It shouldn’t be dangerous to wear a skirt in daylight in DuPont Circle.
Actually, it shouldn’t ever be dangerous to wear a skirt. Or jeans.
It should not be dangerous to walk while female.
Yet most women take sensible precautions all the time as they make their way through the world. As we choose what to wear, where to meet friends for a drink, when to leave, in the back of our mind we consider whether a given location is safe. Sometimes we think so and find out otherwise. Sometimes we decide to take a risk that turns out to be quite worthwhile. Sometimes we plunge into an experience and discover a wonderful new neighborhood park. Sometimes we find that we have crossed an invisible line into the lion’s den.
Whether statistics bear out our fears or not, we know there are criminals who may attack us at any given time. Many women deal with it consciously by traveling in packs, keeping their keys handy in case they need a weapon or talking on their cellphones loudly so those around them know they are not really alone. We do everything we can think of to protect ourselves and prevent something from going wrong.
And yet does.
In her recent blog post, On the Reverse “10-5 Rule” and Walking While Female, photographer Liz Gorman wrote about a man who sexually assaulted her in broad daylight in DuPont Circle. For those of you not familiar with DC, that is a neighborhood filled with coffee shops and embassies. It is definitely not the Cologne train station at midnight where a similar thing happened to me twenty one years ago.
I was a college student with a Eurail pass and a shoulder bag of clothes. I’d planned to switch trains for Paris only to learn that they were fully booked. It was too late to get a hostel and too dark to explore the city. I wandered around the train station looking for an alternative and witnessed paramedics trying to revive a train conductor on the platform. It did not appear to be a successful effort; I can still see the man sprawled out on his back, immobile in a white shirt and dark pants, his belly swelling out of his clothes, a florescent light shining down on him as we travelers passed by. That fleeting glance made me think of death and escape. I was spooked and determined to get out of that station.
Seeking refuge, I climbed aboard the next train heading west only to have an old man grin madly at me and grab my crotch as he exited the train. His fingers were quite deliberate as he pressed through my jeans, but he didn’t get very far. I shoved him hard and swung my shoulder bag at him before fleeing down the aisle and into a compartment. There were angry shouts in German but no one followed or questioned me. Maybe the person behind him saw the whole thing and set everyone straight. Maybe the old man knew better than to press charges and covered my defense with a lie. I didn’t care; I was just glad to wake up somewhere else the next morning.
Except that memory is still there. I thought of it immediately when I read this column about the many women now telling their stories and that leering face slips by me at least a few times a year.
I don’t think grab & grope sexual assaults are going to magically end just because we’re talking about them. Dirty old men may die but they’ve been with us for centuries. What needs to change is our response when these things do happen.
Ever since Roberto started working at Seasons 52, I’ve been leaving the living room light on for him when he works the dinner shift. That usually means I’m at least in bed trying to sleep if not completely zonked out when he gets home, often after midnight. Last week, however, I went to the Charles King concert at Artomatic and I was the one coming home late. Ever thoughtful, Roberto left the big kitchen light on for me. He’s usually hungry when he gets home, so I took that as a hint and I’ve been making sure the kitchen is stocked.
What struck me tonight is that the very act of leaving the light on is a lonely, expectant one. It says “please come home, I’m waiting, I love you.” Filling the fridge means the same thing, especially when I’m filling it with spaghetti and meatballs. Interestingly, however, I’m not unhappy in this loneliness because I know it’s temporary. It will be over in just a few hours, sometimes sooner than expected.
And then I realized that is exactly how God feels about us. We wander away from Him, or even ignore Him, and yet there’s always a light on in Heaven, a place with our name on it. It’s not quite the same as leaving the door open, not as expectant or demanding as saying Call Me, Maybe, but rather the quiet, patient, constant love displayed as a twinkle in the sky or the blink of a firefly. “I made that, and I made you, and I hold you in the palm of My hand,” to paraphrase the prophet.
So why do we so often choose darkness over light? For me, the root of sin is often about fear. I lie, or fail to act, or break a commandment because I’m afraid of the consequences. The light comes with a price that I’m not always ready to pay. Hiding our lamps under a bushel is so easy. We can just sit on the bushel and stay put. No walking, growing or moving necessary. Lighting a lamp for others, being a beacon of hope, that’s work. It doesn’t just happen. But a major portion of it involves waiting.
This weekend, I attended the retirement Mass of a priest who has served the Church for 47 years. He spoke about the great gift of forgiveness, and his joy of sharing God’s forgiveness through the sacrament of Confession. Sometimes, he would sit in the confessional and no one would come. But he was there, waiting.
Many dioceses call their Lenten outreach program some variation of “The Light is On,” a weekly evening when every church offers the sacrament of Confession. The first time I saw a sign for a “Light is On” program was on the Metro in the spring of 2007. I had come to Washington DC to campaign for the passage of the State Children’s Health Insurance Program as part of my work with LA Voice PICO. It was an empowering experience to put my faith in action on Capitol Hill and then step into a public transit system and see the Catholic Church inviting people to come by. I found it very counter-cultural. I still do.
Much more common is the practice of leaving on nightlights for children. My dad always made sure we had nightlights. I don’t remember the nightmares or bedtime monsters that must have provoked this practice, but I do remember the little white bulbs they used and how they plugged straight into the wall. They weren’t strong enough to read by (I was reading at four so I hadn’t quite outgrown monsters), but they were bright enough to walk by. And the light meant someone was waiting for us, there if we needed them. It was a sign of total safety.
Maybe within each of us there’s still a three-year old with a nightlight. And that’s ok, because we are Loved.
View of Niagra Falls from American side, courtesy Wiki user விஜயஷண்முகம்
Last night Nik Wallenda awed millions around the world by crossing Niagara Falls on a wire. When he arrived on the other side of the river, Canadian officials treated him like every other tourist. They asked for his passport and his purpose. From the heights of cloud nine he responded, “To inspire people around the world.”
Wallenda first dreamt of crossing Niagra Falls on a wire when he was six and visited the site with his family, the world famous Flying Wallendas. Funambulism is the family business, so such a feat might be the natural aspiration of a boy who began learning to walk a tight rope at the age of four. Twenty-four years after seeing the falls, he’s finally done it. That was a long quest, but it’s not supposed to be easy to walk 1800 feet across an international border on a wire. At night.
A Guinness world record holder, Wallenda faced years of negotiations to change the laws in two countries in order to get permission to cross the falls. ABC was willing to fund part of the feat and broadcast it live, but required Wallenda to wear a ten pound tether that trailed behind him. Even though several members of his family have died during their high wire stunts, Wallenda doesn’t wear a tether while performing and didn’t like the idea. Yet given the choice between either wearing a tether or not crossing the wire, he stuck to his dream.
Once the stunt was arranged, Wallenda prepared himself and his equipment, including wind and water practice sessions in a parking lot to imitate possible conditions over the falls. Though he objected to the requirement for a safety harness, he trained with the tether. He worked with his uncle, an engineer, to develop pendulum anchor weights since the wire could not be supported by stabilizing cables. He chose clothing that would keep him dry and wore shoes that his mother made for him. His father served as his safety coordinator. A born-again Christian, he prayed with his wife and children before the stunt. Though the wire walk was ‘only’ expected to take 30 minutes, the physical and mental challenges were immense.
Achieving this dream meant preparation, perseverance and compromise. There’s a lesson for all of us in that. It’s not the television special or the world record that put Nik Wallenda on cloud nine Friday night. It was the culmination of working so hard and having a transcendent experience. Often we only live on the edges of life, in the safe places. We forgo the challenges for the sure thing, or we get discouraged when life takes an unexpected turn. Trapped by expectation or fear, we linger where we are instead of moving forward. We hoard our dreams instead of planting them like seeds, and then we wonder at the dearth of flowers or fruit in our lives.
I loved this interview with Mets pitcher R.A. Dickey about his new memoir, Wherever I Wind Up. Dickey has survived an incredible life – a dismal family life, sexual abuse, and a depressing tour through the minor leagues – and he’s fascinating to listen to. His story about surviving a near death experience inspired me because it changed his entire outlook in life and propelled him to succeed professionally. He talks about the challenges of learning to throw a knuckleball, how it impacts his catchers and why umpires might give him the benefit of the doubt when calling strikes. Dickey is currently the only professional knuckleball pitcher in the major leagues, and he hopes that others will follow in his footsteps. That’s the great baseball nerd stuff… the life stuff is even more interesting.
Side view of a knuckleball grip. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
For Dickey, learning to throw this tricky pitch was a survival choice, the difference between a baseball career and the end of his dreams. He’s had a lot of practice with survival, starting with a childhood that included abandonment by his father, neglect by his alcoholic mother, molestation from a female babysitter, and rape by a teenage male. In our tough guy culture, few men talk openly about their struggles and their experience seeking therapy but Dickey’s conversation with Dave Davies sounded engaging and honest.
Dickey credits therapy for making him a better human being and living more authentically, thus improving his professional performance as well.
I’ve still got a few details to work out but I hope you’ll follow me at my new home. The reason for the move was merely to make my life easier; at one point I thought I’d curate several blogs with different themes but I’ve discovered I’d rather keep all my navel-gazing in one place.
April is National Poetry Month and while there is certainly plenty of poetry in the world, many poets celebrate this occasion by writing more. Daily poem writing challenges abound, offering prompts and forums for poets to share their work. Two good ones are NaPoWriMo.net and Robert Lee Brewer’s Poetic Asides, a Writer’s Digest blog. I’m planning to write daily, but I may alternate between the sites depending on my whims… and how hard the prompts are! Whatever I do I’ll share a draft here, and draft is a key word because there’s no way to promise perfection and quantity. Even so, I welcome your comments about what works for you or doesn’t. And I promise to cheer you on when you commit to doing something crazy for 30 days.
This one came from Poetic Asides, and it’s already changed twice since I posted my initial response.
For today’s prompt, write a communication poem. The communication could be dialogue between two (or more people); a postcard correspondence; a letter; a voicemail; a text message; a series of tweets; or whatever. Heck, I guess a poem is a form of communication–so there’s really no way to screw up today’s prompt (outside of writing nothing at all). Let’s get this party started!
Missing the Note
listening but not hearing
as the cantor sings, our choir swings
standing with the sopranos
striving to make the perfect sound
my ears fill, my nose twitches,
and right before we start the descant
I sneeze.
Fractal Pattern in Frost Water Crystal on Mercury via Wikepedia
It’s often been said that that definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. We all do this to some degree, partly because we’re wired for it. Our bodies like to eat and sleep at the same time every day. Most of us have a morning routine like coffee in bed, an hour of reading, a leisurely breakfast… oh wait, that’s just my fantasy. Reality includes coffee in bed, but the rest of the timetable speeds up a bit.
Patterns can help us get through our lives, but I know they sometimes get disruptive and disconnect me from my best self and those I love. For instance, I am a homebody who loves to read, which is a nice way to live occasionally but a constant pattern of it eventually leads to isolation or depression.
So what do I do? I try to start a new pattern, a healthier one, because ironically the cure for an unhealthy pattern is the deliberate, repetitive practice of a better one.
Repetition is a driving factor in nature and art. Look at fractals, those beautiful pictures of nature repeating its patterns over and over to achieve something even more beautiful. Listen to a piece of music that builds on a theme and you will hear the same notes over and over again. Now notice that what makes a flower or a song really interesting is not perfect repetition, the same thing over and over, but variations. The variations may be a deliberate choice, or a random accident but either way the result is beautiful.
As a recovering perfectionist control freak, it’s a relief to see that even randomness can become beautiful. What’s interesting is the effect a variation has on the structure around it. Whether the variation emerges from a mistake or a deliberate choice, strong, repetitive patterns either amplify the shift into something more amazing and powerful, or sweep it into the whole, letting the change occur without destroying everything. We don’t have to get it right every time, we just have to know the ideal that we’re aiming for and eventually we overcome our unfortunate mistakes to create either a beautiful new variation or an even better pattern.
Recently I played Game On, a diet contest that focuses on breaking bad patterns and starting good ones through a very rigid structure of eating times, meal composition and other factors. What I noticed was that the structure made me more attentive to what I do over and over and the positive or negative effects of those choices. When I don’t drink tons of water and exercise every day, I don’t feel as well. Change is hard but there’s something about friendly competition and encouragement that helps this contest work. Everyone comes out a winner because we’re all working to change habits, to create new, beautiful and powerful variations in our personal patterns.
The same thing happens on a spiritual level during Lent. We deny our usual patterns, we say no to coffee or cigarettes or our favorite websites and advice columnists. All the readings, the fasting, the fish on Fridays, the small sacrifices and generous alms are designed to make us break a pattern of complacency and grow closer to God.
And this is where the big ‘NO’ comes in.
God loves us so much that He says NO. Not in the same sense that a parent warns a toddler about touching something hot but in an even deeper manner. God tells us no in order to make us say yes to Him. The Ten Commandments, the Golden Rule, the crucifixion itself are all one big plea from God: “I love YOU. Choose Me.”
NO, I will not spare my only Son from the Cross because His sacrifice redeems YOU.
NO, I will not accept mere politeness between people because YOU deserve a deep, abiding true love, the kind YOU must share to receive.
NO, I will not tolerate lying, stealing, murder, jealousy or adultery because those things hurt YOU.
NO, I will not abide disrespect for your parents because whatever they may do wrong, they did one great thing right and that’s YOU.
NO, I will not allow you to work constantly without rest because I want to spend quality time with YOU.
NO, I will not share you with Mammon or Gaga or whatever other idols your world invents because I want all of YOU.
NO, I will not accept any substitutes because I made YOU.
Basically God is breaking the pattern of a society that says ‘yes’ to virtually everything and inviting us to say ‘yes’ to Him by saying ‘no’ to those things that harm us and separate us from Him and those who love us. Our small ‘no’ can change a pattern and lead to an ever greater yes.
I thought of Rosalind Franklin while reading Jennifer Haigh’s The Condition, a compelling novel about the effect of Turner syndrome on a family. Turner syndrome is caused by a chromosome aberration and that led me to wonder what ever happened to the lady scientist who famously helped James Watson and Francis Crick discover the double helix structure of DNA. Like many people, I couldn’t quite remember her name but I knew she’d done something important.
Of course scientific discoveries build upon each other, and the quest to understand DNA actually began in 1869 with Friedrich Miescher’s discovery of nucleic acids. By the 1950s, several scientists were honing in on the actual structure of DNA. Dr. Rosalind Franklin at King’s College had refined her study of DNA strands by perfecting an x-ray technique which focused a fine beam of x-rays to reveal the water content of DNA. Watson heard her lecture about this discovery but failed to take notes. Fortunately for Watson and Crick, Wilkins shared her work without her knowledge.
I’d never known what exactly Franklin contributed to the work Watson and Crick were doing. They acknowledge her and Wilkins in their seminal 1953 Nature paper but are quite vague about why, perhaps because they didn’t want to discuss quite how much seeing her work helped. In the same issue, she and her collaborator Raymond Gosling published photograph 51, the visual impetus for Watson and Crick’s double helix theory. Wilkins published a related article as well. As happens with sports, the scientific “scorers” got all the credit while those teammates who put them in scoring position were overshadowed.
Franklin’s comparatively anonymous life is a direct counterpoint to that of Marie Curie, who received two Nobel prizes and a level of world fame rarely seen. Interestingly, however, both women accomplished their scientific goals by becoming excellent laboratory technicians; supervising assistants and writing papers while refining and improving various methodologies. Curie painstakingly isolated radium; Franklin precisely applied x-ray crystallography to reveal the structure of DNA. The sexism they faced may have compelled both to surpass the skill level of their male counterparts and lead to their crowning achievements. That they did so at a time when both were formally rejected from official academies on the basis of their sex testifies to their focus, dedication and intelligence. Franklin had earned her doctorate before Cambridge revised its discriminatory policies and retroactively awarded women bachelor’s degrees.
Franklin lived in a world that expected women to be educated but not intellectual. Knowledge was fine, exploring and expanding it was not. As a girl who solved math puzzles for fun, she probably could not imagine fitting herself into the social world of contemporaries like Pamela Digby, an intelligent British socialite also born in 1920 who changed the world through a more traditional application of her feminine gifts. The daughter of a baron, Digby lived the high life but aspired to more and achieved it through ambitious marriages, first to Winston Churchill’s son Randolph, then Broadway producer Leland Hayward and finally industrialist Averell Harriman. In 1971 she became an American citizen. Eventually, she hosted an influential Georgetown salon that supported the Democratic Party’s move to the center and the election of Bill Clinton as president. He rewarded her with an ambassadorship to France.
Yet Franklin chose a very different path of achievement. During World War II while Digby was socializing and having numerous affairs, Franklin was studying coal structure to find more efficient means of fueling the national defense. overcame those expectations and created a life that was satisfying to her intellectually and personally. A decade after her death, many friends defended her against Watson’s assertion in The Double Helix that she was a mere lab assistant who didn’t know what she was looking at. Anne Sayres wrote Rosalind Franklin and DNA to articulate the exact nature of Franklin’s work.
There are those who argue that Franklin’s contribution to the discovery of DNA was essential and others who disagree. It’s lovely to hope that if she’d been alive, she too would have been recognized by the Nobel Committee with Watson, Crick, and Wilkins. What sparks a more important discussion, however, is whether the recognition is more important than the work.
There’s something about anonymity that’s attractive in today’s hyper-celebrity world. The most confident scientists know their value without applause meters, prizes and recognition banquets. Universities and laboratories compete for their services even though they never make headlines. Working without attention allows for freedom of exploration without the pressure of expectations imposed by the outside world. Their work is respected by peers and they are ‘big fish in a small pond.’ That may be a blissful life for many, and the path that Rosalind Franklin would have chosen for herself had she survived ovarian cancer. She was wise enough to leave the poisonous atmosphere at the prestigious King’s College in London for the academic freedoms of Birkbeck College. Her work in other areas continues to influence science, and she may well have been happy for decades whether the whimsical gifts of prizes and fame were bestowed upon her or not.
And yet.
What have we lost by her anonymity? How many women haven’t gone into the sciences because there were no role models, no famous women scientists encouraging them? What discoveries haven’t been made?
It’s crucial for everyone to have role models, and for women in the sciences in particular. Over the last decade, the Royal Society has established a Rosalind Franklin medal for female scientists and the University of Health Sciences/Chicago Medical School has been renamed the Rosalind Franklin University of Medicine and Science. Objective, comprehensive biographies are finally being written for general audiences as well as children. In June of 2012 Franklin’s sister, historian Jennifer Glynn, will publish a memoir that focuses on Franklin’s life and personality.
The resurgence of interest in Rosalind Franklin’s life, career and contributions comes at a time when basic science education is under siege from budget cuts despite the recognition of its importance to our future. Perhaps knowing her story will inspire teenage boys and girls who are passionate about science to pursue their interests despite all obstacles. Perhaps it will also inspire policymakers to remember that skills and intelligence require opportunity to grow. Perhaps male scientists will remember to open the door to female colleagues without outside pressure.
What’s certain is that knowing her story is better than ignoring it.
Yesterday my beloved and I successfully ignored all the pressure to shower each other with gifts, indulge in fine dining and otherwise pretend it was anything other than Tuesday. Ok, it was Tuesday with extra kisses in the morning, but still just Tuesday. We’ve done quiet Valentine’s dinners at a lovely restaurant in the past, but until recently he worked in the restaurant industry and therefore was always working on the 14th. We’d reschedule the celebration to his nearest day off, which makes it both more special and less hyped. For us, it seems that Valentine’s Day is just an affirmation of how we live our love all the time.
Any dude that waits till Valentine’s Day to treat his woman like a Queen is failing 364 days a year . – AdamSandler (or a meme by the same name)
I know very well that many women can’t stand the thought of Valentine’s Day without roses, presents and the royal treatment. There’s nothing particularly wrong with any of that, it’s just not what I need or want. Apparently I’m not high maintenance. On one of our early dates we got all dressed up for a night of dinner and the theater and I suggested parking on the street instead of an expensive lot. That was when he knew I was a girl who appreciated sweet gestures and the finer things but didn’t have ridiculous expectations. What I remember about that night is the magic, not the money.
Of course we would love to have any excuse to give each other big expensive toys. In an alternate fairytale universe, our Valentine’s Day would start with breakfast in bed and pillow presents, most likely e-readers. Then we’d indulge in a morning of massages followed by a gourmet lunch and an afternoon at the movies. Just as everyone else emerged from offices and started filling up restaurants, we’d head home to open gifts. I’d unveil for him a large screen television fully installed and equipped with a dvr, cable, blue-ray and the entire Criterion collection. He’d hand me a smoking fast MacBook Pro fully loaded with Adobe Creative Suite and Dragon software. We’d make a steak dinner together, top it off with dessert and our favorite wine, and then spend the evening enjoying each other’s company.
So how did we really celebrate our first married Valentine’s Day, the first time in our entire relationship that he didn’t have to work? He made dinner, we drank some wine and talked, talked, talked. Then we played rummy with deuces wild, reviewed his resumes, and watched the Mirror, Mirror episode of Star Trek.
Basically the same without new toys. I’d like to think that’s how we’ll always be, loving and supporting each other no matter what the calendar says or how much we’ve got in the bank.
