-Gb9nXS1/s1600/2016-01-20+08.50.48.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdQ7yAqzj50WHtpNc4wil5EQ0akv0Gy7v4pkGOutwYDsjxFPW_RcWjszJKwmAqulJCpNocOAfISaKxzViD722PCrU_hzpQCc0n3qFOBohpFG-hUmVzBKBAP0-_Aw3INlbt25Cf-Gb9nXS1/s640/2016-01-20+08.50.48.jpg" width="360" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><span style="color: #666666;">Last pregnancy pic, 39 weeks, 5 days, by Lilly</span></i></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjayK_RW82blxodcYan-dSJzfwWfxOTVzCSeDUN2MeTTwQ9da9ydZMBlaFjJUY1fgXxH59hTis_bk8QUB2uZz6Cgd7K3yytgX40I8RmCMaXxM8n5SsW52EoqDfDS9155lr8SsSMlelPb8s6/s1600/2016-01-20+10.48.40.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjayK_RW82blxodcYan-dSJzfwWfxOTVzCSeDUN2MeTTwQ9da9ydZMBlaFjJUY1fgXxH59hTis_bk8QUB2uZz6Cgd7K3yytgX40I8RmCMaXxM8n5SsW52EoqDfDS9155lr8SsSMlelPb8s6/s640/2016-01-20+10.48.40.jpg" width="360" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #666666;"><i>Kat and Tara, who was there when she came into the world ♥</i></span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We all gathered at my house, where my contractions continued to be at most, a bit crampy. I had a few good ones at the hospital, but they petered out. What followed was a long waiting game. My midwife went home to nap, leaving her assistant and my doula. Eventually, Tara had to go, though, because her son was competing in a tournament that weekend down in Texas (I got to see some awesome videos of his trampoline prowess at the tournament later, which was awesome!).</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I don't remember how musical care providers went exactly, but we managed to get everyone some rest and had a long day of nothing really happening. We talked about how long we could wait with my waters ruptured, if/when I would want to try something to move things along (blue and black cohosh, which I wasn't on board with because of the blood pressure issues I was having and my ongoing heart issues) and the same with antibiotics (if we entered a prolonged rupture of membranes stage). I kept having a mix of painless and difficult contractions with long periods of nada.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Eventually, we all got some sleep. After everyone left, I turned on <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xGytDsqkQY8" target="_blank"><i>Closing Time</i></a> by Semisonic and tried to dance her down. It's always been a birth song to me. I also painted my toenails, joking that it was "in case she was offended by my naked toes." I'd had painted toenails for every birth. I'd had a nurse during my first labor joke that she always knew when a mama was really in labor when she saw her toenails done after seeing mine.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0FLQUNB0CcEX7SiCG5D5JxEQzl97oBhvuY4V1_cygp_KYa_ETzHQsVdFChPvxiRi3PHZRCgT0K4zd7mGUWpQjOEItlhzjwOtyn-NvT2tgRwEHCdI5Ejxr1_lPl3sqKeYmNst75SueUXdS/s1600/2016-01-20+20.36.58.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0FLQUNB0CcEX7SiCG5D5JxEQzl97oBhvuY4V1_cygp_KYa_ETzHQsVdFChPvxiRi3PHZRCgT0K4zd7mGUWpQjOEItlhzjwOtyn-NvT2tgRwEHCdI5Ejxr1_lPl3sqKeYmNst75SueUXdS/s200/2016-01-20+20.36.58.jpg" width="150" /></a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I tried various sitting, kneeling and lying positions trying to get her to move out of ROT (right occiput transverse) into a better position to come out and to prevent her from getting back up into her favorite spot under my ribs. She was content to take her time. While I got sleep, strong, good contractions woke me up twice an hour. I had also taken a shower before bed to try to tolerate the contractions I was having and relax and stimulate oxytocin via orgasm, but I only got a couple good contractions from that and couldn't tolerate my nipples being touched. Every time I fell asleep, my contractions picked up. So relaxing and sleeping seemed ideal.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The next day, Rachel was quite disappointed that no call for birthing had come in the night, and we resumed our watch. She requested to check me, and I considered it. I asked myself if I could handle knowing that I wasn't progressing as fast as I'd like, or worse, at all, and the answer was a resounding "No." It would devastate me. I needed to trust my body to keep working. So I declined.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We tried some pregnancy tea, double bagging it because red raspberry leaf usually stimulates strong contractions in me. I figured the stinging nettle could help calm down my blood pressure while it was at it. I had a nosebleed at one point while talking to Lexi, just out of the blue, and scared her. It wasn't my first this pregnancy, and I wasn't sure if it was blood pressure or dry, winter air combined with a cold and stuffy nose. The tea didn't really work, and I decided to consent to trying the cohoshes.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Rachel gave me a homeopathic low dose to start, having the full herbs ready if that didn't work. Oh, it worked all right. I went from having contractions every half hour (as they'd been all night) to every 10 minutes. My bestie, Lesley, came over and hung out for a while. I enjoyed all the socialization, but with the cohoshes doing their thing despite me thinking a homeopathic dose would do nothing, I started entering labor land a bit. I was noisy and uncomfortable during the contractions. She kept giving me the doses, which looked like little sugary fish eggs, and labor moved along swimmingly. Placebo or genuinely working, it worked quite well.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYu36fkCjVPjuqHBUQvwwSXkOoRhuRzw27Xkv4wjnXu7K4kvb3fPhhTenqNcInw66FXEuiK6dWQQqoZ3OM5l6Beh7EL9OhGSk7o7fyndWO3TGU2-W-UlivOU37y5WCujhd4Y5JfLhdbSFy/s1600/2016-01-21+21.56.42.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYu36fkCjVPjuqHBUQvwwSXkOoRhuRzw27Xkv4wjnXu7K4kvb3fPhhTenqNcInw66FXEuiK6dWQQqoZ3OM5l6Beh7EL9OhGSk7o7fyndWO3TGU2-W-UlivOU37y5WCujhd4Y5JfLhdbSFy/s320/2016-01-21+21.56.42.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Eventually, Lesley had to leave, and by then, I was up to about every 6 minutes. I agreed to an antibiotic push because my water had been broken so long, and I was planning a water birth. I didn't want to take any unnecessary risks. I was also hoping that it would prevent any retained placenta infections this time.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">While she was inserting the IV, she almost blew a vein, and I chastised her and told her she got a C because it hurt. She, however, saved the vein and got the antibiotics pushed, so I upgraded her to a B for that, though she'd tried to negotiate for higher. Marks lost for pain in patient. I did have very little bruising, though. So I'll give her a B+.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I asked Brandon to go take the liner up to the pool, and Rachel said no. I pointed out that I hadn't asked him to fill it, just take the liner up and she took back her no. She just didn't want my labor to stall out, but I knew that it was really going now and nothing was going to stop it.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">When I hit every 3 minutes and could no longer keep up reading Facebook posts from friends stalking my labor, I went upstairs before I wouldn't be able to get there. I had to stop on the stairs and get through a nasty contraction, and I felt transition approaching.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I got upstairs, and everyone started preparing everything. I, in the meantime, was miserable. I had been very noisy through my contractions, but seeing the empty pool and knowing I was hitting transition made me afraid I wouldn't get my water birth... <i>again</i>. I collapsed onto the girls' bed, into their pile of stuffed animals, pillows and blankets. I hugged Lilly's giant teddy "Big Bear" and had one last noisy contraction before I surrendered to transition. Rachel said it was time to fill the tub, and I cried that they had waited too long. She assured me that they hadn't, and Lexi came over to monitor me, apply lovely counter pressure and comfort me as I cried into Big Bear, too worn out to be noisy through contractions anymore. I just wanted to save my strength for what I knew was coming.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirx2peqhJFmeb1XEeGMEV-Om8WgbIevs0MYlWWLeQrqcysF5XQBLRtYsScR2vtWSuZgJVfP9sLVWNFuJQv_xATvzn1h76gD3hgCbd6_pnINGxBWQte0W3FGadkES9Esx53m-CUkPt9ZmT9/s1600/IMG_20160121_165813.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirx2peqhJFmeb1XEeGMEV-Om8WgbIevs0MYlWWLeQrqcysF5XQBLRtYsScR2vtWSuZgJVfP9sLVWNFuJQv_xATvzn1h76gD3hgCbd6_pnINGxBWQte0W3FGadkES9Esx53m-CUkPt9ZmT9/s640/IMG_20160121_165813.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfTxqTLjzZLK3TTm0rREzy4YuVfXGJeHMMOM_wADrVxxN8dNPy_xef-SpggFbiUix_xMnINhSTkSFLpUcEFjZHpSfZWHNy-nJwJBiYb54-WDK619ereSPbVpJe6gZuAn4pmkPQLMp_4n8L/s1600/IMG_20160121_170221.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="473" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfTxqTLjzZLK3TTm0rREzy4YuVfXGJeHMMOM_wADrVxxN8dNPy_xef-SpggFbiUix_xMnINhSTkSFLpUcEFjZHpSfZWHNy-nJwJBiYb54-WDK619ereSPbVpJe6gZuAn4pmkPQLMp_4n8L/s640/IMG_20160121_170221.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #666666;"><i>I found the contractions became more tolerable when I moved to lie on my side</i></span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmNv632Qzv6scKomk2m2MS5BA2CrEM1i8ZG0i5cv6W0Lcnq6i5M1PawRCtTgZAllqMN0soRE7flo7Hy6s96hQXtJC6wSKTn2_Nh-hKnDZotjAkTpoEyiBjlZv4mokQmIq2eDtcq2CSL4KK/s1600/IMG_20160121_165920.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmNv632Qzv6scKomk2m2MS5BA2CrEM1i8ZG0i5cv6W0Lcnq6i5M1PawRCtTgZAllqMN0soRE7flo7Hy6s96hQXtJC6wSKTn2_Nh-hKnDZotjAkTpoEyiBjlZv4mokQmIq2eDtcq2CSL4KK/s320/IMG_20160121_165920.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Lilly, now officially part of my birth team, filled the pool as fast as possible, and Rachel asked one last time if she could check me before I got in. I gave her a grumpy, "No," as I made a beeline for my warm, watery happy spot. The pool didn't look very full, but it was still being filled, and when I stepped in, there was several inches of water that I didn't see, so I was engulfed quickly. It doesn't show in the pictures, but I was perfectly buried in the water. It was a strange effect, but the water was covering my belly except when I stuck it out on purpose.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp5xmWvPIQxIj1Fe20I6NjPvwt-K9SeTONEBQHZncvhyJpyMKTZQtRM91VRWcRgQhBMN0Zb4-A0Cmv2zpn0PpZEF5SVSx_x_yLUqSdvL0pTVRjyp9SNTIWujNdFlM2eXtx56hA3IQJ_Wdz/s1600/IMG_20160121_165832.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp5xmWvPIQxIj1Fe20I6NjPvwt-K9SeTONEBQHZncvhyJpyMKTZQtRM91VRWcRgQhBMN0Zb4-A0Cmv2zpn0PpZEF5SVSx_x_yLUqSdvL0pTVRjyp9SNTIWujNdFlM2eXtx56hA3IQJ_Wdz/s640/IMG_20160121_165832.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><span style="color: #666666;">These two booked front row seats for the birth, but weren't participating</span></i></span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl1YbDoYXZZBxglQqcKov8VvWfVxClvzWiBs9qGPvVxfzQdaOtL8O6SmZlpqeB-dlUXZ8Bi9G8VtHL2JOyAvogd4xwrblkLs3BkJE19qMA2ZSP5DO22G8R11dtrx-fguW8az3DfslmxMay/s1600/IMG_20160121_171108.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl1YbDoYXZZBxglQqcKov8VvWfVxClvzWiBs9qGPvVxfzQdaOtL8O6SmZlpqeB-dlUXZ8Bi9G8VtHL2JOyAvogd4xwrblkLs3BkJE19qMA2ZSP5DO22G8R11dtrx-fguW8az3DfslmxMay/s320/IMG_20160121_171108.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Things were in full swing now, but the water relaxed me completely between contractions. Rachel said to me, "Now, there are two rules for the pool: One, no passing out. Two, you get out to birth the placenta."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"She was planning on that," Brandon answered her while I tried to say the same. I echoed him. I got grumpy with my contractions after that. I was quite ready to be done with this stage.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO_D8_RBu_IS4NtoXAK7H79Zfz7e6iXYis63x_VqV7NwX4IT7zS5S8Icly1JyoKN5uXT0RuZ-VXJptjxDCnHkYgAc35_CnCJ2aMmyY56NPP9bCCUSFMUdTxYsHXJIiFreSwQ0mlJWpjT07/s1600/IMG_20160121_171116.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="474" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO_D8_RBu_IS4NtoXAK7H79Zfz7e6iXYis63x_VqV7NwX4IT7zS5S8Icly1JyoKN5uXT0RuZ-VXJptjxDCnHkYgAc35_CnCJ2aMmyY56NPP9bCCUSFMUdTxYsHXJIiFreSwQ0mlJWpjT07/s640/IMG_20160121_171116.jpg" width="640" /></a></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">My first contraction in the water I was pushing on her, saying "down, down," and then exclaimed, "The enemy gate is down!"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Brandon said, "I don't think we want her blowing up any planets."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I said, "I <i>feel</i> like a planet!"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"We don't want her blowing <i>you</i> up, either."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"<i>She already did!</i>"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Everyone got a good laugh, and Rachel started talking about how she wanted to make a collection of all the famous quotes she'd heard during labors. Lexi agreed that it would be an awesome book. I continued with my "down, down" mantra, and sang a little <i>Sugar, We're Going Down</i> under my breath. I considered asking someone to move the curtain<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> on the skylight so I could see the sky, but I was afraid it would make the room cold.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">This is where things are now foggy. I waited a bit too long to write this part of the story, and birth amnesia has started setting in. Part of that is because I was falling half-asleep between contractions. Brandon mentioned that Rachel had said no passing out, and she said, "She's sleeping. That's different. That's actually the best thing to do right now. We <i>want</i> her to do that."*</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV2C1RE7L_NyuNuEOMQSiKEDyIAWRITts3alXv53A7ysVZaosUy8v1fjcCNF3ASsCOogaHAsd6tJqS4zAB1AeFrLVzCeA3ineWAtyVLv2VZEqWGstJEnERiKt8NSiOTJh_vk6OyTv3qszQ/s1600/IMG_20160121_172312.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV2C1RE7L_NyuNuEOMQSiKEDyIAWRITts3alXv53A7ysVZaosUy8v1fjcCNF3ASsCOogaHAsd6tJqS4zAB1AeFrLVzCeA3ineWAtyVLv2VZEqWGstJEnERiKt8NSiOTJh_vk6OyTv3qszQ/s400/IMG_20160121_172312.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I, on the other hand, was now absolutely done with labor. I was howling, "I'm done! I'm done!" during some contractions. Between, I tried, "Some gas and air would be great now."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Rachel replied that we weren't in a state that allowed that (yet), and there was some discussion of that being done in the US, but only in hospitals to start. Another contraction hit, and I returned to yelling about it hurting and shouted, "An eight! My pain is an eight!" quite cranky that no one else had to be doing this part, and they were all having such a good time -- as far as I was concerned, far too good of a time. (Looking back, that's a good thing! Everything was going smoothly!) I kept reaching down to check if I could feel anything yet and bumped against my clitoris. The pain receded, so I started pressing on it and growled, "You want oxytocin? Here! Have it!" It made the pain more manageable.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Okay, I'll take an epidural now!" I yowled during a particularly awful contraction. Everyone laughed sympathetically.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Afraid we can't do that," Lexi said.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Hospital wouldn't either," I said, because I knew I was about to start pushing. The urge to push wasn't obvious, but I recognized that it was time. I had been asked multiple times during labor if I was pushing, which I confirmed with the qualifier that it wasn't time, it just felt good to do. The water was hot again, so they started adding more, which I didn't like. It was too warm, and it was time to push. I rolled around in the water, kicking at the side of the tub and screamed. Rachel chastised me.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"You're going to wreck your voice!"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Good! I want to wreck it! I don't care! I have to scream. I did with Kat, too. I have to." I babbled frantically. "I don't want to do this anymore. I want off the ride! I'm done!"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Then another contraction hit, and the water temperature pissed me off, and I yelled to turn if off, that I didn't want it as I flipped over to the half-squat/kneel that I used to bring out Kat. I reached down again to feel for her and support my perineum as I shouted "I'm serious! I'm done!" and pushed. I yelled that she was coming and felt her hit my perineum. I could feel her on the other side from above my vagina down to my anus, and thought, 'She's <i>huge</i>!'</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Then I went down to hands and knees and pushed harder, and she popped out. I was filled with amazement as I felt her soft head fill my hand. Her <i>tiny</i> soft head. It had seemed so big a second ago. I had pushed her to the cheeks, I heard someone say. Rachel was instructing Lilly on how to help and to reach and feel. I moved off the jelly feeling stuff (probably the caul) from her head and pushed again, still on the same contraction that I started with. The rest of her head popped out.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I sighed in relief, "That's better." Everyone laughed, and someone reminded me that I wasn't over yet. I replied, "I know, but that feels better."</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #666666;"><i>You can see Lilly's hair next to Rachel and her arm reaching to feel the baby</i></span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I think Rachel asked me to push some more, and I mumbled something about physiological pushing and that I wasn't quite ready yet. I moved around and said, "She's stuck." It felt like minutes passed while I wiggled and pushed, and then there was a little pop, and she exploded out of me.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">There was a lot of talking at that moment that I don't remember. Then Rachel said that they were passing the baby to me, and I moved to reach down and grab her, fall back and pull her out of the water in amazement. I think people were telling me what to do, but I just reacted on instinct.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">She looked like she wanted to go to sleep, so I coaxed her to wake up and cough and cry out the fluid in her lungs while wrapping the towel around her that I was passed and rubbing the amazing amount of vernix she was covered in into her skin to both rub it in and stimulate her. I'd never had such a 'cheesy' baby, but I remembered worrying specifically about the hospital taking that experience away from me.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSjPY75FxRbJfwQn6nK9EcoRWA9h41haFQ6t67_ukL3-FbYThRi5wthH7LfkUgQfhIyQw72NiKgOUWRbgLX7c1kBGy-JC5FFqatGgVEEXkdTN3sIR64S3-EDDhMzxHMBid7AM5Orv3WSY2/s1600/IMG_20160121_181137.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSjPY75FxRbJfwQn6nK9EcoRWA9h41haFQ6t67_ukL3-FbYThRi5wthH7LfkUgQfhIyQw72NiKgOUWRbgLX7c1kBGy-JC5FFqatGgVEEXkdTN3sIR64S3-EDDhMzxHMBid7AM5Orv3WSY2/s640/IMG_20160121_181137.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It wasn't long before I was coaxed out of the water onto the bed so I could birth the placenta. Lexi reported that she was born at 5:55, and that her head had come out at 5:54. So it had been much faster than I experienced, although I had known the whole thing happened very fast. It was within the space of just two contractions. I only pushed four or five times.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We all gathered around and said hello to the baby. Crawling onto the bed, I was very aware of the cord still inside me and cautioned everyone to go slowly so it wasn't pulled on. Shortly after, I pushed out the placenta, but the membranes were kind of stuck inside. We waited and worked them out, hoping nothing was left inside (a bit was, but we managed to avoid an infection, and I passed them a few days later, and then the rest a few days after that). I think they probably got stuck on my scar.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I asked that we wait to cut the cord until the placenta was out so I could see her attached. There wasn't a good angle for me to get a picture this time, but that's okay. I'll spare you readers the placenta pictures I did take. Brandon hid while we went over all of that. Naomi was offered the cord to cut, but as she'd gotten to trim Kat's, I thought it was only fair Kat get to cut Annika's.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXmm1tlgweicpeK4aufOduCUnQ7H5ChQLCeSo9MPcTAOW5g8w0GDK-L9wJK7kemtnwN_xf_N9z6-F4d-U84cMiubcQLMY5xQMp7Mk_y5FGWXrbl-yEQXVTGAUvtYKG4I4fD3F4vBRsZ2yC/s1600/IMG_20160121_183225.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXmm1tlgweicpeK4aufOduCUnQ7H5ChQLCeSo9MPcTAOW5g8w0GDK-L9wJK7kemtnwN_xf_N9z6-F4d-U84cMiubcQLMY5xQMp7Mk_y5FGWXrbl-yEQXVTGAUvtYKG4I4fD3F4vBRsZ2yC/s320/IMG_20160121_183225.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><i><span style="color: #666666;">I was so happy to have my baby</span></i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">We had already announced her name during the labor to the birth team, but Brandon posted on Facebook when she was born for us, announcing it to everyone. She was very tired and went to sleep rather quickly. I tried to get her to nurse, but she wasn't interested. She woke up to cough up the stuff from her lungs, and I tried some more to get her to nurse. Finally, Lexi said something about my finger, and I remembered having to get past babies started with the finger, and I pestered her into sucking on that. Once she did, I pulled it out of her mouth and offered to nurse, promising that she would like it. She took to it quickly after that.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Brandon left to get me a celebratory turkey sandwich from Subway. When he returned we got Annika's weight and other stats. She screamed a little monkey scream at being taken from me, but calmed down okay. Lexi and I were guessing she'd be high 6lbs or low 7lbs. Rachel weighed her and said, "You fail! Seven pounds, thirteen ounces." Annika was 20 3/4" long. She's my tiniest baby.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZGMaaUqiPKizf4XSTHoQ8QZXAGpkP_HsTbYr5XEfOliBqY0bCUeIV4rjZ0ttZz8W4VAnwpjgQyuCyOln4-1MtT_gOVQAjCboIcX2-9_n_HblkVUWKeqwXlTtGm8uTJ29Ikenw7DXhCb7Z/s1600/2016-01-21+21.25.00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZGMaaUqiPKizf4XSTHoQ8QZXAGpkP_HsTbYr5XEfOliBqY0bCUeIV4rjZ0ttZz8W4VAnwpjgQyuCyOln4-1MtT_gOVQAjCboIcX2-9_n_HblkVUWKeqwXlTtGm8uTJ29Ikenw7DXhCb7Z/s320/2016-01-21+21.25.00.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">From waters fully broken to birth was 39 hours. I was in active labor for 5 hours. It was a long couple of days any way you look at it, for such an amazing little package, who decided she would come at a surprise time to meet her grandma as soon as she could, as she was passing from this world and had held out all this time to meet her.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">She was my longest labor, my tiniest baby, and is my best nurser. She's a calm, happy little baby who loves practicing her smiles already. My long awaited last baby, who came into the world with, of all things, amber-brown eyes that turned blue, facial bruising that healed up quickly and an elfin/Vulcan ear on one side and 'goblin' ear on the other. Welcome to the family, Annika Shuri! ♥</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">*Qu<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">otes are appro<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">ximate based on my <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">memory</span></span></span></span> </span></span><br />
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Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-11478318765146210202015-06-24T01:11:00.002-05:002015-06-24T01:12:00.005-05:00Wordless Wednesday: Announcement<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpNYBecNRtH4rNNZYz3Ngw8rRNci1IdHY9JBkNNlWEpvJtF5vN-cXuZkB9gfXFVxt6c0sF0zmdhBSDFYnx_t3J4eUcZNlFrZUj0_uTrAms48iiBqz8X1Hk2Hp6x-xnv6HHBRqnzEfdQcVg/s1600/player_six.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="475" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpNYBecNRtH4rNNZYz3Ngw8rRNci1IdHY9JBkNNlWEpvJtF5vN-cXuZkB9gfXFVxt6c0sF0zmdhBSDFYnx_t3J4eUcZNlFrZUj0_uTrAms48iiBqz8X1Hk2Hp6x-xnv6HHBRqnzEfdQcVg/s640/player_six.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimLl3I8U35-RK4hyphenhyphenuwesp224leISapsXxHBF-bKqcQTSMSOjeYHR1xmbp3cevs6fow8AsqXt62s6Ko9_0R5l_D8O7u4lYKTqs544hE4bkzIMZddBL5Q75CIqcuJkotBX6JD6ojEwe2gacg/s1600/5-13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="12DPO" border="0" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimLl3I8U35-RK4hyphenhyphenuwesp224leISapsXxHBF-bKqcQTSMSOjeYHR1xmbp3cevs6fow8AsqXt62s6Ko9_0R5l_D8O7u4lYKTqs544hE4bkzIMZddBL5Q75CIqcuJkotBX6JD6ojEwe2gacg/s320/5-13.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3DTsva27P6-hSVQI3GeSsowwpsrah32D8OnIK_K1S1rNjr5X1mVxYGgXqBMsmrKndwpLMw_ud7DJGj7PEVZ4JXQuU1PjXlsY1HSxoLofsgHguivwuhhh7Lb6fuC1-PI1p109lQo_-DVHY/s1600/2015-05-16+12.08.58.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="15DPO" border="0" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3DTsva27P6-hSVQI3GeSsowwpsrah32D8OnIK_K1S1rNjr5X1mVxYGgXqBMsmrKndwpLMw_ud7DJGj7PEVZ4JXQuU1PjXlsY1HSxoLofsgHguivwuhhh7Lb6fuC1-PI1p109lQo_-DVHY/s320/2015-05-16+12.08.58.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDZwSs5fYUzO6X0Gj8zSrJYH8M7pz-8HxygLADQf9GqZTlJB2P9-J3-MOSdHx1PSDGUnCn5iAlh7CIhemtKYO0-Wzk7AVWdHO1AFtmPOL3uzl2maFSrJUzWRuQS2lg6hyKSMCvnn7XzUaH/s1600/2015-05-18+20.11.25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="17DPO" border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDZwSs5fYUzO6X0Gj8zSrJYH8M7pz-8HxygLADQf9GqZTlJB2P9-J3-MOSdHx1PSDGUnCn5iAlh7CIhemtKYO0-Wzk7AVWdHO1AFtmPOL3uzl2maFSrJUzWRuQS2lg6hyKSMCvnn7XzUaH/s320/2015-05-18+20.11.25.jpg" title="" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-28657425236239640032015-05-13T19:43:00.004-05:002015-05-13T19:43:52.019-05:00Virtual Concert: Seether in Cleaveland, Ohio<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBKRUKz96wBai0Z3YPUPxEzK3x1n9njZl8UO1zMJqpbsoEiZOCIzNCqPE5pW_I0cL7mMxjgjF1GL_dqil55Ltm4SXpZMigFQfoomMnfrYAMe7NSrx_FJ_kxjU1Vm3rXBZ2T7Up2voWDBJN/s1600/2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBKRUKz96wBai0Z3YPUPxEzK3x1n9njZl8UO1zMJqpbsoEiZOCIzNCqPE5pW_I0cL7mMxjgjF1GL_dqil55Ltm4SXpZMigFQfoomMnfrYAMe7NSrx_FJ_kxjU1Vm3rXBZ2T7Up2voWDBJN/s640/2.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Seether is one of my favorite bands, but they weren't coming close enough to KC for me to see them this year. However, their concert last night was broadcast through <a href="https://screen.yahoo.com/live/event/seether" target="_blank">Yahoo! Live Nation</a>, and my sis (I adopted her years ago) linked me the moment she found out. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaNmYif48cX1oLwLppFi8F81yOA8OyHtyPt8UHVWQ0nzjWZZkcArjyefaFXQg5Cl2wfrUxJkuOO0kIjkcxuRuJn_g6vIGBSaICw4uYaRpU6snGQcp-gqjbQIp7gZ3SLm5fK_OU4oRRIq4H/s1600/3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaNmYif48cX1oLwLppFi8F81yOA8OyHtyPt8UHVWQ0nzjWZZkcArjyefaFXQg5Cl2wfrUxJkuOO0kIjkcxuRuJn_g6vIGBSaICw4uYaRpU6snGQcp-gqjbQIp7gZ3SLm5fK_OU4oRRIq4H/s640/3.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We were able to sit in two different states (she in Michigan, I in Missouri) and enjoy our first concert together with a band we both love. Not only did we not have to go out (which was great, as getting to something like that is difficult for both of us), but we could 'hear' each other just fine through Facebook messenger, and I spent the whole concert taking pictures of the feed to send her while we commented happily.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA2aXLTYxzqnn-IgCQMmwCdq25Frihnkzi-Mo91oC_aN5X6n89DsD3a-NLSOyhXYtLktUA1pXmLF15Hsmkv1uqWKvK7EE_87yYIgVUlGapAf1k0DnKVjvtfQ4SNyeyISlUhmqdQ3APMaC5/s1600/5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA2aXLTYxzqnn-IgCQMmwCdq25Frihnkzi-Mo91oC_aN5X6n89DsD3a-NLSOyhXYtLktUA1pXmLF15Hsmkv1uqWKvK7EE_87yYIgVUlGapAf1k0DnKVjvtfQ4SNyeyISlUhmqdQ3APMaC5/s640/5.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsSpcBoK63MYOJDFfrTIqZqHdWLz0Jtnw2LohKwmhSxE4nWXMK9xZLeYyYXI-ZfbSgLzR9cSKTohFhIullVR2o9FvxwWej3ectxsPGyGFltDuCMczGNCwNoR-WOLuG0ocUzsDIXyG1jfXZ/s1600/6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsSpcBoK63MYOJDFfrTIqZqHdWLz0Jtnw2LohKwmhSxE4nWXMK9xZLeYyYXI-ZfbSgLzR9cSKTohFhIullVR2o9FvxwWej3ectxsPGyGFltDuCMczGNCwNoR-WOLuG0ocUzsDIXyG1jfXZ/s640/6.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNG6EVpClyXz1yxB-IwWRiHyoqAz2YN-aoH3U2LYyvbcz7eSsRwC-ru4ziqHrbgZ2x-bLJ6B495QqSU8jEHHUGiqa4bJI4AgrnN-1OScT8mDHXDKa7g0PQPyd2-aJu9L3_NKu_z1SPWeRi/s1600/8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNG6EVpClyXz1yxB-IwWRiHyoqAz2YN-aoH3U2LYyvbcz7eSsRwC-ru4ziqHrbgZ2x-bLJ6B495QqSU8jEHHUGiqa4bJI4AgrnN-1OScT8mDHXDKa7g0PQPyd2-aJu9L3_NKu_z1SPWeRi/s640/8.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We noticed that Shaun's beard has taken on a life of its own (I especially noticed because my husband recently trimmed his). Also, there were a couple times where one band member helped another drink during the session, and I commented on how sweet they were, taking care of each other like that.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6hVAPhd3SjeCk9IMYanmwN7xfcbTr9rMLvwH-CgzT-u6PgwDcDiSwz_H0ksxG_jvtIKAvu8njlVFoBKonCGpdueI_LZDx171Ky38PKWxvzjnXwrSOMvofcelo8oWYtRsscnXwFwBiYmBp/s1600/9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="458" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6hVAPhd3SjeCk9IMYanmwN7xfcbTr9rMLvwH-CgzT-u6PgwDcDiSwz_H0ksxG_jvtIKAvu8njlVFoBKonCGpdueI_LZDx171Ky38PKWxvzjnXwrSOMvofcelo8oWYtRsscnXwFwBiYmBp/s640/9.jpg" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">It was a lot of fun, and I was really glad for the opportunity. I enjoyed some Jack Daniels Tennessee Fire (cinnamon whiskey) during the concert and sent her tipsy video clips of me singing along just to add to the experience (no, you don't get those; you're welcome).</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was one of my favorite shots</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So a great big thank you to both Seether and Yahoo! Live Nation!</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This one was the most popular on Instagram</td></tr>
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Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-37207285375152024592014-12-24T12:38:00.001-06:002014-12-24T12:38:49.915-06:00From Enthusiastic to Exhausted: Activists Burn Out, Too<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW8WP8jBHascJUDuWYD41UoY0zW0q-qxcj62Ggd_qEeseMzOI-ZZpxrnyxR68UAJYo0Wg9Hq_gofhNeJYyyFYYg-MtxTEU-Ls5ZIjA7WwQKen363ZpTEJass5wp870mJM2jWRUoqSknyCG/s1600/Stop_Violence_GLBT_Borderstan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW8WP8jBHascJUDuWYD41UoY0zW0q-qxcj62Ggd_qEeseMzOI-ZZpxrnyxR68UAJYo0Wg9Hq_gofhNeJYyyFYYg-MtxTEU-Ls5ZIjA7WwQKen363ZpTEJass5wp870mJM2jWRUoqSknyCG/s1600/Stop_Violence_GLBT_Borderstan.jpg" height="457" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">So, activism. It's awesome, important, and it can and has changed the world, over and over. It's comprised of activists. Activists are people. And people get disillusioned.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I've been an activist for one cause or another as long as I can remember (hence the vagueness -- this isn't about one cause, but rather, <i>having</i> a cause). In that time, I've noticed in both myself and in the vast majority of other activists a pattern of interest, enthusiasm and eventual burnout.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The first, and absolutely most important part of any cause is <b><span style="color: red;">awareness</span></b>. I'm sure you've seen lots of 'raising awareness' campaigns. The typical cynical (burnout) response to this is: Awareness already exists. Time to move on. Now, if we're talking about a major disease like cancer that everyone actually does know about, maybe that's true (unless we're talking prevention or healing options). But with most things? Nope.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="" height="451" src="http://www.freeimages.com/pic/l/b/bh/bharska/170986_4571.jpg" width="640" /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Think back to how you first got into a cause. You learned that it existed. Someone took the time to explain to you why it was important. Perhaps they did that through a conversation; maybe it was a link to resources about the cause. Either way, you then learned something and became excited to help others share that thing.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">On the opposite end of the timeline is the burnout who has decided that if you don't agree with them, they don't have time for you. These people are the death of a cause. That cynicism is a cancer on the whole topic. They are as much 'part of the problem' as that which the cause is fighting against. And I specifically chose cancer for a reason. Because their mentally exhausting cynicism spreads, infects others. Worse, there has been an increasing trend, especially among certain causes, for those tumors to deliberately infect others, posting about how education is a waste of time and anyone who doesn't already know is 'part of the problem.'</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Moving past my own irritation at watching people turn away from becoming activists because of those jerks, I wanted to talk about the path to becoming (and avoiding) the anti-cause.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="" height="347" src="http://www.freeimages.com/pic/l/e/ec/echobase/518967_32831305.jpg" width="640" /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The Evolution of an Activist</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: red;">Awareness</span></b>: The cause exists! Wow! I'm learning!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: red;">Becoming Part Of The Solution</span></b>: I'm involved! Oh, this person doesn't understand. I'll help them learn about it (repeat this no less than 500 times with new people).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: red;">Involved</span></b>: I sure love this cause. I don't understand why other people don't see how obvious it is. This should be a universal goal. Man, there sure are a lot of people who don't know about it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b><span style="color: red;">Burnout</span></b>: Fuck, people. How do you not already know about this now? Ugh. I'm tired of explaining it. I've explained it fifty million times! I've put my all into this cause and I feel like it's not doing anything. It still exists. The need for it doesn't seem like it's ever going to go away! Humanity sucks.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Reaction 1</b>: (<span style="color: #38761d;">Jaded</span>) I'm done with the cause.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Reaction 2</b>: (<span style="color: blue;">Healthy</span>) I'm going to keep going, but I'm done with new recruits. Maybe I should look into <a href="http://knowyourix.org/dealing-with/dealing-with-activist-burn-out-and-self-care/" target="_blank">self-care</a>. I'll leave the awareness to others.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Reaction 3</b>: (<span style="color: blue;"><b>Ideal</b></span>) I'm going to write a blog post or find one I really love to educate people by just linking them without writing a deep explanation from now on. I'm going to look into <a href="http://www.spectraspeaks.com/2013/05/love-and-afrofeminism-5-core-self-care-principles-every-activist-should-live-by/" target="_blank">self-care</a> and remember that this isn't futile, it just takes time to cause such a big change. After all, women didn't get the vote overnight. Segregation wasn't ended overnight. I just have to keep going and find more time to take care of myself. In the meantime, I'll do my part for the cause without letting it suck the life out of me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Reaction 4</b>: (<span style="color: #38761d;"><b>Toxic</b></span>) People suck. If they don't agree with me, I'm not wasting my time on them. I did my part, and it did nothing. I know the cause requires work, so I'm just going to keep on going. I'll make vague social media posts about how people who do this thing suck and flame anyone who doesn't just automatically agree with me. They're part of the problem, after all. I'm <i>doing</i> something about it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Reaction 5</b>: (<span style="color: blue;">Healthy</span>) Continued involvement with the cause, but reduced or changing tactics.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Reaction 6</b>: Option C people who refuse to fit into categories.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Do you see the issue? Activism often involves a lot of repetition. It can hit the point where you feel like with all of that, everyone in the world must have heard about the cause by now (especially for people whose causes touch on abuses they have suffered their whole life -- </span>and <b>being part of the cause does not obligate you to educate</b>:<b> it <i>does</i> obligate you not to literally tell people to fuck off and die for asking to learn more</b><span style="font-size: large;">).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Newsflash: children are growing into teenagers and adults every day. These are </span><span style="font-size: large;">people who need to reach the awareness stage. Assuming they've already been reached is erroneous and unhelpful. Being angry at them for not being reached is counterproductive.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>Activism can be exhausting</b>. There are tons of <a href="http://transform.transformativechange.org/2012/12/self-care-activism-alleviating-burnout/" target="_blank">resources</a> <a href="http://rhrealitycheck.org/article/2013/10/24/self-care-is-not-selfish/" target="_blank">for</a> <a href="https://www.newtactics.org/conversation/self-care-activists-sustaining-your-most-valuable-resource" target="_blank">self-care</a> because of this. I understand being sick of answering the same question that it feels like everyone should know by now. That's why I leave that to the shiny new activists who have the information and are eager to help. I have a collection of links to send to people to get them started. I assume anyone asking a question <i>genuinely doesn't know. </i>That's the most important, I think.</span><br />
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<img height="480" src="http://wideshut.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2013/08/nhs-resized1.jpg" style="-webkit-user-select: none;" width="640" /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I want to thank all of the bloggers out there who approach their cause with this in mind -- there's been many times when I wanted to learn something more, but was put off by the attitude of the people who exposed me to the topic. I won't even be involved in many causes that I feel are important because I don't want to be around the tumors that have become the front of the cause.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Don't be a tumor. If you can't educate, at least don't give the cause bad publicity by associating it with <i>your</i> refusal to educate. If you can't avoid using inflammatory language that causes people to shut down, please stick to sharing links from more reasonable people. You hurt your cause as much as people who are actively against it, if not more so.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>We can make the world a better place</b>. But we can't do that by alienating others. And we need to watch out for burnout and take care of ourselves, too. It's not selfish. Selfish is allowing yourself to become someone whose soapbox is so high, no one not standing on another soapbox can hear you.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">We're in this together -- be it a cause or just this planet we're all living on. Let's act like it.</span>Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-34976317536323498882014-12-05T19:27:00.002-06:002020-03-09T14:23:37.535-05:00What's in a Name?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg2nWCn4O5IglEBwPFgxxshCRmGB_wlc-7eaPNPfQqxxUp9MAebBG5F76zHFPSryQFlz1PduxB2MPOWTWsHMOSI7PW954Q_rllxWfJC3RVg48cC3cuUYeZ06a_CDdEIndfepxmzH5KGeGZ/s1600/Heather_1980_newborn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg2nWCn4O5IglEBwPFgxxshCRmGB_wlc-7eaPNPfQqxxUp9MAebBG5F76zHFPSryQFlz1PduxB2MPOWTWsHMOSI7PW954Q_rllxWfJC3RVg48cC3cuUYeZ06a_CDdEIndfepxmzH5KGeGZ/s1600/Heather_1980_newborn.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me, newborn</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<i><span style="font-size: large;"></span>This entry has been updated as of March 9, 2020, to reflect who I am 5 years later.</i><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I've had to write this so many times that I think it's time I just make a blog post about it. I wasn't born with my pre-transition name. Well, I'm a married person who was assigned female at birth in the US, so there's a good chance that's true, but I mean my whole name.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">My mom was asleep after giving birth when I was named by the other person on my birth certificate. I know people who think my name was cute, but honestly, I think if you give your child a name that means 'tumultuous' or has otherwise negative connotations, you're a jerk. Just for the record. I don't mean an unusual name (I love unusual names), but a name that most people identify as a negative trait.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">No, I'm not telling you what it was, sorry. Part of the reason it was changed was to protect me, and honestly, the name triggers memories of verbal/emotional abuse. I was mocked by my friends' parents, my teachers, everyone. They thought it was so funny to talk about what a problem child I must be -- because of my name. Something that was thrust upon me within hours of coming into the world. They didn't care one bit that it hurt my feelings or gave me a label to aspire to (after all, if I'm already judged as 'bad'...).</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So, when I was seven and that other name on my birth certificate was driven out of the country because he was a disgusting -- let's just stop there -- my name was changed to protect me, as he'd supplied my surname as well and neglected to fill in the middle name field.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So I got a shiny new name via <a href="http://www.legalzoom.com/name-change-guide/court-order-versus-usage-name-change.html" target="_blank">common usage</a>. This was no problem until the Patriot Act went through and the DMV only began accepting court ordered name changes. Suddenly, even though everything except my birth certificate used my legal name, the DMV would not issue me a new ID because I accidentally let my last one expire.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">My birth certificate was never changed because that's an unattainable expense when you live in hand to mouth poverty. So was the whole court order process. My mom couldn't afford it, and really, neither could I until recently. However, in 2013, my husband did ask his work-provided lawyer to start the process for all of that with our tax refund... Never happened. That's a whole different rant. This repeated with several lawyers since. They keep dropping my case because it's complicated.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As a result, I don't have an ID. I can't travel, except in a car, I can't withdraw from my bank account except through the ATM (nor open a new account). I can't purchase alcohol if I get carded (I'm 34 -- at the time this was originally written -- and get carded 90% of the time). I can't go to a club where alcohol is served.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Further, when my second child was three, she got into my carefully guarded and supposedly out of reach and difficult to open drawer containing all my important paperwork. She lost my birth certificate (which was the original, tucked into the one issued by the hospital), my SS card and the only 'official' paperwork I had that proved my name change (a notarized paper from the school district). </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I need a valid ID or a birth certificate to walk into the social security building to request a new card. I don't want to order a new birth certificate until it matches my legal name (which I'm changing again as I've socially transitioned after coming out as trans). That's going to cost over $300 (assuming no lawyer fees) and require me to to do something I'm psychologically incapable of doing -- speak to a judge (I have selective mutism, and thanks to trauma caused by an abusive judge during my disability hearing, judges are on the list of people that render me unable to speak) to 'argue' why I should be legally named the name I legally adopted when I was seven (and now, the name I've chosen for myself since).</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Eventually, I hope this all gets sorted out (it should have been by 2014, when this was written -- thanks Lawyer Fail), but in the meantime, I'm kinda screwed, and there's not really anything I can do about it. I can't prove I am who I have been since I got married years ago because I can't prove I was who I was for the 17 years that preceded my marriage. And that name on my birth certificate? That person hasn't existed since 1987. There is no paperwork other than a birth certificate for them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So there's the whole, annoying story about why I don't have an ID and can't just go get a new one.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Oh, and if I'd gotten a passport back when my ID was valid, none of this would be an issue, because an expired passport is still acceptable ID for the DMV. Just not an expired ID. Or the 3 that I had on my person from the days before they stole and destroyed your old one as they gave you the new. Moral of the story? Get a freaking passport. </span></div>
Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-39330317641375033772014-11-23T14:37:00.000-06:002014-11-26T14:51:52.898-06:00Predators<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHU3Cg0HbT6dI2lYy1sVzTqiwHywVYenim_90ZrMRXXPg3CcVSnbYnS7j1AfZ4VTZGfyGpJRqyK7CLL6ecJGIk0huzJLoTB-RBkp-kcX-VYPTnYMTjpQPQRQ4SZhyphenhyphen2lQOOoEMKS1uYGmbr/s1600/Predatorsd1d_preview.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHU3Cg0HbT6dI2lYy1sVzTqiwHywVYenim_90ZrMRXXPg3CcVSnbYnS7j1AfZ4VTZGfyGpJRqyK7CLL6ecJGIk0huzJLoTB-RBkp-kcX-VYPTnYMTjpQPQRQ4SZhyphenhyphen2lQOOoEMKS1uYGmbr/s400/Predatorsd1d_preview.png" height="400" width="278" /></a></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">In July of 2012, I had the pleasure of announcing that I had become a published author, with <a href="http://musing-mommy.blogspot.com/2012/07/hotel-of-lost-souls.html" target="_blank">my first book</a>, <i>Hotel of Lost Souls</i>. Last February, I had the joy of announcing the sequel, <a href="http://musing-mommy.blogspot.com/2013/04/pet.html" target="_blank"><i>Pet</i></a>, and then in December, their sequel, <a href="http://musing-mommy.blogspot.com/2013/12/bridges_22.html" target="_blank">Bridges!</a></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">If you like vampires and Urban Fantasy (especially Anita Blake or Sookie Stackhouse), then you should like my books! <i>Hotel </i>and <i>Pet </i>were a blend of Urban Fantasy and Psychological Horror. <i>Bridges</i> and <i>Predators</i> are much more Urban Fantasy/Dark Fantasy. They explore the relationships
between the characters and Zack finding his place in his world. It's
about life and death and life after death. </span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">From the back cover:
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Death has been following Zack Henderson for ten years now. He woke up surrounded by it on a train a decade ago. He's watched it take friend and foe, strangers and family. It's weighed heavily on his mind.</i> </span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>It was through death that his life finally began. He understands better than most how fragile life is, and he's done being prey.<br /><br />At some point, you have to stop running from death and embrace it.</i></span></blockquote>
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</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: large;">
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You can read a <a href="http://hskallinger.blogspot.com/2014_11_01_archive.html" target="_blank">sample chapter</a> on my writer's blog or on Amazon or Lulu, and if you like it, you can purchase it from <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/predators-hs-kallinger/1120815510?ean=2940150476738" target="_blank">Barnes and Noble</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Predators-Lost-Humanity-Book-4-ebook/dp/B00Q1S8EMG/ref=sr_1_1?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1416775088&sr=1-1&keywords=Predators" target="_blank">Amazon</a>, <a href="http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/predators-9" target="_blank">Kobo</a> or <a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/495581" target="_blank">Smashwords</a>. All the links for purchase are available at <a href="http://xakana.wix.com/hs-kallinger#%21books/cnec" target="_blank">my website</a>.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">You don't need an eReader to read my eBook, either! You can read the book now on your phone, tablet, iPad or computer using the <a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/u/free-nook-apps/379003593/">Nook App</a> or the Amazon <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/feature.html?ie=UTF8&docId=1000493771">Kindle App</a> (both of which are free!). If you're using an iPad or iPod, you can get <a href="http://itunes.apple.com/us/app/stanza/id284956128?mt=8">Stanza</a>, a free eReading app and read any format that you like! Several other apps are available, too.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">If nothing can replace the feel and smell of a real book for you, head on over to Lulu and pick up a<a href="http://www.lulu.com/shop/hs-kallinger/predators/paperback/product-21913205.html" target="_blank"> </a><a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" target="_blank">slightly-larger-than-average paperback</a>!
You'll get to experience it the way it was meant to be read! eBooks
can't display the little artsy touches at the beginning of each chapter
or the fonts that the handwritten notes in the story use. With a physical book, you get back cover art, too! </span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3IwJUlWbnF13WGBc0o3nODNX7k-Fje65XafHx7dFEm6tH08wHQcBmYngIbNLvHlPWG29NPdXuIM__GNUywkugIM3fAZWLA3IggpMPt5xVzBcMo64f4B55x3uSJ8WcwfBjU7YON66Fqxrw/s1600/Full_Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">You can follow my <a href="http://www.facebook.com/HSKallinger">author page</a>
on Facebook if you would like updates on future titles and to be able
to connect with me personally as well as other readers. Thanks to everyone who has encouraged me over the years and to everyone who purchased a copy of <i>Hotel of Lost Souls,</i> <i>Pet </i>and<i> Bridges</i>!</span></span>Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-31356493149162746262014-10-31T10:29:00.001-05:002014-10-31T10:29:11.028-05:00My Love Story<span style="font-size: large;">Once upon a time, I barely considered myself human. I had a very... difficult... childhood, and bullying in my adolescence broke me completely. Of all things, this led me to the person who would help rebuild me into someone who wanted to amount to more than just a background character in someone else's life. To tell my greatest love story, is to start with the one before.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-38URXktcCvEdQDe55eisvE6Fxb2kh2XcN1KRvNwlZF3zZjz4DQ1CQ_hksprBD52IUbzKjRR2o5tHTgtQ1vL5_rplnW47zazQ8CyZpBeuw741xNMF9KgrsDMzP91vd7fpp2uC7hm1rDda/s1600/blanket_friends.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-38URXktcCvEdQDe55eisvE6Fxb2kh2XcN1KRvNwlZF3zZjz4DQ1CQ_hksprBD52IUbzKjRR2o5tHTgtQ1vL5_rplnW47zazQ8CyZpBeuw741xNMF9KgrsDMzP91vd7fpp2uC7hm1rDda/s320/blanket_friends.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">We were friends who fell in love. We had a relationship that lasted 16 months and while the first ten were pretty great, the last six were hell. Her mother found us together and, as predicted, rejected our relationship. We were never going to last all that long anyway -- as wonderful as we were for each other, we were also terrible for each other. Our personalities were both just too big and I was not capable of meeting her needs, nor was she capable of meeting mine. The death blow was that our parenting and core beliefs were completely incompatible (though I hadn't reached the point yet where I had decided it was not worth trying to change someone else's parenting beliefs and it was simply a matter of compatibility from the start), and being a mother was too important to me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">She eventually dumped me after our relationship became unbearable for both of us. It broke both of our hearts. We hurt each other so much toward the end and while some of it was simple incompatibility (opposites attract, sure, but they also burn each other up), a lot of it was simple societal rejection. Our relationship was not acceptable, and it conflicted with her religion. In my desperation to not let go and her desperation to live a normal life, we collided and burned -- loving and hurting spectacularly (we're both quite dramatic people, so it couldn't be any less).</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When the day came and everything fell apart around me, I was left alone in the night (my own fault), crying out for help (literally -- I was miles from home with no way back), afraid and spiraling and utterly lost. Some kind soul answered my cry and called the police, and an officer arrived. He stepped out of his patrol car, his sunglasses on, and full cowboy in effect. He took me home, where I dove onto the computer, desperate to make contact with someone, clutching for a lifeline.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">He was there. At the time, we were friends through an online fanfic group for Star Trek: Voyager. I was a writer and he was an avid fan who gave some of the best, most encouraging feedback. There had been some drama on the group over how he joined, because he lied to gain entrance before he was old enough and it led to a mess that ended in his leaving the group and my (being a moderator) reinstating him. It was the first online community I was a big part of and they're still a family to me, even if we only catch up in passing from time to time, since when Voyager ended, my stories started drying up (much to my now-husband's sadness).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN4XqfA4PB6HJtf5IFFfG5Zsy89rMVfBZ0LnluVsfC6M1sk1OZymv0KJ6Kn99MRQE-446lnGme5A5zWjdrc51x6tkbS8CmFyMK15Au2UnjHjpJgY216XvE3cOZDeGRzmiAFHL9jPXlozj8/s1600/001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN4XqfA4PB6HJtf5IFFfG5Zsy89rMVfBZ0LnluVsfC6M1sk1OZymv0KJ6Kn99MRQE-446lnGme5A5zWjdrc51x6tkbS8CmFyMK15Au2UnjHjpJgY216XvE3cOZDeGRzmiAFHL9jPXlozj8/s1600/001.JPG" height="320" width="289" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">My mother's day 2010 gift--a tattoo that represented our beginnings. The words are Klingon for "Truth and Love."</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">At the time, it was in full swing, though, and we chatted regularly with the others and two ladies in particular. He was the only one online and despite having class the next morning, he stayed up and talked to me all night, keeping me company in what was one of the worst times of my life. When he finally had to call it and go to bed, I stepped away from the computer and went to lie in my room and stare.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The next three days, I couldn't sleep or eat and I didn't so much as drink. My heart rate was above 200bpm every time I checked, and I grew weaker. Eventually, two of my friends decided to try to cheer me up, but when they came over, they spent the whole time talking to each other, ignoring me. It wasn't their fault -- they were catching up, and I wasn't much company, lying on the couch, waiting to die (and considering that I was so dehydrated that I hadn't used the bathroom in over a day, it didn't seem far off).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Finally, unable to bear being alone in a room full of my friends, I retreated to the computer to find him there. His nickname was Voy. I was Xak. Back then, that's what we called each other, too. I complained that I felt outside, and they eventually noticed, and we all engaged in a game of I, Never. Two of us at my house broke out a bottle of amaretto my best friend had left in my fridge, and he and another friend just drank water or tea.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I ended up very drunk, very quickly. I fell out of the computer chair, and my drinking buddy took over the keyboard. I eventually passed out and slept for the first time in three days. When I woke up, I was <i>starving</i>. I was on the road to recovery.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">A couple weeks later, Voy asked if he could call me. We had been talking every night and growing closer and closer. I don't remember if it was that night or another, but he said the three big words to me. Words I have no memory of any male ever having said to me before that, other than my grandpa Dave. It was a major shock to me -- especially when I realized that I felt the same way.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"I love you."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">We hadn't even met, but it was something we already knew. So, he changed the plans he had been making to fly me down to New Orleans and himself down to meet there with two other friends meeting for the first time from our online group. He was going to fly to Missouri first to pick me up. We would have a whole night together first.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">On November 1, 2001, we officially became a couple. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">My ex-girlfriend and I remained friends, though we had problems learning our new roles and boundaries as friends. Then the day came that my ex-boyfriend came over to hang out and watch a movie. Things were okay, I was telling him that I had a boyfriend, etc. and then my mom ruined it by mentioning that he was in California.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">This seemed to be a challenge to my ex-bf, who proceeded to sexually assault me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvUeFE0EKp8ObPk-W9ouiWpitKJJ-Bz1DXR5jkYe4gFvjqxfRhmYTt1ECinBe-YbsdGnKfhEs8iwJtphoOiI8XZ2_VQYHRe0NjO38Tocni6ERfpf7uADtqrRBXfep7I4GxqlzRjceqoCJZ/s1600/No.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvUeFE0EKp8ObPk-W9ouiWpitKJJ-Bz1DXR5jkYe4gFvjqxfRhmYTt1ECinBe-YbsdGnKfhEs8iwJtphoOiI8XZ2_VQYHRe0NjO38Tocni6ERfpf7uADtqrRBXfep7I4GxqlzRjceqoCJZ/s320/No.jpg" height="320" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">This was to be only one of many discoveries in regards to how little people respected online or long distance relationships. While I recovered from that, my husband was having girls pushed on him by his mother (this happened more after he actually visited) in the mistaken belief that someone closer to home would be preferable to the unknown girl halfway across the country taking up all his time.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">People dismissed our feelings, because we hadn't met in a traditional way. It's a pretty shallow thing to believe you have to physically see someone to love them. That certainly isn't true of me and it wasn't true of him, either. In his case, he was also very young -- only eighteen to my twenty-one.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">We eagerly awaited the day that we would meet in person. We sent each other letters, and he called me regularly. He sent me calling cards so that I could call him back. We carried on our dial-up romance, and I fretted that I wouldn't like him in person. I worried that we would be physically incompatible, that our (for lack of a better word) auras wouldn't mesh.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">We started trying to scare each other off. We unloaded all our crazies in batches as it came to us. We discussed politics and religion and all of the big topics that can destroy friendships. We didn't get scared off. We fell more in love. We were talking to each other for the majority of every day, not growing sick of each other's phone company.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Finally, the big day arrived, and he sent me a picture of himself, wearing his 'boot' (he fractured his ankle a few weeks before) so that I would know who he was when he got off the plane. I didn't end up needing it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">My sister called right before I left, fretting that our grandma had convinced her he was going to be an axe murderer. On his side, his family warned him that I would be some old dude. We were undeterred. My ex-gf drove me to the airport, where I stood against the glass, watching his plane unload. The second he stepped off, everything disappeared except for him.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I felt like something I had been waiting for my entire life, that I didn't know was missing, had finally come home. We barely hesitated the second we had the chance to embrace. All of my fears and worries vanished and I had my Voy. I had no idea how short two weeks would be.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">We went out on our first date, to get tattooed. It was his first, and he'd been talking about wanting one, so I took him to my shop. I got my second tattoo (and my artist sucked, but his was fine). After we were done, we went out to eat (us and my ex) and then finally came back to my house, where we spent the whole night holding hands, gazing into each other's eyes and talking.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc4s4QwCP5GkASGpxBms3bnyla4BT8EGP0_6dpxz3I61M0bYR2RtlQLUp4D2VMuB_f_tY2yf6D8yMDxtY1kku9bxGPRe6UlKeYplMrLG5mNlabo2JFIRiqBTQ_LVeyxHcVsJPTBw4nh0sG/s1600/Heather_ankhtat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjc4s4QwCP5GkASGpxBms3bnyla4BT8EGP0_6dpxz3I61M0bYR2RtlQLUp4D2VMuB_f_tY2yf6D8yMDxtY1kku9bxGPRe6UlKeYplMrLG5mNlabo2JFIRiqBTQ_LVeyxHcVsJPTBw4nh0sG/s1600/Heather_ankhtat.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">My tattoo from that evening.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Seriously. That's what we did (we did some kissing toward the morning). We had already talked about how much we were rushing things already and we wanted to take them slow.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">My ex-gf came back the next morning to take us to the airport. It was my first time ever on a plane, and I was terrified. The flight to Texas, where we had a layover, was okay. I enjoyed looking out the window. Then Texas was horrible. From breaking my favorite pair of shoes (checking for bombs) to the atmosphere to the 'don't shake your baby' posters everywhere, I wanted to get away as soon as possible.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">We got on the plane a little late, and there were no two seats together. I stood in the middle of the aisle and broke down. I was still terrified of flying, but worse, I was phobic of strangers. No one would offer to move. Finally the flight attendant had to cajole someone into giving up their seat so we could sit together. Then we were stuck on the runway, frustrated because we had no way to tell our friends that we were going to be late as they fixed something on the plane.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Finally, we fell from the sky into Louisiana (that's what it felt like to me -- the turbulence was stuff of nightmares to a new flier). We were excited, but our friends were mad and berated us for not calling to let them know that we would be late... even though the flight was delayed on the tarmac, and this was before we had mobile phones.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The next week was heaven. There were a few bumps, mainly caused by miscommunication and surprising lack of courtesy on the part of our friends (who knew I was violently allergic to cigarettes, and yet didn't warn me that her family would smoke inside and had no sympathy when I had to leave, and further got angry when I was upset that they went through my belongings and mocked things that were personal to me). But we thought they were minor issues that we got through, just caused by unfamiliarity with one another.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">We flew back to my state and spent our last week together inseparable. Finally, it was time for him to go home. It was like being asked to give up an internal organ for me. I had been in love before, thought I'd found a soul mate, but it was nothing like I felt for him. My ex almost started crying watching us say good-bye, pressing our hands to the glass that separated us, the first distance in two weeks that was about to grow by 1,850 miles.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I knew I'd found the one. It was the first time in my life that I thought maybe marriage wasn't a horrible idea. I had never wanted to be married, never wanted to be trapped with someone -- but he was different. It didn't sound like a trap.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Then came the blow from our 'friends.' A good-bye letter was sent, accusing us of being maliciously responsible for everything that went wrong during our visit. We were accused of ignoring them (we could hear them enjoying their new relationship through the thin walls of the motel we stayed in together, so we thought they were just as happy as we were just being together) and that we'd had 'a week together already' (we'd had barely a day). The letter was hostile, hurtful, and worst of all, it ended with "don't bother replying, because we won't read it."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Years ago, that hurt tremendously. I loved one of them as a close friend, and to have her girlfriend send a letter like that to me was heartbreaking. Twelve years later, I just hope that they have lived as happy a life as we have.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl5LocNAjU1hrO76jtkb3QcTZfyTeAikS8_3QicpzHbdPTr47zeTMQ-2mxF521UkW450lMz8xXIe8L4Fo6dELDC4oj9ahgoiRpPzHC4ykdBH4e26ROEUp95K33x68NCbhldakE3Ol_5nEo/s1600/Ice_fountain.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl5LocNAjU1hrO76jtkb3QcTZfyTeAikS8_3QicpzHbdPTr47zeTMQ-2mxF521UkW450lMz8xXIe8L4Fo6dELDC4oj9ahgoiRpPzHC4ykdBH4e26ROEUp95K33x68NCbhldakE3Ol_5nEo/s1600/Ice_fountain.jpg" height="320" width="240" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">There was a huge ice storm that winter. My mom left with her boyfriend of the time to go to Palm Springs, so I was alone when it hit. My ex and I were still friends, and she rescued me from my cold house -- but I couldn't abide being away from the phone, my only contact with my Voy. So I went home and lit every candle I had for light and a tiny bit of warmth. I cuddled my kitties under blankets and rode out the storm, watching the other side of the street get power back a day before I would.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">In February, he sent me a ticket to come visit him in California. I think that may have been the unforgivable act for my ex. I'd told her that nothing would ever make me go to California. I hated the Eden complex people had regarding it. I also hated that its distance from my home state had shattered many dreams into impossibility. But here I was, flying out to the land I swore I wouldn't go to for her. Of course, I would have if it had been important, but how could she have ever known that?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBswbphgc52DEpHeKzrK8CHHrSyPNOdLB1grhdQZZM7n50l45ngCz9-933P8lmAdA7b48wozaFv8Zoj5cAgoR-Y0cXsLTwIsTZHyonnprdtwwsCM0M8D8RPlrHULxoh29Ah3AaA_xkJHKO/s1600/from_plane2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBswbphgc52DEpHeKzrK8CHHrSyPNOdLB1grhdQZZM7n50l45ngCz9-933P8lmAdA7b48wozaFv8Zoj5cAgoR-Y0cXsLTwIsTZHyonnprdtwwsCM0M8D8RPlrHULxoh29Ah3AaA_xkJHKO/s1600/from_plane2.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">California</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Being back with him was like coming up from drowning into the most perfect air above. Still, I was scared and otherwise alone in a state far, far from my native Missouri. People were mostly friendly, but it didn't stop me from being nervous about everything. We had fun and reaffirmed that we needed to be together. Neither of us could tolerate the long distance much longer, so he started making plans.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjS_sKXwDqlm0A_ABHkgkW1tj1TBoevSmtjVu5lzuU6gvJSOg3g0LxAGaki_8VgDEM_stwi6cToZ5kV1Xa2wX48iDs2fl0WAhYHHa91EPmu1PKn28JnoleYSnwcnAeCaj6KHNaIDdh3Gx5/s1600/101_0106.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjS_sKXwDqlm0A_ABHkgkW1tj1TBoevSmtjVu5lzuU6gvJSOg3g0LxAGaki_8VgDEM_stwi6cToZ5kV1Xa2wX48iDs2fl0WAhYHHa91EPmu1PKn28JnoleYSnwcnAeCaj6KHNaIDdh3Gx5/s1600/101_0106.JPG" height="320" width="640" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">And I saw, for the first time, a place I'd been drawing pictures of since I was a child. A place of mountains and palm trees and my favorite oak trees. A place he'd grown up, and I'd only seen in my imagination (and probably more than a few t.v. shows and movies). Santa Rosa, California wasn't my home, but I felt like it had always been a part of me I'd never known was there.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgamUbBUK1nH_ZXZJ0JbelzwnhDPQ4ylHfpkcSMCLp-xSB6m9kksc9koxKECc1RWow7yiFkCt7g2sBzOkjyOpuhSA1uZzWgwx3w58QYVLOBPNyyADWDxS9yzo3xQJY34MXJ0f5ie9PrvsUN/s1600/101_0110.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgamUbBUK1nH_ZXZJ0JbelzwnhDPQ4ylHfpkcSMCLp-xSB6m9kksc9koxKECc1RWow7yiFkCt7g2sBzOkjyOpuhSA1uZzWgwx3w58QYVLOBPNyyADWDxS9yzo3xQJY34MXJ0f5ie9PrvsUN/s1600/101_0110.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">At the end of the trip, his dad took us to the airport. We walked in, and I got checked in; then he said he'd go tell his dad how much longer it would be and then be right back.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">He never came back.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I ran back to the front of the airport and watched what looked like his dad's van driving away in confusion. I broke down as they called my flight to board and he didn't come back. We hadn't said good-bye.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I cried the whole way through the security check, boarding and the nearly 4 hour flight home. The flight attendants worried over me and gave me drinks and snacks, trying to cheer me up, but it was in vain. I'd missed my last good-bye, my last hug, my last kiss of the impossible person I never thought I'd find.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">We found out a long time later that his dad had been hiding that he was in significant pain, not wanting to bother his family with it. I wish he'd told us. I could have understood that. I didn't understand why I left feeling like his entire family didn't like me. I hadn't really even had a chance to offend his dad.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">We finally set a date for him to come live with me. We agreed that I'd fly out in April and bring him back in May. He was going to rent a U-Haul and move out. I flew back as planned, but at the end, his family talked him into taking a train instead. I felt betrayed because his mom waited until I wasn't in the apartment to even bring it up.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">She didn't believe he was really going to go, even though he'd been telling her for weeks. To me, having our plans changed in a way that would mean he would leave behind basically everything he owned, was a way of her keeping him tied there -- something he didn't want. He wanted to go out and make it on his own, and he was afraid that any safety net would be too tempting to fall into.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">His mom and I had a huge fight. At the time, I couldn't see her as what she was: a mother losing her baby, her oldest child, to a painful stretch of miles that would make it nearly impossible to see each other again. I saw her as the mother who wouldn't let her son go to start his own life. My heart breaks for her now, but then, I was hurt and angry. I knew I wasn't good enough for him, but he wanted me, and I knew that he was the missing key to living.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Because I wasn't living. I was existing. I had nothing to live for. All of my dreams and hopes were ripped away with nasty words like 'unemployable' and 'disabled.' My vanishing vision and PTSD that would render me a permanent passenger made college impossible -- although I saw no reason to waste the time and money on me. After all, I've been legally declared worthless. A 'waste of potential.'</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Of course, this wasn't to happen for another six months, but the effects of those things were already drowning me. A biologist. A psychologist. A scientist. Those were the things I'd dedicated my life to becoming. Those were things I would never become (not officially, anyway).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">But he didn't care that doors were shut in my face everywhere I turned. He didn't see my disabilities as defining me. They were just a part of me. They were something that he was willing to struggle with beside me -- because they would be a struggle between us as well. Trust was an alien concept to me. I 'knew' he would eventually get sick of me and leave. After all, I'd certainly tried to enough times.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVzMyTxF7Kvvn4ThWLLQr0_vKZ33CbsbPiUOugEytA7t8CfJ1PekWknTPIXmDm3Uk9DXLiygWa4gLEipDYfmt5_qXjqXv4yc5BrX8wcwKwCJGDYEPK2v6PdxcN-sr-o-VJcpRUd7YXsq3y/s1600/our_train.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVzMyTxF7Kvvn4ThWLLQr0_vKZ33CbsbPiUOugEytA7t8CfJ1PekWknTPIXmDm3Uk9DXLiygWa4gLEipDYfmt5_qXjqXv4yc5BrX8wcwKwCJGDYEPK2v6PdxcN-sr-o-VJcpRUd7YXsq3y/s1600/our_train.jpg" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">Our train</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">But in the end, the train was all we could afford. We said good-bye, and in the early morning, our hearts broke watching his mom and little sister holding each other, crying and waving as we drove off. He started over with nothing but me. We cuddled in my tiny twin bed, and he got a job he could walk to. He told me to give him six months, and he'd know for sure by then if we were meant to be together.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">He proposed on our first anniversary with a bouquet of roses. He had been planning to wait until we moved into our own place and he could get a ring, but I was pretty adamant that I didn't care about jewelry (and I most certainly didn't want <i>expensive</i> jewelry). We had our own place and were about to move in, but I couldn't wait anymore. I was afraid he still wasn't sure, and I demanded to know if that was so. I still feel like I ruined his proposal, but I hadn't been so sure of anything as I was of him.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">He was just as sure of me, it turned out. He did eventually get me a ring (a cheap placeholder ring, although I was certainly very happy with it -- I ended up loving the expensive engagement ring he found later even more than my wedding ring). We were <a href="http://musing-mommy.blogspot.com/2010/11/anniversary.html" target="_blank">married</a> two years after, on our anniversary again (so I only have to remember one!).</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhUb2cujbN79L6E90EHDpO1d09ed7nm-bxYOp7AkvB56FZKFbnM11UQmvLPE5itPS0khjQ-BJ6VVIFpURm6qiG20mli5pywwccnSDX_-iltziHjPpUDK6fLAsm5gmaYJvGLAmW8Dkjrk8z/s1600/Xaks_Rings.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhUb2cujbN79L6E90EHDpO1d09ed7nm-bxYOp7AkvB56FZKFbnM11UQmvLPE5itPS0khjQ-BJ6VVIFpURm6qiG20mli5pywwccnSDX_-iltziHjPpUDK6fLAsm5gmaYJvGLAmW8Dkjrk8z/s1600/Xaks_Rings.jpg" height="225" width="320" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">That was ten years ago. Ten years with the most amazing man I've ever known. Ten years that have changed my entire worldview. Ten years of a happily ever after that I hope will last forever.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkpvNoyIy_hKRzkbFxa6D15aPFKs73m9omf5-MnaMdKBDf19orXVHN1ySeTvm_v2lWUm1n3bISlx5N2JV2RiB-GuBonapNcge6piBOf7NfAMLmpbbhhU11pnpb4SbriWlBMxrc1qLBYZRc/s1600/weddingtopper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkpvNoyIy_hKRzkbFxa6D15aPFKs73m9omf5-MnaMdKBDf19orXVHN1ySeTvm_v2lWUm1n3bISlx5N2JV2RiB-GuBonapNcge6piBOf7NfAMLmpbbhhU11pnpb4SbriWlBMxrc1qLBYZRc/s1600/weddingtopper.jpg" height="400" width="307" /></span></a></div>
<br />Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-57306435807564296332014-10-04T19:30:00.000-05:002014-10-04T19:37:09.195-05:00Random Musings and Rants on Character Development and Criticisms<span style="font-size: large;">I both love and hate tropes. I love to abuse them -- take them and twist them into something other than the way they're usually used. I like to use them appropriately. I like to piss all over them.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">One complaint I expected for my first books was for the main character. He's not John Wayne. He doesn't <i>like</i> John Wayne. He's not Jack from <i>Will and Grace</i>. I'm not sure they'd even get along. No, he's not a manly man, and he's not a flaming queen. He's bisexual. He's a geek. More, he's a B character in his own world.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">That was the whole point.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">He was meant to be an ordinary geek. Not some hero or super-villain in training. Part of my thought process behind him was to look at the flunky -- the guy under the villain -- and follow his transition to becoming said flunky. Not even the villain's right hand man (who, in this series, is actually a woman).</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" src="http://36.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mb30k5lhC11rhh3gwo1_500.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">pictured: a geek's kitten from Le Meow</span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">So, I get people bitching that he's not manly enough. Someone whined about how my characters weren't fitting into gender boxes.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I. Hate. Gender. Boxes.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">They aren't realistic, for one. They aren't healthy for another. I can't stand the guides that say "How to write a believable [gender] character." They're full of gag worthy stereotypes that don't reflect any of the people I've known in my life of either gender. </span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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xH7aX/Ef+M1T1kztEO32LEcV58vyitZ6X4UvTGs9L8KXrr6X3NfJx9f8Tfzl6D9DX/U6j/CX+OvXK8j+hr/qdR/hL/HXrlQ5vblFToKKKKibCiiigKX0/pSffH8tKYpfT+lJ98fy0oGKKKKAooooITtdwp9TpykZXIMrhXvg+Jvy3tvif6CvO+IceGnvBNo4kkVApU3I+w5YNhJ6P4+jt13r1+vDvpQ/7lL9yP8AgrFdPGS3XZZx6y2KnDtEx9fxKs6uYO5YKFBPQXAHsAJJt4dfCvQvoV+01f3Yv9ZK83r0j6FftNX92L/WSrt6RTFwx0hTtknJkm9usobtr/3DU/fH8C1C1Ndtf+4an74/gWoWvNZPbnzn7vcaf3NPKPs9K+iX7LUf4o/gFX6qD9Ev2Wo/xR/AKv1dLTe7h5ftH4m/73QKKKKnUhRRRQFFFR/HtS8cDNGyK10F3KqLM6hrFiFysTjc2ytQSFRvHeCxayPlThimQayuyXIva5Ugnr0qAm7YmKN5HCMqojLduW7gpI7mwDKPsmx72Jt1qUHaA46gmML+jkKSzkAuSbLcISBgYXvY7SjyNInYRv8AZrw71T/503+6j+zXh3qn/wA6b/dXWHtflgOQbuFIs+S3kOCXYL0MiyLfyS/jas6TtbzCoWINnKIUKyEhiypKDugI+paRyD05RHjW/pLeLHDHg00/0d6BHV0jkDIwdTzpdmUgg+l5in+L9ktLqZObMjF7BbiR12F7bKQPE0tL2glSadTErrGzlQrkNy4oYZHsMDnITLsuw2G46nVe1EjBcIY2JIUkT3TJ5OUmDiM5rla5sLWOxIsdL+v7XNvjvbHO9J2n5Mf2faD1b/50v+6pHgvZrT6RmaBWUuAGu7vsDcekTbrSc/agKulYR7alUezOFKh2iTFdjmwMoNttlO9cIu1zMgcQCxLE3lFwihCSQF+0AkF0Ntx6XjWkY6RO8RCW+pzXjhteZjzWuiqe/a9gXPKVgCqqolAINpSwdiLLIRGAEOwNrtvcWHhWseUOzIFUO6LZ8iwjdkLEYjHdelzW6A/S8v2ie5v6UxS8v2ie5v6UDFFFQfHeJtDLCA6hGPeHdMhOaKuKMwJXvNcrc3K7eBCcoqof84lVTmRoXMbswSQ7MizPjZk6WhYE3JB2t413/wCZXM0UXLRGaTGS8mXR5EtEMRn9ncnbEMNjegtFViXsFoWZmaN7sSx+tkG5Nztl51tq+1QRnUImSNgc5QgBMyxKXOJKA5ZdDt51prO0ci/o0ioojlgaUrI2DBi8CIGaxCIOcSxsenssdbVrbrCTHmyY/YtMeTi/0ccPJuYn/wA6X/dWP7NeHeqf/Om/3VJcM480yyOIgEjQNfmDIs0Sy4gFQoWzekW8OljSK9sNlvEu6szWlJ3XmjFLoOYByjkdguS+lUlbTWNolHb1p4rc5k/wHsnpdG7Pp0ZWcYteR32Bv0Ym1TlVSTtY6Flk04BGwtLkMg0IOR5YxW2oiOVj0fbYFtz2sN7CEXKIQDKMspOV1AU2j+uUZi9ypFul8TMz1IjZaKKgOHdoTLMkXKsSt2PMBxYZXspAyS6kZDe5Hd6kR0PbBhHdoldg+PclABH1hsSRZJbRkYE27y3YX2wLhRVVftWUJBiLqoYkhhnfLUhVWPGx20zb3/WHXepngXEv0iLOyjvMncfmoSjFSVfEZDbyFBI0vp/Sk++P5aUxS+n9KT74/lpQMUUVB9q+JPAsGDBeZNgxOHo8mWTYuwUHJF3J8/EignKKrE3adkLqY1IGyOZQqsQ8cZZzgRGt5VNxlsD7L7DtUodlZUCqVUvzQQLnHJ+6MQSRj+0DfbpQWU1XOMdidHqpTNPGzOQASJZFFlFh3VYClpe15WFpjEoUFQAZSCzGAahhtGQLKbC53I8PEl7YWaUCIdxsReXH9d0vJ3PqgeWSvW4ZOl9sxMx0YmN2n9mvDvVP/nTf7qlez/ZfTaIudOjKZAoa8jvcLcj0ibekelc9d2h5csSGP00VzeQCTvXGKRgHmEW3swsN96U0/a0tyrwgcxrbShtiUUGPu9+xcFgccQrHcWvmb2nlMm0O/EOxeknleWRGLubsRJIvgB0DWGwFcP7PtB6t/wDOl/3UrD2zZgj4JiY3YqsmYLX0pT63EWAWd8+6bYnrbeS1faB0WGQxrjJFJIwL7hkVWCqwBVhuxJ8hfwIqGcVJ7oWY1eeI2i8/zJ7gnAYdIrLApUOcjdmfcC3VifCpOqzq+1WGnjm5QObSKV5th9TnkY2x+sy5Zw2GWS9L1lO1BdzHHGpkzCYtLjYl9QveshK7acnofT9lzvEREbQhte154rTvKy0VWB2uWzFkVbF1H1oNyuBVMsbZMHJspb0ep8JHgnGDqGlGGIjYqO8GJsWXvLYFGBU3G/Ubne2WqWooooNXawv/AO/3VXm7Vx45GN8Cl9+WTkZViWIqH7rMzr1ItfvWqxMt9jUbPw3SxxktFGEUG916AkE+03Kofeq+QoEpe00IXLlylQVHoqLsyCQIAzA5BDl0tsd72B1j4zEpKxROc5QCbBQ5dxG7943OJxBBAPQDYbMQHSS/VIqtcByoQ2GP1aljbusMCtjY9wjwNK6PX6GQLJiitMUJDJZshgyFttgC8Vm6Xdd9xQdIu1MDYWWSz23xAC7xDvb3FnmjQgAkHL9kkc9Nx/TTNC4je5ciNmVVVS6rZwxbEllkUAC795hYEMAvw79CKQzEG6X+0TdXnYTNI9lsCWF89lvfy2cWTQLgAIxZgV7psrMVsbWstm5fW1jh02oNdf2jETPkoAR8Sbn0QdOGfYeAmvbxxFN6HjcUsvKVWDYhugxF1V8CQTZsWU+W+xvcVrqkjWXJ9MvekUCTuks55WLW6ixRd+v1S+yluGcR0Yu6IsZVVXuqDdGWNlC4XuCZEUDqSthe1BniOsVDGupiMj3DKIb4A5Iq5BmAJ5pS1wbd07WJGw7Sw9Arm6cwABCTci6EZXD95etgb7E03qNVp2EUjYsJMRG+JZTdlZO/ay9/C17d63jSgGjWR7wqpWRYcsLglkjddwLKO9Gt2tuAPKg7ScciWHmsrAESsRiMgYAxkUgGxYFGGxIuNj41tBxYys6QJ3kJvzO4rKGkQshXIn6xCNwNt/K6f6ZoZg0bIhRGLDJO6zPuzJtvcv8A+We16f4JoUjDsITE7sWfLAuxYl92Qm4DO4G/n7yEmK4S/aJ7m/pTFLy/aJ7m/pQMVH8R4ikTxq4J5jYg90Kp2F2ZiAOoAAux3sDY1IUvqdFHIVLoGKm63F7G4N/zAP4CggoO1cJRGeKRS0ImKhVbEMhkCEg9SoJv06AkEgHu/aSIM6mOXNMVK4oTnIyKIsg+Ia8ke5IXfr3TaQ/4RB6lPRK+iPRJJK+7c/ma2m4VC5ctEhL2Dkgd61rX9oxXfr3R5Cgh/wDmCCQXeNsOYgjYgfWOY0mQAXuG7wFj4rXT/miEqCUk7xFhipJRhfmABt1t4el7KkW4RDdCEC4MrAKAATGpVL7fqg7e4eVc9HwDTxoqLEpCkNcgFiwFsybbm1Ak3aHuah0iNoUV1yIBkDFxcWvYdza+/sFMaHjcUjrGquHOQxIUFQjOjk2J2DxslxcXt4EGm04TABIohQCX7QYiz3ue8PHq35msaXhUUb5ouNkwUAAKqls2sAOrNYknrYUEND2rS4M0TRoYUlyNmAz55KsB/dgJFr3vvba7MfaJGtaKQlrAJZc8izi18sLd0m+Vqkl4VAOkKfCP75//AGS/G3nWYuGQrjjGox9Hbcbk7H/yb8zQI67j0ULsrq/dBuwUFQcDLy73vfEX6W3G9Lv2ogUZMkirgZGYoLJiJDYgG5P1ElioIOIsdxd/U8Eikm5zjI4FMSqYkEFTc45NszCxJG/S9dhwqG1uUlrWsVB2AYWN+uzyfEfOgiY+0cZ7ksToxZ1KgAlVVigLYt1JB9G4HUkDepPguJhUpG0atdgHILnI3zYhmuWvfc3333oj4Np1xCwoMcrWUbZ+l+fjTsaBQABYAWA8gOgoNqX0/pSffH8tKYpfT+lJ98fy0oGKh+0HFuQPsi/1csnUADlAGxvvve2wNTFRHFNZpSxWfFinUFGa2a2K3AIuUJOPW1z0BsCs3aaIXXBw2LkgqO5gXUh7E9TG4utxt13F2/8Ai6YSuY3xjOJNl77A4kIMrmxt1A60vJPomLEqjFQxOMbPdZD37YqcwS+9r2yN/GuHGeKaNdNOpOSBSzrGp75Kc8qrWxJKWY72ANzYG9B3btJDsCj3Ks9rIxDR5ZRlVYnMct7G2Jx2PSuMPGIMyVQ5yKhJZlYWaQLy1s5vYuScLqDe5vWUfQg2aONCOZHuoFljZ0JLDZQbSWuQT3vbXfSJo2dAka5FAwHLYELldS117l2UkE2vietqDie0EAJk5cmVtzit+St3EvpehYsf2uu19qbTi8bJM2BtCxVlOCsT0uAWFgxuBljelBqNEHESRIxllaMhU2yZHLs2262ikUkXF0I8DbGt4hoY459kbumSRAO82JlPj/ehntfYFDQZh7RadUULG4jCXBxBUWQuIvSvlir+zbruL7J2hAhWWWMoObPGVHeYfo/O8tsisJ8bb2BOxrWXU6BUtjGVsxxEZv3FdGUrbutYSri1ibMPA1iHW6IqYjGqrH3grR2BMqKzFRbdyNRiV9ImQ7b7hrN2giyu8DjlAEXwDCRpG0/KtlYG4PevjY9RXSXtTCoLcuUgMq3wUFnaITYhSwa4jIJuPYLnauuejkysivZDI1oye6SJPStbIsA1r3uPZS8Wu0UisrRqq92SzJbK8UZDDbdwjIuPpWFrWoOz9oU5gRYnP1pjbZbi0cknMEeWZB5bAd0Fr3F6keE65Z4xIgIDX2JUsCNu9gxAOw2vfz8qj0fSO1440kd2DWCgNcdWOVrYrI9/vMOpsThuq0auvJIUyDFbB1VhcsCLi3eJazfrWIBNtgnaKwKzQFcdXpllRkf0WFjYkH3gjcH212ooEtBwyOG/LB7ws1yWJ7zMSb+JZ3JPjek4OzGnTCyteM3Us7MQAEULcn0bRx7f3faamaKCGm7M6dlVSrWUKo7zdEGKjr5H310PZ7T5ZhLNzGluCd2cqWv7CVXb2VK0UHDVaVZAA1+6yuLEghkIYG49o6eIJFRa9ltMBYIRcKp7zbhBGEvvvjy0Iv0737RvN0UEXqOAQvycgfqbYd4joyOL7796ND+HkTfGq7PwyPzGDZZiT0mAyUIAbX2+zj6fs+03laKCEHZqINGVvZJBJZizm6KVjVST3VW97W8BU3RRQFLy/aJ7m/pTFcnjJdT4AH99v/5QdaKKKAooooCiiigKKKKAooooCiiigKKKKApfT+lJ98fy0piuUMZBcn9Zrj4VX/UGg61HavgsMmWanvOshNzcMqhAR5d0W/E1I0UFdl7MRmSR5GJQjuxrmMd1Zju5BJKg90KNzcE71luEaWWIRMHQNfuF2jkI5fIba+WJjFv3+2rDVc412cOo1AckCMphJuMyAk6AL3Lj7Ym+Xh08w7pwzSmQOrDNyxW0npZFmOO+4DNIRboSa58O0OjDo0TXMTsqd/bNlLNj4N3ZDsNvhFgdlo7DJiTtcgAEkSGQm5uRe9jvXOHskilCZCxQ39FVU/ZW7q2AIMEZv79ulgb0vDNMp5yEHBi+XMLKm0gK9bBRzZTj0GXsFcZeDaNndjjlKsjN9Yd1mRUkdRlsCqLuNhdj1Y3YHAUECxKzKUjEYZSV2AAyKghSTbra++xFQur7FZJMokByhaNMgLl3WdSXbEnH69tt+nvuEo3DdHlndLsHYnmCzK5dmPXdQXkPsuaJOE6RhixB7oY3kubBY1Eh3/8AtxG/mL+Nap2XQCTvnJ8TfFbKyzPPcLboWexHiAPfS0PZFQWDP3LBVAVbm0axksbdNm7o7u4oJPQrp0DKjCz2XdvTtGtsSfSGBG4pFNBo3hGJzRkDri7OzLgsSuBfI91VF/MedddX2ZV5c+Y6jmpMUFsSY+RiP/wKN77M1rbEbcM7NpDIjhycECC4/ZUoG22BxNjtv12vQdeF8MjWTnJfeJY0BUqyoCXOV97kkeAtiK6xcDhVomVSDEgjXc+ioIUHztc/nUlRQYArNFFBpKSB3Rc+V7fvtXLmSerX4/lpiigX5knq1+P5aOZJ6tfj+WmKKBfmSerX4/lo5knq1+P5aYooF+ZJ6tfj+WjmSerX4/lpiigX5knq1+P5aOZJ6tfj+WmKKBfmSerX4/lo5knq1+P5aYooF+ZJ6tfj+WjmSerX4/lpiigX5knq1+P5aOZJ6tfj+WmKKBfmSerX4/lo5knq1+P5aYooF+ZJ6tfj+WjmSerX4/lpiigX5knq1+P5aOZJ6tfj+WmKKBfmSerX4/lo5knq1+P5aYooF+ZJ6tfj+WjmSerX4/lpiigX5knq1+P5aOZJ6tfj+WmKKBfmSerX4/lo5knq1+P5aYooF+ZJ6tfj+WjmSerX4/lpiigX5knq1+P5aOZJ6tfj+WmKKBfmSerX4/lo5knq1+P5aYooF+ZJ6tfj+WjmSerX4/lpiigX5knq1+P5aOZJ6tfj+WmKKBfmSerX4/lo5knq1+P5aYooF+ZJ6tfj+WjmSerX4/lpiig5xliO8LH2G/77UV0ooP/Z" 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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">News flash: this is how you should treat people and characters both</span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I remember one: "Guys don't giggle." </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Uh, yeah they do. I've heard many guys giggle. <i>Some</i> guys don't, but if you've never heard a guy giggle, then you've probably missed an entire culture (or three) of men. Gay guys giggle, but not all of them. Geek guys giggle, but not all of them. Straight, average guys giggle, but not all of them.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Any time you say not to do something for a group, you're being presumptuous and building on stereotypes that really only match your own experience. While there's nothing wrong with writing from your own experience, there is something wrong with telling other people that only the stereotype you believe in is right.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's not. Stereotypes are looked down on for a reason. I base my characters on real people. That may be shocking, but I think it's more shocking that some people feel that makes them 'unbelievable.' Now, when I say that, I'm not saying I'm inserting people I know as characters -- but I'm using real, observed traits from real people when I get to know the characters I'm writing about instead of relying on stereotypes and tropes.</span><br />
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<img src="http://dladd2.files.wordpress.com/2010/06/thinking-outside-the-box.jpg" height="309" style="-webkit-user-select: none;" width="400" /></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I don't expect everyone to like them. Shit, that would be like expecting everyone to like <i>anyone</i>. But trying to say they don't meet their expectations for a stereotype just makes me shake my head. I'm not going to take that as constructive criticism. That's just whining. John Steinbeck said to write to just one person... I think that's too simplistic, but I think that the idea that you aren't writing to everyone is a good one.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Someone recently accused me of not knowing my audience because he wanted a 'gay vampire' book instead of the psychological horror novel with vampires that I wrote. He couldn't have been further from the truth. I know who my audience is: it <i>doesn't</i> include <a href="http://robynochs.com/biphobia/" target="_blank">biphobic</a>, <a href="http://everydayfeminism.com/2013/11/monosexism/" target="_blank">sexist</a> <a href="http://web.uvic.ca/psn/resources/manual/phobia-hurts-us-all/" target="_blank">bigots</a> who are looking for erotica. My books aren't erotica. They have sex in them because sex is a part of life, and my books are 'slice of life'-heavy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">They also don't include a bunch of vulgarities or clinical anatomical terms in the sex scenes (or flowery romanticisms that make me want to vomit, like 'honey pot' or 'turgid staff' -- hey, if that floats your boat, feel free to self-insert them; just don't torture me with them or expect me to make my editor's eyes roll into the back of her head before rightfully deleting that shit). I love sex, and I am totally comfortable with it and writing sex scenes. I'm not going to adjust my style to make my books wank fodder when that has never been what they are.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I write what I know, and what I don't know, I research, from the mouths of those who do know, not just books or blogs about a subject. Which gives me this radical idea that people can't really be boxed. And maybe some people want characters to be boxed, but I don't. Maybe that means I'll never be a New York Times Bestselling author (not knocking books on the NTY list, I'm knocking whiny critics), but I'd rather be true to my characters than create two-dimensional caricatures.</span><br />
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<img src="http://www.quotehd.com/imagequotes/TopAuthors/tmb/ernest-hemingway-novelist-when-writing-a-novel-a-writer-should-create-living.jpg" style="-webkit-user-select: none;" /></div>
<br />Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-52259511738135422472014-09-04T13:31:00.000-05:002014-09-04T13:44:33.138-05:00Musing on Homework<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" src="http://www.freeimages.com/pic/l/s/sh/shho/1275249_86778210.jpg" height="426" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #999999; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Photo courtesy of <span style="background-color: #f5f3f1; font-family: verdana, arial, hevetica, sans-serif; text-align: left;"> </span><a href="http://www.freeimages.com/profile/shho" style="background-color: #f5f3f1; border: 0px; font-family: verdana, arial, hevetica, sans-serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">shho</a></i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">It's been a while since I had a post! School has started again, and so have the comments on homework from parents. Anything from pleading for other parents to tell them how to motivate their kids to complaining about how their kids don't have time to do anything else to just general questions about how much is normal or how to do something the 'new way.'</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><i>Homework is rubbish.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">You could call that an opinion. But it's an educated one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Even if you subscribe to the notion that homework is a good thing, the amount of homework matters. There's this 'rule of 10' thing where you're supposed to <a href="http://stophomework.com/fact.pdf" target="_blank">multiply the child's grade by 10 minutes</a> to get the <i>maximum</i> amount of time spent on homework. After that, you get <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/roomfordebate/2010/12/12/stress-and-the-high-school-student/homeworks-diminishing-returns" target="_blank">diminishing returns</a>, increases in stress levels and damage to <a href="http://sanfrancisco.cbslocal.com/2014/03/22/study-too-much-homework-can-make-your-child-sick/" target="_blank">children's health</a> (it can cause 'migraines, ulcers and other stomach problems, sleep deprivation and exhaustion, and weight loss').</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">This means that no student should ever have more than 2 hours of homework, and 3-4 hours is the current average in the US. 2 hours is only recommended in grades 10-12. No more than 90 minutes in middle school, and no more than 60 minutes in primary school (with no more than 20 minutes in 2nd grade). Any more is not only unreasonable, but it's potentially detrimental.</span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" src="http://www.freeimages.com/pic/l/h/hv/hvaldez1/1126726_35506942.jpg" height="640" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="426" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #666666; font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.freeimages.com/photo/1126726" target="_blank">Photo</a> courtesy of <span style="background-color: #f5f3f1; font-family: verdana, arial, hevetica, sans-serif; text-align: left;"> </span><a href="http://www.freeimages.com/profile/hvaldez1" style="background-color: #f5f3f1; border: 0px; font-family: verdana, arial, hevetica, sans-serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">hvaldez1</a><span style="background-color: #f5f3f1; font-family: verdana, arial, hevetica, sans-serif; text-align: left;"> </span></span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I mean, they've been saying variants of this <a href="http://www.addison.pausd.org/files/addison/homework/Synthesis%20of%20Research%20on%20Homework.pdf" target="_blank">since the 50s</a>. Teachers aren't teaching by evidence-based methods, and standardized tests are too often used as a measurement of skill -- not a very good one.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Additionally, the quality of homework matters. When I say 'homework is rubbish,' I'm thinking of the countless busywork sheets piled on kids that require nothing but mindless repetition. Stuff that the kids don't want to be doing and the teachers don't want to be grading, but somehow it still keeps being assigned. Not homework that encourages kids to interact with their environment or think critically.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">The problem is that mindless homework becomes associated with 'school' and 'learning.' This leads to a cycle of decreasing satisfaction with both ideas. It's so much of a phenomenon that there's a term for "the mental process a person goes through after being removed from a formal schooling environment, when the "school mindset" is eroded over time." "Deschooling may refer to the time period it takes for children removed from school to adjust to learning in an unstructured environment."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">What exactly does that mean? Well, the idea of homework is that kids should develop good habits for self-directed learning. However, homework actually may do the opposite, especially if parents punish them for not completing homework, or the homework itself feels like a punishment. So children will actually avoid anything that feels like homework. Of course, deschooling also refers to the damage caused from the way traditional school is structured. You see a little bit of it over the summer break and in the first few weeks back in school. The damage builds until it all culminates in burnout commonly referred to as 'senioritis' when I was in school.</span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" src="http://www.freeimages.com/pic/l/s/sa/samlevan/620423_45451557.jpg" height="540" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #666666; font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://www.freeimages.com/photo/620423" target="_blank">Photo</a> courtesy of <span style="background-color: #f5f3f1; font-family: verdana, arial, hevetica, sans-serif; text-align: left;"> </span><a href="http://www.freeimages.com/profile/samlevan" style="background-color: #f5f3f1; border: 0px; font-family: verdana, arial, hevetica, sans-serif; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; text-decoration: none;">samlevan</a></span></i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I've seen some comments to the effect that "work is not a bad word." These people seem to have forgotten that kids already spent 6 hours at "work." That may not sound like much to an adult jaded by 8-12 hour workdays, but we're talking about <i>children</i>. Punishing them through overwork in a complete contradiction to what science shows is healthy just because you're cranky that you work your ass off is narcissistic and asinine. <a href="http://www.ext.colostate.edu/pubs/columncc/cc010309.html" target="_blank">Kids</a> <a href="http://www.ucdmc.ucdavis.edu/CANCER/pedresource/pedres_docs/ChildrenLearnThruPlay.pdf" target="_blank">learn</a> <a href="https://www.childaction.org/families/publications/docs/guidance/PlayItstheWayYoungChildrenLearn_Eng.pdf" target="_blank">best</a> <a href="http://www.sylviarimm.com/article_play.html" target="_blank">through</a> <a href="http://www.naeyc.org/play" target="_blank">play</a>, not work.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Of course, I'm not any sort of professional, so let me just let them speak now:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> "There is no evidence to demonstrate that homework benefits students below high school age. Even if you regard standardized test results as a useful measure (which I don't), more homework isn't correlated with higher scores for children in elementary school. </span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"> "Even at the high school level, the benefits of homework are debatable. Some studies do find a relationship between homework and test scores, but it tends to be small. More important, there's no reason to think that higher achievement is caused by the homework." --Alfie Kohn, <i style="background-color: white; line-height: 23px;">The Homework Myth: Why Our Kids Get Too Much of a Bad Thing</i></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">According to Richard Walker, an educational psychologist at Sydney University, data shows that in countries where more time is spent on homework, students score lower on a standardized test called the Program for International Student Assessment, or PISA. The same correlation is also seen when comparing homework time and test performance at schools within countries. Past studies have also demonstrated this basic trend.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"...teachers typically give take-home assignments that are unhelpful busy work. Assigning homework "appeared to be a remedial strategy (a consequence of not covering topics in class, exercises for students struggling, a way to supplement poor quality educational settings), and not an advancement strategy (work designed to accelerate, improve or get students to excel)," LeTendre wrote in an email." -- <a href="http://www.livescience.com/19379-homework-bad-kids.html" target="_blank">Live Science</a></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"Harris Cooper, a close student of the subject, reports that "The conclusions of past reviewers of homework research show extraordinary variability... Even in regard to specific areas of application such as within different subject areas, grades or student ability levels, the reviews often directly contradict one another." Even where a positive correlation is established, it is not clear whether homework makes good, well motivated students or privileged and well motivated students do homework. Cooper's work is unequivocal in its conclusion that no significant gains for homework are established for the elementary school years." -- <a href="http://www.alternet.org/story/9682/back_to_school%3A_why_homework_is_bad_for_kids" target="_blank">John Buell</a></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"Our findings on the effects of homework challenge the traditional assumption that homework is inherently good."<br />"The findings address how current homework practices in privileged, high-performing schools sustain students' advantage in competitive climates yet hinder learning, full engagement and well-being." -- Denise Pope</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">A <a href="http://news.stanford.edu/news/2014/march/too-much-homework-031014.html" target="_blank">Standford Research</a> study found that too much homework is associated with:</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">• <b>Greater stress</b>: 56 percent of the students considered homework a primary source of stress, according to the survey data. Forty-three percent viewed tests as a primary stressor, while 33 percent put the pressure to get good grades in that category. Less than 1 percent of the students said homework was not a stressor.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">• <b>Reductions in health</b>: In their open-ended answers, many students said their homework load led to sleep deprivation and other health problems. The researchers asked students whether they experienced health issues such as headaches, exhaustion, sleep deprivation, weight loss and stomach problems.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">•<b> Less time for friends, family and extracurricular pursuits</b>: Both the survey data and student responses indicate that spending too much time on homework meant that students were "not meeting their developmental needs or cultivating other critical life skills," according to the researchers. Students were more likely to drop activities, not see friends or family, and not pursue hobbies they enjoy.</span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" src="http://www.freeimages.com/pic/l/c/ch/cherrycher/105406_1173.jpg" height="479" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666; font-size: xx-small;"><i>Photo courtesy of <a href="http://www.freeimages.com/photo/105406" target="_blank">freeimages.com</a></i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">So, there you have it. One mom's opinion... backed by a lot of researchers. Homework may have its place in high school, but mindless busy work shouldn't be playing a part, especially with kids.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Of course, <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/montreal/coll%C3%A8ge-de-saint-ambroise-in-jonqui%C3%A8re-bans-homework-for-a-year-1.2752550" target="_blank">we'll have more information next year on just how well the idea of banning homework works out thanks to Quebec</a>.</span><br />
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Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-70025450712185133652014-07-30T04:01:00.002-05:002014-07-30T04:02:27.927-05:00Musing on Writing: July 2014<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJQco_d_FM892u6Q2LuJm-e9SdqTB1KM9Ja6rnJJ7B9frIZPPoy2veErcwViLS6vQvHTw_y5kj5XGEraliAnJHUAGQGCBx7hcjbKBWIkdsFIZtD0zwwplgJWjhm7PWpl-G7CJaXr-K18Yx/s1600/Work.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJQco_d_FM892u6Q2LuJm-e9SdqTB1KM9Ja6rnJJ7B9frIZPPoy2veErcwViLS6vQvHTw_y5kj5XGEraliAnJHUAGQGCBx7hcjbKBWIkdsFIZtD0zwwplgJWjhm7PWpl-G7CJaXr-K18Yx/s1600/Work.jpg" height="427" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yeah, my work space is a perpetual mess</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">On my oldest daughter's due date group, I was asked a few questions that ended up with my giving a lengthy response that I thought I'd share here.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Question:</span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: large;">I have been wanting to ask you about your books. Do you self-publish? Are you in hard copy form yet? How long does one book take to write, on average?</span></blockquote>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Answer:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Yes, I publish through Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Kobo, Smashwords, and Lulu. Most traditional publishing houses are getting to the point where they only look for authors who have created a 'brand' for themselves and already attracted readers because of the initial investment that they want to get a return on, so it's actually harder than it's ever been to get into traditional publishing (which has always been difficult, especially when you're unable to do convention crawling and schmoozing, which is the traditional way of acquiring readers).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">All of my books are available in paperback. I want to eventually offer in hard cover, too, but I don't want them to cost $30/pop, so I'm still trying to figure that one out. My books aren't short, lol.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">How long does it take to write? That's incredibly difficult to say. My first book, I had my husband's full support to get 'protected writing time,' so I was able to write without distractions every day for the 3 weeks it took to write the first draft. That's a little over 100,000 words, or 261 pages (the size of a standard mass market paperback in the genre I write). </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">That's my shortest book in the series.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">That's just the first draft, though. Then it needs to sit for a couple months, sight unseen to get it out of my head to begin the second draft editing process. Revisions continue until it feels clean enough to go to my editor (who also reads my raw drafts because she's impatient for the story, lol). Then she sends it back, and I go through it again and we discuss edits, suggestions, etc. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Now that I'm [working on publishing] my 4th book, after my editor, it will be going to two proofreaders after her (because even OCD, anal editors like mine miss things).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm looking at date tags to answer draft time length questions on the books following the first (which came out insanely fast -- it was READY to be written, lol!). </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Okay, so my 4th book took 4 months to write at 359,000 (approx) words (897 pages). Yes, that's long. But I polled my readers, and they said they prefer longer books, so... It does mean that it will be difficult, if not impossible, to print as one paperback, though. I'll have to decide if I want to push the font to a smaller size (9pt instead of 11) or if I want to split it in two paperbacks. I know the final book will have to be two paperbacks (this is because I don't have a major publisher backing me to print larger books, which they don't like to do because of shelf space, NOT because of reader interest -- the more space it takes up on a shelf, the less profit they get).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">My third book took 3 months and is 300,000 (approx) words (753 pages).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">My 4th and 5th books are taking longer to write because I have to take breaks to do continuity sweeps (make sure I'm not contradicting or repeating anything, even though I have about 20 note files to track this stuff -- it still happens) and edits to previous books to prep them for publishing. When editing, I can't write. They're two different processes and interfere with one another, so I have to take writing breaks to do the editing (which actually makes writing flow more smoothly when I catch back up to where I left off).</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">So there's another window into my life as a writer.</span>Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-89584920032247536432014-07-06T16:18:00.000-05:002014-07-06T16:18:36.248-05:00Musing on "Said"<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsdO74FQSvRm3EFovAud9EopD7d12VyzRo62JLbAiESN7VmyAavMAj8K-gmxA5Qm6NxK1ORydG8zAG0LIK-aBGCUUGgCg03LWaPqabZgwzR5at5WGG9BNOc9pqp8oifkuBD4IgvkzK9sMH/s1600/he-said-she-said.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsdO74FQSvRm3EFovAud9EopD7d12VyzRo62JLbAiESN7VmyAavMAj8K-gmxA5Qm6NxK1ORydG8zAG0LIK-aBGCUUGgCg03LWaPqabZgwzR5at5WGG9BNOc9pqp8oifkuBD4IgvkzK9sMH/s1600/he-said-she-said.jpg" height="202" width="400" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU97GyjKiIYN3gF4URFzBjEdGXYmY-nxCcuRRtMHi0ZYkJaYJCF1NTJ1tZ4rOSCQobyDSsQjBhHh-J7sCm2T2Xhf2Qh3qrqeIUTN7OeRQAvFhKNucVlyLoDDJ0Se9ddbCY1Q8Cg1nxYRiv/s1600/other_words_for_said.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Just a random post about the word "said." The current trend in writer advice is to use the fuck out of "said" and avoid other words for it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Readers hate that.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Seriously, one of the biggest complaints I see from readers when perusing book reviews is: "It's all he-said, she-said -- they don't vary it."</span><br />
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<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8mGBaXPlri8" target="_blank"><img alt="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8mGBaXPlri8" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2KNoeco6mdjHbwVrctBiJoT-0mLwjCZivr-gkrhF29Tg6Vz4M_9fzAQkSgrMyC9S8jwo5L2-rNE3qNNLj0e1PfgMqkgcsL5d9hgB7cobgGHC_BtDg3k_a6byoEHxGQZQnxDo497_u4zBT/s1600/allthethingsshesaid.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">So why the hell are writers and editors advising new writers to stick to it? I have no idea, and I've read several articles on why. I've read examples where 'said' was used compared to the exact same snippet written with alternatives. The whole point was to show that said was great and should be used.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC7XLBtdceVMusTpY-hIbx8sSTPWuQgXqXX3wZ3cjBHqrBlu2-rrwd0DADT4th0jFZ06eXTTuOWL8gpX3czUu6lEixTxO0GTZuke7HuISt17FMmgAf_ikFiV_cWyQ9koAEGlh-KdU7LXcc/s1600/i-love-love-said-131530215156.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhC7XLBtdceVMusTpY-hIbx8sSTPWuQgXqXX3wZ3cjBHqrBlu2-rrwd0DADT4th0jFZ06eXTTuOWL8gpX3czUu6lEixTxO0GTZuke7HuISt17FMmgAf_ikFiV_cWyQ9koAEGlh-KdU7LXcc/s1600/i-love-love-said-131530215156.png" height="170" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">The 'said' paragraph was flat and boring. I didn't care about it. Once the alternatives were substituted, I felt drawn in and a part of the story. It was an utter failure to defend the word 'said.'</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">So, I'm sorry, but while 'said' should be used, and used often (and all tags to that effect should also be dropped where possible, such as when an action immediately follows that can identify the speaker), you should also <a href="http://www.docstoc.com/docs/68030469/Other-Words-for-Said---DOC" target="_blank">replace it </a>whenever another word better describes <i>how</i> something was said.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">From The Huffington Post, this was offered up in an <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/kristen-lamb/six-easy-tips-for-selfedi_b_3838124.html" target="_blank">otherwise great article on self-editing</a>:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: large;">'A character can't "laugh" something. They can't "snip" "spit" "snarl" "grouse" words.' </span></blockquote>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Oh, yes they can. While I try to avoid mixing action with expression, you damn well can snarl something (in fact, someone is more likely to snarl a word than make the sound) and grouse. Grouse is a synonym for 'grumble' and indicates the tone with which something is spoken.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Snip? I'll give them snip. You can be snippy, but you can't snip a word... that's for scissors. If you've never had words spat at you, that's great, but it happens. As for laughing, you can laugh words, but I agree that it should be separated if they didn't actually simultaneously speak and laugh (which I do often when I'm amused enough).</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1cnGRsP2RHWuPQY0G8cnyQZKqUx65mkH72vfWzJ8hrMh5zypEzmDNtpODTLNeukdkgeiVmF9BsAMq-Wme0RJRwFaeDIuP0rLKEQrUNLey-VwwtDuDvcZPmJnFNGikcV_j817PsYS1ZMq-/s1600/said_wordle.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1cnGRsP2RHWuPQY0G8cnyQZKqUx65mkH72vfWzJ8hrMh5zypEzmDNtpODTLNeukdkgeiVmF9BsAMq-Wme0RJRwFaeDIuP0rLKEQrUNLey-VwwtDuDvcZPmJnFNGikcV_j817PsYS1ZMq-/s1600/said_wordle.JPG" height="411" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">'Said' can become invisible, sure. But a book written with nothing but 'said' for a speaking tag is like a coloring book that hasn't been used. A book that relies entirely on synonyms for said is tiring and tedious, too. <b>There has to be a balance.</b> I'm not pretending to have it perfected. As if.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But I felt this needed to be said as a reader of books, as a lover of books, and as a writer of books.</span><br />
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<br />Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-1941511350704418222014-06-20T15:43:00.001-05:002014-06-20T15:50:53.553-05:00The Dramatic Narrator<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvBDV2dKZvj9ceNbbV3hsDBSiexCFjoB6ww0A65VMXHSq5QJA0pDeYzDTmPdgnjMzSYqtRMamgStcq9Z-YwX9MDM2Wbzt9fOkd6LJfEv2ph3dx6U0Uzj5YycyVmrgjZgL4fNGZbKzwAn4U/s1600/2014-05-25+17.48.15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvBDV2dKZvj9ceNbbV3hsDBSiexCFjoB6ww0A65VMXHSq5QJA0pDeYzDTmPdgnjMzSYqtRMamgStcq9Z-YwX9MDM2Wbzt9fOkd6LJfEv2ph3dx6U0Uzj5YycyVmrgjZgL4fNGZbKzwAn4U/s1600/2014-05-25+17.48.15.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">HOO boy, I have another drama narrator. Kat had cereal for lunch, so I told her she couldn't have more. At that moment, I was trying to figure out how to give them ice cream without having to get out bowls and spoons, so I just told her 'no.'</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">She ran crying to the bedroom, where I heard, "My mommy won't pick me up! She never... [inaudible]." I couldn't understand most of it, but I got the gist that she was narrating her misery in between sobs (Lilly didn't start this until she was about 5 as far as I remember, but she still does it whenever sent to the playroom to chill or to bed early). </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Kat randomly screamed, "Mommy!" and I'd call back to her and tell her she could come to me, but I was busy (with ice cream surprise!).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">She finally finishes up and comes out. I asked her if she was done, and she said, "Yeah. What's that? Birthday cake?" (she meant birthday hats -- I'd fashioned coated paper plates into paper ice cream cones by cutting them in half and folding them). I asked her if it looked like birthday cake and then suggested she meant hats. She agreed and stuck one on her head.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I needed to take my scissors and tape back to their spot on my desk, and when I left, immediately the cries started again. I said I'd be right back, so what did she cry?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"My mommy can't come right back!" Over and over for the 30 seconds it took me to walk to the desk in the living room and back to the kitchen. Hyperbole and drama from the toddler who started rolling her eyes at 10 months. I'm not shocked.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">She and her sisters are now enjoying their ice cream. Why is there no happy narrating? "My mommy made me ice cream!" would be a nice change from "My mommy never..."</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">She can certainly cheese it up when she wants.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">She's lucky she's so darned cute. And so am I.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixDvEjWQe9iBQq9ErhY8HFUTDOvL7VLjz_u5kODHzGe0oGE0YyAL0Wb4gOwcrDwmfqCNIXkjCvYQDFAV-_Bt15CCo9fHray22U4dhKaG_zM4yuBwSydsYnTU3Cy0MARIukh2EMvnITxjiF/s1600/2014-06-17+18.36.48.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixDvEjWQe9iBQq9ErhY8HFUTDOvL7VLjz_u5kODHzGe0oGE0YyAL0Wb4gOwcrDwmfqCNIXkjCvYQDFAV-_Bt15CCo9fHray22U4dhKaG_zM4yuBwSydsYnTU3Cy0MARIukh2EMvnITxjiF/s1600/2014-06-17+18.36.48.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<br />Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-75847716415492506212014-05-23T16:35:00.001-05:002014-05-23T16:35:27.509-05:00Musing on the Depression Monster<img src="http://i.imgur.com/D4klXnc.jpg" height="446" width="640" /><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">So, I was reading Wil Wheaton's <a href="http://wilwheaton.net/2014/05/you-stand-at-the-edge/" target="_blank">post about paparazzi-induced depression</a> and sharing it. During the share, my commentary started turning into a blog post, so here it is instead. This is part of what I posted it with:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: large;">I wish Dispel Depression was something anyone could cast. This is more than just the depression, though. But also, it <i>is</i> about depression.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Pretending it isn't there is destructive. You can't fight something while ignoring while it's tearing little pieces off of you. You shouldn't just fall into a ball of 'I can't', but you have to acknowledge that the monster is there, punch it in the nose if you can and just talk about the thing until it gets sick of hearing about itself and leaves. </span></blockquote>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">After I wrote that, I realized that the first thing my friends who suffer with depression would say is:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Other people don't want to hear it.</span></div>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://xakana.deviantart.com/art/Tired-of-Being-Myself-402492081" target="_blank"><img border="0" src="http://fc05.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2013/267/e/0/tired_of_being_myself_by_xakana-d6nmsvl.jpg" height="240" style="-webkit-user-select: none;" width="320" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://xakana.deviantart.com/art/Tired-of-Being-Myself-402492081" target="_blank">Once you let it get this bad, you're close to losing them.</a></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I have something to say to those people.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">If you don't want to hear your friend talking about their depression and pain, you aren't alone. It's <b>hard as hell</b>, even when you have depression, to hear someone going on about how they're hurting and there's nothing you can do about it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Maybe you feel like they're not doing anything about it -- you would be wrong. <b>If they're talking to you, then they're <a href="http://s3-ec.buzzfed.com/static/enhanced/webdr01/2013/8/22/14/enhanced-buzz-30501-1377195107-9.jpg" target="_blank">reaching out</a> <a href="http://s3-ec.buzzfed.com/static/enhanced/webdr06/2013/8/22/14/enhanced-buzz-10645-1377195131-20.jpg" target="_blank">for help</a>.</b> They're trying to talk through it. Sometimes that works, and sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes it's so bad that you have to keep slogging through until you come out the other side. Sometimes it's environmental, and you can't change the environmental trigger for whatever reason (sometimes it will lead to a worse situation, sometimes you're just trapped).</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://31.media.tumblr.com/5628971d65905a0feeab05739a3d07a8/tumblr_mvfud7HBIw1rndoulo1_500.jpg" height="240" style="-webkit-user-select: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...want to be <b>happy</b> again.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;">Now, if you start avoiding them because they're depressed? You're a shitty friend. No, you're not a friend at all. You <i>can</i> take 60 minutes out of your chirping birds and unicorns shitting roses blinders life to sit and listen to your friend who is hurting and trying to find a way for it to stop.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">And if you're "sucking it up" because you're suffering and think you need to just keep it to yourself? You're an <b><u>idiot</u></b>. <b>Stop it</b>. It's not healthy, you won't get better, you're only hurting yourself for stupid reasons (because there is never a good reason to hurt yourself or suffer alone). Further, trying to apply your own crappy beliefs about suffering in silence on other people is <i>horrible</i>. It is a bad thing to do. Don't do it. Get help.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="http://s3-ec.buzzfed.com/static/enhanced/webdr02/2013/8/22/13/enhanced-buzz-8099-1377192852-41.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://s3-ec.buzzfed.com/static/enhanced/webdr02/2013/8/22/13/enhanced-buzz-8099-1377192852-41.jpg" height="400" style="-webkit-user-select: none;" width="371" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">It's programming by a society lacking in empathy. Sure, it's probably relatively decent population control, and all nature cares about is breeding. It doesn't care about society or community or happiness or growth. It cares about popping out kids. After that, it doesn't give a shit about you. You can tumor it up and die for all nature cares at that point. And society used to operate on protecting itself from the pain of that truth. We're growing past that. Time to come into the present and leave those outdated, unhelpful models behind.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Some of the most brilliant minds were ravaged and eventually ended by depression. Things that you may enjoy today may have been brought to you by people who were suffering. It wasn't the suffering and pain that brought it (most of the time), and if they'd had help getting through it (suicidal thoughts are temporary, it's about getting through the cycle), maybe you'd have even more awesome works from them.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Yes, it's okay to have limits. No, I don't have an answer for expressing them. Honestly, if everyone would get over the whole idea of dismissing and rejecting people who are in pain, there would be a better distribution of that pain. More chances to talk it out and find things to focus on getting away from the depression monster would be available.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Because that thing is horrible, and decent human beings can't let it win.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<img src="http://s3-ec.buzzfed.com/static/enhanced/webdr06/2013/9/11/18/enhanced-buzz-11563-1378937513-12.jpg" style="-webkit-user-select: none;" />Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-71186213505085581732014-05-14T19:32:00.000-05:002014-05-14T19:32:04.104-05:00Musing on Children of LGBTQ Parents<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" src="http://www.sxc.hu/pic/l/h/ha/hadler/638824_75753350.jpg" height="426" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #666666;"><i>stock by <a href="http://www.sxc.hu/photo/638824/?forcedownload=1" target="_blank">stockxchng</a></i></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">So, over the last summer, I had quite a few fascinating, in-depth conversations with people across the globe in my intro to psychology class. The most provocative threads was likely regarding sexual orientation, and one man's question on whether or not it was a mental illness, because his daughter was gay. I was never quite sure if he was trolling or genuinely seeking answers, but for the most part, the threads he started stayed respectful and full of a huge exchange of information and cultural reactions.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Also, the answer is no. It is not a mental illness. It was stripped of that misguided label in the '70s, and despite <a href="http://www.usatoday.com/story/news/world/2013/06/18/brazil-gay-disorder/2436499/" target="_blank">the Brazilian government's backwards move</a>, it still is not, has never been and never will be an illness, a choice or a 'lifestyle.' </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Of course, the core questions he wanted to know were if he had caused it and if it could harm his grandson (which he believed strongly that it would, because he had a clear ignorance of the topic--hence asking questions to dispel it--and issues of his own to work with, as well as a belief that two women can't raise a boy properly).</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">In case any of my readers are under the delusion that healthy non-heterosexual parents will do a poor job (or even a statistically different job) of raising children (regardless of the child's gender), here are some of the resources I provided him:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="http://pediatrics.aappublications.org/content/early/2013/03/18/peds.2013-0377" target="" title="Link: http://pediatrics.aappublications.org/content/early/2013/03/18/peds.2013-0377">http://pediatrics.aappublications.org/content/early/2013/03/18/peds.2013-0377</a><br />"Extensive data available from more than 30 years of research reveal that
children raised by gay and lesbian parents have demonstrated
resilience with regard to social, psychological,
and sexual health despite economic and legal disparities and social
stigma."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /><a href="http://mccaugheycentre.unimelb.edu.au/__data/assets/pdf_file/0008/786806/simon_report_.pdf" target="" title="Link: http://mccaugheycentre.unimelb.edu.au/__data/assets/pdf_file/0008/786806/simon_report_.pdf">http://mccaugheycentre.unimelb.edu.au/__data/assets/pdf_file/0008/786806/simon_report_.pdf</a><br />"...when measuring same-sex parent households against heterosexual
households on a number of key health indicators, such as self-esteem,
emotional well-being and the amount of time spent with parents, gay and
straight-parent families match up well.
</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">However, the researchers found that on measures of general health and
family cohesion something cropped up in the data that was quite
interesting. <b>Children aged 5-17 in a same-sex parent household scored
significantly higher on these wellness measures than kids from straight
parent families.</b>"</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="http://www.aacap.org/AACAP/Families_and_Youth/Facts_for_Families/Facts_for_Families_Pages/Children_with_Lesbian_Gay_Bisexual_and_Transgender_Parents_92.aspx" target="" title="Link: http://www.aacap.org/AACAP/Families_and_Youth/Facts_for_Families/Facts_for_Families_Pages/Children_with_Lesbian_Gay_Bisexual_and_Transgender_Parents_92.aspx">http://www.aacap.org/AACAP/Families_and_Youth/Facts_for_Families/Facts_for_Families_Pages/Children_w...</a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Sometimes people are concerned that children being raised by a gay
parent will need extra emotional support or face unique social
stressors.Current research shows that children with gay and lesbian
parents do not differ from children with heterosexual parents in their
emotional development or in their relationships with peers and adults. <b>
It is important for parents to understand that it is the the quality of
the parent/child relationship and not the parent’s sexual orientation
that has an effect on a child’s development.</b> Research has shown that in
contrast to common beliefs, children of lesbian, gay, or transgender
parents:</span></span><br />
<ul>
<li><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Are not more likely to be gay than children with heterosexual parents. </span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Are not more likely to be sexually abused. </span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Do not show differences in whether they think of themselves as male or female (gender identity). </span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Do not show differences in their male and female behaviors (gender role behavior). </span></span></li>
</ul>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="http://www.livescience.com/6073-children-raised-lesbians-fine-studies-show.html" target="">http://www.livescience.com/6073-children-raised-lesbians-fine-studies-show.html</a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="http://www.livescience.com/17913-advantages-gay-parents.html" target="">http://www.livescience.com/17913-advantages-gay-parents.html</a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="http://www.care2.com/causes/gay-parents-just-as-good-for-kids-and-with-added-benefits.html#ixzz2YtdkWIjj" target="">http://www.care2.com/causes/gay-parents-just-as-good-for-kids-and-with-added-benefits.html#ixzz2YtdkWIjj</a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="http://www.globalpost.com/dispatch/news/regions/americas/130605/gay-parents-are-good-parents-study-finds" target="" title="Link: http://www.globalpost.com/dispatch/news/regions/americas/130605/gay-parents-are-good-parents-study-finds">http://www.globalpost.com/dispatch/news/regions/americas/130605/gay-parents-are-good-parents-study-f...</a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="http://www.bu.edu/today/2013/gay-parents-as-good-as-straight-ones/" target="" title="Link: http://www.bu.edu/today/2013/gay-parents-as-good-as-straight-ones/">http://www.bu.edu/today/2013/gay-parents-as-good-as-straight-ones/</a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="http://www.cnn.com/2010/OPINION/06/24/chrisler.gay.parents/index.html" target="" title="Link: http://www.cnn.com/2010/OPINION/06/24/chrisler.gay.parents/index.html">http://www.cnn.com/2010/OPINION/06/24/chrisler.gay.parents/index.html</a></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small;">Additional resources:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
“On the basis of a remarkably consistent body of research on lesbian
and gay parents and their children, the American Psychological
Association (APA) and other health professional and scientific
organizations have concluded that there is no scientific evidence that
parenting effectiveness is related to parental sexual orientation. That
is, lesbian and gay parents are as likely as heterosexual parents to
provide supportive and healthy environments for their children. This
body of research has shown that the adjustment, development and
psychological well-being of children are unrelated to parental sexual
orientation and that the children of lesbian and gay parents are as
likely as those of heterosexual parents to flourish.”<br />
<em><a href="http://www.phillymag.com/g-philly/2012/06/15/apa-gay-parents-a-okay/">http://www.phillymag.com/g-philly/2012/06/15/apa-gay-parents-a-okay/</a></em><br />
<em><br /></em>
<em><br /></em>Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-47361704089691491422014-04-22T15:26:00.000-05:002014-04-22T15:26:58.241-05:00Holy Moral Disengagement, Batman!<div dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-6c73162c-d54e-64ef-00d0-ca01b1543956" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<i style="color: #666666; font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small; line-height: 13.590909004211426px; text-align: start;">(this was originally written during my class last year, but has been edited to better fit a blog post)</i></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So, studying <a href="http://psychology.about.com/od/classicpsychologystudies/a/stanford-prison-experiment.htm" target="_blank">the Stanford Prison Experiment</a> in my Psych class last year after t<a href="http://psychology.about.com/od/historyofpsychology/a/milgram.htm" target="_blank">he Milgram experiment</a>, I immediately think of</span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moral_disengagement" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;"> moral disengagement</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> (and indeed, I'm sure this is where the concept came from).</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: large; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It's especially interesting to me because the first book I completed was about Stockholm Syndrome, but the more I learn, the more I see other psychological concepts in play. I talk about moral disengagement later, but I realize that it happened fairly early on in the first book (since the series is about becoming/being the villain's flunky).</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: large; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">So when the professor said "You may think differently about 'evil,'" I couldn't help but think that I already do. Also makes me think about Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog. And fans of Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles -- Lestat is a despicable creature, yet beloved by tens of thousands of fans.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">We're not looking at the various series' vampires who choose not to kill humans (Being Human, for example, before people start in on the conformist Twilight bashing). Lestat </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">can't</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> choose not to kill. "...they killed two, sometimes three a night." But as he's the protagonist, that's okay. (Yes, it started with Louis, but Lestat was Anne's "dark prince" -- the character that she was in love with). In the fourth book, he rapes a woman with absolutely no real consequences (including no major loss of audience).</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: large; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It also makes me think of the shift of what we look for in a hero historically to now. For instance, going from Superman to Batman. Superman is this bright, optimistic character who derives his power from the sun, stands for truth, justice, blah blah blah.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: large; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Batman, though, comes from the darkness. He was created through an act of violence. He prowls the night. He is the darkness come to protect us.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKfuVOXrrS9YB6ulFtg57vDyPc4eAEqz4rSbZ8Q7n8BnYroOrQbkTHXli2S-Sshry4Q9OMWbW2XOjJSkbSGQ6MjYJoIXgLq7snrvvht6uSaJvGg0V30gE-Jj0mDrK6FE8kx-aLZxVk9A-a/s1600/batmankillscrooks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKfuVOXrrS9YB6ulFtg57vDyPc4eAEqz4rSbZ8Q7n8BnYroOrQbkTHXli2S-Sshry4Q9OMWbW2XOjJSkbSGQ6MjYJoIXgLq7snrvvht6uSaJvGg0V30gE-Jj0mDrK6FE8kx-aLZxVk9A-a/s1600/batmankillscrooks.jpg" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">What do these two have in common? They're criminals. Vigilantism is illegal; it's a crime. But they still engage in it (Spiderman obviously has a lot of focus on this, but Batman does as well). They stop major crimes whenever possible, but they do it without any authority, and they employ violence (early Batman killed, but sometime in the 80s, it was decided that he shouldn't do that, or use guns, etc.), break and enter, etc. But it's okay for </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">them</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> to break the law and hurt people because they're doing it in the name of justice.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: large; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The very existence of the Punisher really drives this home. He's not serving justice--his entire existence is devoted to revenge and death.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: large; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I love me some Deadpool. Who else loves him? Now, who would willingly subject themselves to an entire 24 hours with him? How about going on a mission with him? (I'm scared of anyone who wants to do that last part unless they're suffering the delusion that they can somehow stop him from wholesale slaughter with whatever amazing powers Hypothetical Person has).</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: large; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">We're taught moral disengagement from a young age in this way. Depending on what we choose to read, it becomes reinforced.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Heck, I forget how dark the material I'm writing is until I'm confronted by my readers. My two best friends -- one is my editor, the other is my oldest friend -- both have given me direct feedback to this effect. My oldest BFF won't read another book after the first. It disturbed her too greatly. Just to write this stuff takes a certain (mild though it may be... until you take into account that I believe in</span><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Multiverse" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">multiverse theory</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">) amount of moral disengagement in and of itself.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span>
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<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">That said, you know what disturbs me? The main 'romance' in the <a href="http://musing-mommy.blogspot.com/2012/07/hotel-of-lost-souls.html" target="_blank">book</a> is a classic domestic violence situation with one partner being blatantly abused by the other (nothing subtle here; if these were your neighbors, you would either be calling the cops on them or wishing someone else would), and people (including myself, to be honest, but I'm the one who dreamed the whole thing)</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> love</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> that pairing. The antagonist-turned-protagonist (as the protagonist falls in love with him) is presented as a sociopath, and people love him. People want to classify my first book, which is psychological horror, as </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">romance</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-size: large; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">"We like him, so it's okay if he does evil things like rape the protagonist, strive to create a dictatorship and kill people. We'll just not think about that part." On the plus side, that tells me that I wrote the character well. He's doing to the readers exactly what he did to the protagonist (and I love it).</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"></span></span>
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<span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">This fiction entreats us to not only suspend disbelief,</span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moral_disengagement#cite_note-6" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">but also our morals</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">. More, knowing all of this does not banish the effect. I still love me some Deadpool.</span></span><br />
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Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-35902910545077420112014-04-05T15:21:00.001-05:002014-04-05T15:21:40.577-05:00Short Story: The MidwifeThis is just a short story I wrote a while back and found recently. Hypothetical future. Enjoy.<div>
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<img alt="" height="430" src="http://www.freeimages.com/pic/l/l/li/lisapizza/565753_66066871.jpg" width="640" /></div>
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<b><u><span style="font-size: x-large;">The
Midwife</span></u></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Oh, Zoe, I'm so
happy for you!” Kristen exclaimed. She sat forward and took Zoe's
hands, sharing an excited smile. Her smile faded as she braced
herself for the answer to her next question, as she always did. “So,
have you contacted your OB?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Zoe's eyes shifted
to the side. She leaned over and turned her phone off. Kristen's
spirits rose immediately. This was what she was always afraid to hope
for.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I'm not filing
an Intent to Birth,” she whispered. Really, there wasn't any need,
but people feared what could happen if they were caught talking about
a natural birth. It wasn't allowed.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You understand
the risks, of course,” Kristen said, lifting her cup of tea and
drinking. Zoe nodded, taking a drink of her own tea.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I don't want to
move to Norway,” Zoe said. “I don't like the cold. And my whole
family has lived here since before the American Revolution. I
shouldn't have to move just to have a baby,”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I agree,
obviously,” Kristen said. “I thought you might feel that way when
you told me you'd applied to have your birth control system removed.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I had heard
that... that you know of a midwife,” Zoe said softly.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Oh, yes,”
Kristen said. “I do.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Zoe looked at the
piece of paper with the address on it and double checked it against
the number on the house in front of her. Part of her was so afraid
that she wanted to run. Then she imagined the alternative, and she
found the courage to knock.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“Now, I can't get
in trouble, right?” Zoe asked. The midwife smiled. This was usually
the first question asked of her.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“If you do not
enter into an Obstetrical Contract, you won't fall under penalty of
law if you deliver out of hospital. All of the risk is on me. If you
tell anyone about what I do—”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Oh, I would
never do that!” Zoe said, taking her hand. The midwife patted Zoe's
hand comfortingly.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I know, dear,
and we'll go over all the possible scenarios where you might need to
transfer care later, along with stories to avoid culpability. But if
anyone were to discover me, I would be arrested on charges of felony
medical infringement and face a sentence of five to thirty years.”
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“That's
ridiculous!” Zoe snapped, her face flushing with anger.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I know,” the
midwife said with a sigh. “When my grandmother had my mother, women
still had a choice in where and how they gave birth in most states.
When my mother had me, women still had the choice of how. It's only
been twenty years since the Mandatory Cesarean Act passed, and the
population is already down ten percent.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Ten percent?”
Zoe whispered.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Well, Population
Control would really like to see it drop <i>another</i> ten percent,
but with it still illegal to perform any invasive procedure without
written consent, they're reduced to fining people for having more
than two children per couple. And then, of course, there are loophole
kids.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Yeah, my husband
and I aren't comfortable with that,” Zoe said. “We've talked
about it, but we're really okay with two children. While it's unusual
for a man to challenge for custody, it's been on the rise lately with
black market adoption rates going up.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“There's a bill
in the House trying to eliminate that practice,” the midwife told
her, “Although it's unknown if it will pass.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“How?” Zoe
asked.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“It provides that
a man who sues for custody cannot put his child up for adoption. If
he's found to have done so, he faces a twenty-thousand dollar fine or
even more. The problem is that Pop Control is fighting it because the
way things are now lowers the number of loophole babies for the exact
reason you stated.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Wow. Well, if it
passes, maybe we'll reconsider.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Even if it
doesn't, there's a loophole to <i>that</i> problem anyway. Right now,
a man can sue for custody of his child and automatically win if two
or more children are <i>already</i> present in the home. However, if
you have your loophole child before you have biological children or
between your one allotment and your husband's allotment, he won't
win.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I never even
thought of that!” Zoe exclaimed, laughing. “That's brilliant!”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I should warn
you that if you need to transfer with your second child, you will be
required to choose a permanent birth control device,” the midwife
added.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Is there no way
around that?” Zoe asked.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Some
obstetricians are willing to do a five year survival clause in their
OC, to provide that you aren't required permanent sterilization until
your youngest child reaches their fifth year alive, at which time,
you have a year to sterilize,” the midwife offered.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“That's sick!”
Zoe protested. “It's like some kind of morbid warranty.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The midwife nodded
sympathetically.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“If you choose a
vasectomy, you have two options still. If you're willing to pay the
third child fine, you can try to conceive immediately, as soon as
your husband feels up to it. After all, it takes vasectomies a while
to take. That also leaves you open for a loophole baby. Of course, if
you transfer during a loophole birth, many OBs make you sign a
hysterectomy release for your c-section,” the midwife warned.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“This just all
feels so wrong,” Zoe said. “Why is Norway the only place in the
world, except for tribal areas, to not make birth into a legal
situation?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“According to my
grandmother, it started out small. A few states criminalized
midwifery when it was on the brink of becoming socially acceptable.
OBs fought hard—buying studies, skewing outcomes—to prove that
midwives were dangerous to mothers and babies. The cesarean rate was
rising every year and then the ACOG gave the green light to start
Obstetrical Contracts, which women were required to sign to use the
practice.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Originally, it
was to guarantee exclusivity. The woman couldn't transfer care, but
she knew exactly the care she would be getting. It didn't seem like a
big deal, since that matched OBs with mothers who wanted their kind
of care. Then the standard of care started shifting. There were no
OBs that offered births without contracts, and then some hospitals
stopped having rooms for labor, advertising as 'c-section only.'</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Next came the
bill that legally defined childbirth as a medical procedure. That was
the beginning of the end. They used it by the same logic that got
midwives out of legal practice. Then came full practices offering
nothing but cesarean delivery. Then, the mandatory cesarean act was
passed. At this point, midwives were totally illegal and just coming
out to protest drew the attention of the law. So we faded into the
night. Women didn't want to risk being caught and trapped into an OC
or lead the law back to their midwives, so they were afraid to make a
lot of noise, too.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“That's awful,”
Zoe said, shaking her head in outrage. “Why did Norway stay
separate?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“They always
have,” the midwife answered. “So, do you wish to hire me?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“What's your
fee?” Zoe asked.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“It's five
thousand for prenatals and birth.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“That's it?”
Zoe asked, shocked. “It's fifty thousand to birth in a hospital!”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Surgery is
expensive,” the midwife said with a shrug. Zoe sighed.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Do you accept
payments?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Of course!”
the midwife said cheerfully. “And if five thousand is a real
hardship, we can work out barter if we need to.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Oh, no, I can
afford it,” Zoe said with a smile. “As long as it's not all at
once. How much if I have to transfer?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“It depends on
how far you get,” the midwife said. “Usually, we detect the need
for transfers at five months, so that would be two thousand.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I can't believe
how cheap it is!” Zoe said.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“We aren't out to
make profit,” the midwife said. “Almost all midwives have some
kind of side business to live on. Now, what month are you due?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“According to the
online calculator: October first.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Good, I don't
have any clients in late September or any time in October right now,
so I have no problem taking you.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I'm glad,” Zoe
said, visibly relaxing.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Remember that
you cannot announce your pregnancy in any public forums, social
media, et cetera. If you get followed to me, I'll be out of business,
and you'll end up with an OB.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Got it,” Zoe
said. “Can I know your name?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“No, I'm sorry,”
the midwife said. “But you may call me Ann. And of course, all
payments must be in cash.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Of course,”
Zoe agreed. “How many babies have you delivered?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I've <i>caught</i>
around three hundred babies,” the midwife answered. “I've been
doing this for twenty-five years. I started apprenticing when I was
sixteen. I was amazed when I saw my first vaginal birth.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“How do OBs stop
women from having accidental vaginal births?” Zoe asked.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“All mothers are
sectioned at thirty-seven weeks, unless they show signs of labor
before that. That's why NICUs have to be so advanced. Many babies who
are supposed to be thirty-seven weeks along are actually thirty-five
and even thirty-seven weekers aren't always ready. Plus, just the
cesarean itself raises the risk to the baby's lungs and digestive
system.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Wait, you mean
pregnancy isn't thirty-seven weeks?” Zoe asked.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Yes. Oh, you
didn't account for that?” the midwife asked. “I should have
asked. Silly of me. You'll actually be due October twenty-second,
then.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Wow, that's
almost a whole month!”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“It could be even
two or three more weeks after that,” the midwife warned.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Really?” Zoe
exclaimed.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You'll be most
likely to go in almost November. Changing your mind?” The midwife
gave Zoe a teasing smile.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“No! No, I'm...
just surprised is all. I didn't know pregnancy was... forty weeks
long!” Zoe shook her head in surprise. “Even forty-two or
forty-three? I've never heard of that!”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Oh, I've seen
two pregnancies that went forty-four and forty-five weeks
respectively,” the midwife said. “I was really nervous about the
forty-five weeker, but her baby, while a bit overcooked, was still
nice and healthy.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Do... do I have
to go that long?” Zoe asked, a small tremor in her voice.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“No, but it's
better to let your baby decide when it's time,” the midwife
explained. “If you get really uncomfortable and go to forty-two
weeks, there are things we can do to tell baby it's time.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Oh, good.” Zoe
stood up and the midwife stood up as well. Zoe offered her hand and
the midwife took and shook it. “Thank you, Ann.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“You're welcome,
Zoe. That's what I'm here for: the truth. Unfortunately, that's
something most people are scared of anymore.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Oh, I'm scared,”
Zoe admitted, “but I want to do this.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I'm so glad,”
the midwife said. “Do you have an ereader?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Of course,”
Zoe said. “Why?”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I have some
books that you should read. You don't want to go near most of the
books in the bookstores—they just focus on preparing you for
surgery and obeying your doctor. These are really old books from the
days back when women birthed vaginally seventy percent of the time.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I can't even
imagine that,” Zoe said. “I'll bring my ereader at the next
visit. It's been a pleasure meeting you.”</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“It's been a
pleasure meeting you, too. Have a happy and healthy nine months,”
the midwife wished her. Zoe shook her head in amazement. Nine months!
Everyone else she had ever met had always said eight months, except
grandmas, who didn't talk much about birth at all.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Maybe they knew as
little as she had. She was amazed at the knowledge that time could
steal and the cleverness of humans in preserving old information
thought to be lost to time. Now if only that wisdom could help her do
what she believed her body had to be capable of doing.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">She hoped that the
ability to give birth hadn't been bred out of her. Zoe supposed
Population Control would be happy if it had. Sometimes she wondered
just how far they would go to maintain their quotas.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Now that she knew
more about the statistics, more than just a fear of surgery drove
her. No, now it was a duty. A service to the human race, to remember
that biology was as important a science as technology. It only made
sense that she, as a biology student, was part of a movement to prove
it.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">She only hoped that
some day, she could share her knowledge with the world that so
desperately needed it.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 0.2in;">
<br />
</div>
</div>
</div>
Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-31653606031247489292014-03-20T01:41:00.000-05:002014-03-20T01:41:09.380-05:00Musing on Social MediaOh, my! I forgot to post in February! I swear that month just flew by for me.<br />
<img alt="" height="496" src="http://www.sxc.hu/pic/l/s/sp/spekulator/1037220_69115795.jpg" width="640" /><br />
<br />
So I'm here because a friend posted that she noticed she prefers to share positive things in her life but didn't want that to be mistaken for having a perfect life. This led to me thinking about this phenomenon. I've seen it plenty -- the memes about how posting nothing but positive means people are putting on a 'mask' or being 'fake.' Or people who post nothing but negative are 'drama queens.'<br />
<br />
I think that's an utter fallacy. Certainly, there may be each personality type in both categories, but I think that perception is important here.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.sxc.hu/pic/l/m/ma/malalena/1118789_73692822.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="200" src="http://www.sxc.hu/pic/l/m/ma/malalena/1118789_73692822.jpg" width="186" /></a>Some people only think of social media with the good moments, some with the bad, some with the all (I think I'm that one). I've never had that thing where I think people who don't post bad are living perfect lives. I figure they just like to share the happy. I don't think that people who post nothing but bad have miserable lives. I figure they just reach out for support/help this way. I think we're all more well-rounded than our social media profiles.<br />
<br />
I posted that comment to my friend's wall, and someone else posted that I caused him to reflect on his usage of social media. I love getting replies like that. Often, when I post something controversial, it's not with the intention of changing minds (that can be great when it's something like, oh, say, ending a bigotry), but more that I want people to think, to reflect.<br />
<br />
This was my reply:<br />
<br />
I originally joined Facebook because a friend asked me to (in 2006) -- I think so that she could have another person with whom to play games.<br />
<br />
I've found it a very valuable tool to promote my writing, definitely, but I use my page for my professional stuff, so I can be more myself and post controversial opinion stuff here. I'm very careful what I post/promote as an author to avoid alienating readers. I only post things that touch on themes that I'm open about in my books (such as being pro-equality/equity).<br />
<br />
On my personal FB, I'll post things about many more social issues, parenting stuff (since I'm a mom), geek stuff (since I'm a geek, lol), etc. I do share a little bit of my private/personal life on my author page, but mostly as it pertains to being a reader/writer or is just a big event for me.<br />
<br />
I have friends from all walks of life. Sometimes it can be tiring, seeing those who post nothing but negativity, but I can easily scroll and find some positive to lift me back up if needed, and there are times when I'm so far down, I'm the one posting all the negative -- and then there they are.<br />
<br />
The ones who cry out so often tend to be the ones who are ready with arms outstretched when their friends need them. I never regret taking a few seconds to give them love and send out a thought that things will get better for them.<br />
<br />
Nor do I get tired of seeing people who just bask in the joys of life.<br />
<br />
In all, what I'm here for is to be a part of the human experience -- the good, the bad, the ugly, the beautiful and everything in between.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="" height="300" src="http://www.sxc.hu/pic/l/a/an/anel77anel/1430977_31903312.jpg" width="400" /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
So, those are some of my thoughts on social media (specifically Facebook) and its usage. Care to share yours?Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6919751326550485549.post-9445358877941395262014-01-30T04:30:00.000-06:002014-01-30T04:31:10.725-06:00Rant regarding "Gay Lifestyle"<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">This rant was originally posted on my personal facebook page, but has been updated for this entry.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.sxc.hu/photo/433540" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img alt="" src="http://www.sxc.hu/pic/l/m/mo/mokra/433540_80103081.jpg" height="479" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pictured: Not a lifestyle. Just a couple.</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Being gay is <b><i><u>not</u></i></b> a "lifestyle."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">It isn't a choice.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I'm. Gay.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">No, not 100%. I'm about 80%. I didn't choose to fall in love with a guy any more than I chose to fall in love with my girlfriend before him. Love isn't a choice. </span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">(nor am I complaining -- I love my husband, and am very aware of how awesome it is that he loves me, too)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">A "lifestyle" is a choice. Being <a href="http://www.guidetoveganliving.org.uk/" target="_blank">vegan</a> is a lifestyle. Being a bigot is a lifestyle. Being a paleontologist is a lifestyle</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"> (<a href="http://openpaleo.blogspot.com/2008/08/book-review-life-of-fossil-hunter.html" target="_blank">for some</a>)</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">. Being a biker is a lifestyle. Being someone who loves to wear little hats (and does) is a lifestyle.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.sxc.hu/photo/336693" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" target="_blank"><img alt="" src="http://www.sxc.hu/pic/l/s/sa/salsachica/336693_1394.jpg" height="425" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pictured: some people's obsession. Credit: <a href="http://www.sxc.hu/photo/336693" target="_blank">stockxchng</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Being gay is like having a great metabolism or tiny toenails or good skin or a lighter beard than the hair on your head. It's a part of you that you have no control over.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Even being Bisexual/Pansexual, you <i>still</i> don't. have. a. <i>Choice</i>. People think you have more choices, but really, no. I mean, you have a choice for who you sleep with, sure, but not who you fall in love with and want to marry. That stuff's just going to happen.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Gay people have lifestyles, like everyone else. Some revolve around their sexuality, but their sexuality itself is <i>not</i> a lifestyle. Hell, being married is a lifestyle. But it's no different for a straight couple than a gay couple, outside there being only one gender. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Sure, maybe the married gay couple down the street in house 21b has a different marriage style than the heterosexual married couple in house 25a. So what? So might the other heterosexual married couple across the street in house 26. That doesn't have anything to do with their (any of these hypothetical couples') sexual preference -- it has to do with their relationship preferences.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">So when you're 'disapproving' of someone being gay, you're 'disapproving' of a part of who they are just like someone who 'disapproves' of someone being black/Hispanic/Asian/First Nation/white/Italian/German/Irish/Korean/Luba/Jamaican/Maya/Cherokee/British, etc. etc. It's not racism, but these statements are equally bigoted:<br /><br />"I don't approve of them being black."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">"I don't approve of their [a gay person's] lifestyle [in reference to their being gay]."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Sure, you can disapprove of their actual lifestyle. Say, you don't approve of gamers or gardeners or church-goers (don't even get me started on the number of churches that are open and welcoming to gay members of the congregation). That just makes you douchey, but not necessarily bigoted (disapproving of someone's lifestyle of dog fighting or creating crush videos or participating in modern slavery would be different, obviously).</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="" src="http://www.sxc.hu/pic/l/m/ma/mariancoan/308691_2811.jpg" height="517" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Disapproving of his wardrobe choices: personal taste. Disapproving of him being a <a href="http://www.sxc.hu/photo/308691" target="_blank">drag queen</a>: douchey.</i></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Stop calling 'being gay' a 'lifestyle.' Just stop it. It's <i>not</i>. End rant.</span>Samhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06710952343278124124noreply@blogger.com0