clickmom

responsibility

When I was in 6th grade and the King Tut exhibit came to the Met my class was lucky enough to get tickets. On the day of the big trip we planned on taking the crosstown bus, which I had been on plenty of times before, mostly with grandma, to the museum. That morning before my class set off for the museum my teacher had a talk with us about bus etiquette. She explained to us that since we were getting on the bus at the first stop we would most likely all get seats. The she told us that if an old person got on the bus down the line we had to get up and offer that old person our seats. Then she said "After all, if your grandmother got onto a crowded bus you would want someone to offer her a seat." And that was it for me. That was all I needed to hear. I could run the NYC marathon, get on a bus to come home and spring up to stand in the presence of a senior citizen.

When I was in college I took a class we called "Responsibility". Many students took the class because they thought it was an easy A, but I took the class because I thought it was interesting. We read all sorts of books, from Charlotte's Web to Kurt Vonnegut. We discussed in depth the issues each book raised regarding responsibility. Charlotte did help Wilbur, but was he her responsibility? Or did he become her responsibility once she helped him the first time? Or was he never really her responsibility? I left responsibility feeling responsible for even more than I had come into the class feeling responsible for. Since for as long as I can remember I should have been introducing myself "Hi, I'm clickmom, and I am so sorry, it is all my fault." me taking on even more responsibility was big.

When Don Imus made that remark the other day, I wondered where the bottom line was. I mean really here, the guy has been on the air for decades, it isn't the first time he said something questionable, who needs to do something? Who is responsible for this situation? Is it the sponsors? The radio stations? The television broadcast? I really think that the bottom line is that WE need to do something. We the citizens of the earth need to STOP listening to people who say questionable, hurtful, derogatory, racist, sexist things. If Imus never had an audience, he would have never had a show, or sponsors, or a tv broadcast, or the time of the influential politicians who would appear on his shows. And maybe he would have wandered off into the sunset and become a book keeper or a librarian or anyone who doesn't get to broadcast his sometimes less than stellar ideas all over the 50 states. I think we need to start teaching our kids right now, at this very moment that they have to be more responsible. They have to give up their seat to old people on the bus, they have to take care of their neighbors, they have to set an example for anyone in ear shot, and also they have to ignore all the hateful people in the world. You can't be an audience to hate without promoting hate. Even if you are not agreeing with the hate, you are legitimizing it as entertainment when you are tuning in and that isn't alright for us as a society. It isn't healthy. It isn't healthy for the listener or for the victims. It's feeding the fire, fanning the flames. Listening to the hate allows it to grow, pushing the envelope, crossing boundaries, until it goes too far like it did the other day for Imus. If we turn a deaf ear to hate talk will it go away? I don't know for sure, but I am willing to bet that if people had just turned off their radios long before the remark, there would have been no forum for Imus to make that hurtful statement from. We should all give the people spouting hate an "I'm bored. Are you done yet?" look then turn on our heels and leave.

who's your (baby's) daddy?

Okay, let's be honest here. This is the thing about Anna Nicole Smith.

I am shock.

You know you are too. Admit it.

I mean, the woman was all about controversy one day and dead the next. And she was still a hottie!! We all want to know what happened to her. I mean, if being wasted for the last two decades didn't have anything to do with her death, then we need to/we want to/we have to know precisely what went down. It isn't because we all believed she was incredibly talented, it wasn't because of her lady like charm and good manners, or her natural approach to living. It isn't some kind of freak show morbid curiosity. It is because OMG, I am older than her and I don't want that to happen to me. Plain and simple.

astro-naught

When I first heard the story about Captain Nowak I thought to myself "Hmmm, sounds like the woman must be a little crazy." Then I heard the part about the diaper, and I said to myself "The woman is WHACKED." I can't even imagine how far off the deep end the woman must be. And I don't care that astronauts wear diapers in space, as far as I know there is gravity at each and every rest stop between Texas and Florida, so if you gotta go between Texas and Florida, it all goes down like it is supposed to. Today I stopped by wordgirl and she put it all so nicely, I am just going to refer you to her. I say "Yeah!" to everything she said. So, go there and enjoy.

innocent???

Wow, Michael Jackson..... innocent. MJ, not guilty. SO sad. Sometimes it is just too hard to believe there is any justice or fairness in the world.

Can we sue the parents now for allowing their kid to sleep in his bed? Can we remove the boy from their custody because they have no natural parental protective instincts? Do I think MJ is a freak of nature on the prowl for young blood? Yup. Would I let him within 100 yards of my kids? Never. I have personally been on a boycott of him since just after Thriller, when I saw what he was doing to himself. I didn’t want to support that kind of self mutilation, or his apparent race issues. I knew he was in trouble and troubled, and I was 19!!

But, let’s be real here, those parents, gotta give it to them for allowing this all to happen. It all just makes me so sick. Sick that there are such lame parents out there, sick that a celebrity would be given that kind of access to a kid, sick that the boy will now have night mares for the rest of his life, and sick that NO ONE will be held responsible. I just have to believe that in end it all evens out somehow. I will continue to take the high road in my own personal affairs because I truly believe that in the end there is something better for those of us that have a clear conscience. You just gotta believe. What else can you do?

I loved that pink chicken

According to Canadian researchers parents take better care of pretty children than they do ugly ones.

I disagree. When my first was born, he was ugly. After a violent pitocin enhanced labor, he was born looking like he had gone a few rounds in the ring with Ali, his nose took up half his face. It was so swollen his eyes seemed tiny. He was long and skinny, and looked like a chicken. In addition to that his skin was pink, wrinkly, covered in infant acne, and he had werewolf hair side burns with a strip down his back too. I took one look at him and thought, “Wow, what a fat nose, wonder where that came from, and boy did I get an ugly one.” Then I proceeded to love and take care of him. When my sister was cooing to him a couple of days later I realized she was saying “What a beautiful baby, who is this beautiful baby, etc...” and I told her that she didn’t have to pretend, I loved him to pieces any ways.

P.S. Within a few weeks the nose swelling faded away as did the acne, the werewolf hair fell out, and he did become the cutest baby.

brooke shields on oprah

Really, I never watch day time TV. Really, like totally never, but today I watched Brooke Shields on Oprah. I was compelled to write to her afterwards, we have so much in common. I actually used to see her all the time as a young teenager, because her private school was around the corner from my public one. I think she used to pretend not to see me cause I am so much prettier than her, (kidding!) but it was a thrill to spot her back then. Anyways, here is the letter I tried to send, but couldn't because Oprah will only let me send a message of under 2000 characters, and I decided that every single word in my letter was necessary, therefore making my letter way to long. Hopefully Brooke will read this posting on line cause she is such a big fan of mine (kidding), but seriously, Brooke, if you need any advice just leave me a comment and I'll get back to you.

Dear Brooke Shields,

I watched you on Oprah today because I too suffered from post partum depression after the birth of my first child. I also had a traumatic labor and c-section, during which I also thought I was going to die, and felt oddly distanced from my new born son. I remember after a couple of weeks telling my husband I felt as if I was waiting for the real parents to come and tell me the baby sitting job was over. I shared many of the thoughts you had like wanting to hurt myself and imagining running away. Like you the only thing that prevented me from doing anything drastic was the baby. I knew I couldn’t leave him with no one to care for him.

When my mother discovered me sobbing in the bathroom at 6 weeks post partum, her advice to me was “Get over it, the baby is healthy and you are too.” I had difficulty discussing my feelings afterwards, but managed to put up a good front and disguise my depression as well as the Post traumatic stress disorder I suffered from for over two years. During this time I cried whenever was I was alone and slept for about 15 hours a day. When my baby slept, I slept, I even napped twice a day while he was little and napping twice a day too. During the night I would have flashbacks to the O.R. where my section was performed without anesthesia. I would wake up ready to burst out of the room, my heart beating wildly in my chest. Sleep was my only escape and my worst enemy at the same time. Eventually both disorders disappeared immediately following a miscarriage, which I believe put my body chemistry back on the right track.

I didn’t actually know that there was a label for what I went through, that it was all classifiable, since it made sense to me that I would be disturbed after such a nightmare of an experience, until I was pregnant with my second child, and told my new care provider that I was afraid of feeling the same way I did with the first. She sent me to a therapist who specialized in PPD, who validated and labeled the experience for me. I was carefully watched the second time around, and am happy to say that I did not have a trace of depression with my second, and only a mild case of the blues with the third.

My second and third births were not traumatic, and I emerged emotionally intact, which is why I think the depression did not reoccur. Going into another birth you will understand what is happening to you, and feel more in control. You will be prepared like you can only be with that kind of experience already behind you, and hopefully this transition will not upset your balance again. Just because it happened once does not mean it has to happen again, you may not become depressed at all.

Being so candid and honest will hopefully help women out there who are suffering like we did, who may not know that help is available. I am sure it is difficult for you to publicize the darkest parts of your life, but I am also sure that many other new mothers will benefit because of your courage. Good luck to you in all you do.

Amy

The Gates

When I heard about the Gates installment that would be coming to NYC, I knew I would find a way to get to Central Park to see it. Growing up in NYC made Central Park my playground. First as a young child with my Grandma, then with my friends, and after college I would spend hours hiking the paths with my dogs. I have always loved the park, and the creativity of Frederick Law Olmstead in the mid 19th century to design such an oasis in the middle of the Manhattan Island. The park was designed with distinct and different areas meant to duplicate a serene countryside. The park feels so wonderfully expansive, the landscape varying from fields to forests, with ponds, and a skating rink, and the zoo, it contains a new treasure around every bend. Inside the park was where us city kids went when we needed a bit of the country.

Last Thursday, I packed up two of my children and headed into the city. We had two events to attend first was an unveiling of a statue of Adam Clayton Powell Jr. in Harlem, a perfect opportunity for black history month, and then a quick ride south to Central Park to see the Gates. The statue unveiling went smoothly, and the piece was magnificent, we marveled at the statues sense of power, at it’s presence from both the street as well as up close. From a distance it looked as if the building had been designed around the simple elegant statue, up close the statue seemed immense and strong. We appreciated the skill of the artist who rendered Mr. Powell in such incredible detail right down to his coat tails flying back in the wind.

After the unveiling we jumped back into the car and shot down to the park. The flags waving from the gates could be seen from blocks away and we were all quite thrilled to become a part of this historical and controversial event. We happily rushed towards the park, anxious to discover what awaited us there. Upon entering the park, we had to choose which way to go. It was a dilemma, the gates led off into opposite directions, we meandered a bit at first and then chose the path that seemed to have the most visual interest. The Path broke off into two directions and we could see distant paths crossing over a bridge in the distance. It seemed as this view would have more visual interest.

The first thing I noticed about the material hanging from the gates was it’s thickness. I assumed it would be light and gauzy like it appeared in the sun drenched photos in the papers I had been reading. In actuality it was a rather thick polyester weave. I was surprised.

Matthew had brought his video camera to record the events of the day, and he had the idea of doing a reporter on the street type of video. He began approaching the other park visitors and asking them what they thought of the gates. All but one of the 6 ordinary people we spoke to admitted they didn’t care for it, and the one who claimed to like it sounded like she was reading a prewritten script. We suspected she was trying to impress her daughter, who had no opinion, with an open point of view.

Another person who was enthralled with the gates was a volunteer who had flown out from California to help maintain a segment of the installation. She walked back and forth all day with a tennis ball attached to a long stick. When one of the drapes got blown around the vinyl columns the would knock it off so that it would hang straight down. She also spoke with visitors, answering questions and giving out fabric samples. This is how we learned that the polyester fabric curtains would be recycled into carpet pads, and that the vinyl supports would be recycled back into new vinyl products and even the steel bases would be recycled. I was happy to hear that these materials would be recycled, but couldn’t help thinking about all the resources that would be used in the recycling process, for such a tremendous and short lived project.

As we got farther and farther into the park, instead of the landscape opening up before us, I felt that it closed. The gates prevented us from enjoying the view. When underneath the gates little else was visible. Their bright orange glow, over powered all the grays and browns , and mossy greens of winter, and demanded we look at them and them only. They made me feel uncomfortable, While the gates trailed off into the distance, the park subsided into the background, and I realized that the gates were all about the gates, not about the gates working with the park, they were not there to enhance the park, or compliment the park. They were there to call attention to themselves. They did not define a new space within the park, after all they ran along the paths that have been in the park since it’s inception. They only stood up and demanded our attention with their intense color and constant movement. Unlike the statue we had seen that lent itself so well to it’s space, these gates did not fit in, nor did they inspire me. “What”, I wondered, “was the purpose of putting them in the park if they were not going to relate to the park?”

I prefer going to the park and losing myself in the beauty of what is already there. The park, to me is a simple place for city folks to go when they need to get back in touch with reality. That could be gazing at the pond or walking through the brambles, and the gates, in my opinion, served to disrupt this peaceful energy.

I didn’t enjoy our stroll through the gates, and left the park with the feeling that all the money and time and energy that was put into this project by the artists, politicians, and volunteers, was misspent. The Gates didn’t belong in this park, in my park. I am glad that they will soon be down.

I

Education-Urban/Suburban

I feel like I have been part of a giant educational experiment. I taught school for 3 1/2 years in NYC before leaving to give birth and raise my first child. The first school year I taught in East Harlem, The 2 1/2 years after that I taught in the Tremont section of the Bronx. Our students were practically all minority, came from a variety of backgrounds, which sometimes included two caring and hard working parents, but more commonly included teen age parents, single parents, foster parents, drugs, alcohol, crime, jail, illiteracy, and language barriers. But, kids being kids, I found the greatest joys in teaching them. They were beautiful, curious, and eager to please.

Dealing with their parents was a different story. The parents of my students were not typically interested in what was going on our classroom, or helpful with the homework I assigned each evening. Some parents even went as far as standing on the opposite side of the cement yard we dismissed the children into, waving at me from a distance to release their child, so that I did not have the opportunity to discuss their child’s progress or behavior with them. Back then, before cell phones, many of our students came from homes with no phone, and we were advised not to walk around the unsafe neighborhood. It was impossible to communicate with parents who did not wish to be involved.

When I moved to the suburbs I was thrilled with the possibilities of public education. I imagined the classrooms full of students who came to school each day with years of experiential knowledge to draw on, all prepared, well fed, well read, knowing their basics, and with out the drug, alcohol, and emotional problems that plagued my inner city kids. I imagined the fabulous hands on projects my children’s teachers would be able to complete, the cutting edge teaching techniques they would be able to employ, the creativity that would be oozing out of every classroom door, and the freedom these suburban teachers would have because I was sure the students would all be well behaved and problem free.

I was naive. Boy, was I naive. Here I am, years later, still in the suburbs and still surprised at the number of kids out here with emotional and behavior problems, on medication, with ADD, and the amount of kids that are held back by their parents. I am also surprised at the number of parents who think they know what is best for all kids. The parents out here in the burbs are quite a vocal group, half demanding more work, and half demanding less, half wanting longer school days, half insisting on shorter school days. The gossip, do not get me started on the gossip.

But what strikes me the most odd out here is the adversarial relationship the parents have with the teachers and administrators. The teachers sure do seem to hate us, and honestly, who can blame them? As a whole we parents are pushy and demanding, and seem to believe the needs of our own children come before the needs of the whole, and parents forget that the teachers are the alleged experts in the field. After all, the teachers are the one’s with the Masters degrees, right?

If our children all need such individualized attention, maybe the public school system just isn’t for them? If we parents think we have all the answers, perhaps we should bear the responsibility of educating our children ourselves. Or maybe we should just step back, let the schools do what they do, accept our school’s strengths and weaknesses, and let the cards lie where they fall. That’s what my mom did, and I couldn’t be any smarter.

Branly Cadet's sculpture

I met Branly Cadet my senior year in high school. I was just about to turn 17. We remained friends (not his choice) for 4 years before becoming lovers, and went on to have a 3 year relationship. I was sure he was the one, and said I was it for him too. He left me for another woman once I began to pressure him to marry me. I was 23 when he moved out of our apartment. We have managed to remain friends, and after 16 years of lives apart, our friendship is solid again. It probably took me about 7 years to really get past all my pent up anger. Remember, I tend to let things fester.

Anyway, one of the many things that led to the demise of our relationship was that soon after we moved in together (after 2 years of being a couple) was that he decided to take a sculpting class. He had always dabbled in drawing, was a great cartoonist and even did some very respectable figure drawing. His new work was amazing. By his second piece, you could barely tell the clay from the model. He had clearly found his niche. Very soon taking a class in the evenings wasn’t enough for him and he figured he could work in the evenings and attend art school during the day. This left me alone in the evenings, in a new neighborhood, with no friends, and lonely. His work day was beginning when I got off from work. I would be sleeping when he got home, and he would be just waking up when I left for my unsatisfying job in the morning. Eventually he was living with a pretty angry stranger. I did not like the arrangement. I imagine I was getting hostile on the weekends too. One day he came and confessed that he was attracted to a woman at work, Duh!- he chatted with her for hours every day! Soon after the admission he moved out.

Anyway, he tolerated my ascorbic anger for years afterwards, just to get to this place where we could be friends again, so when he got this tremendous opportunity to create a monument of Adam Clayton Powell Jr. to go on public display in Harlem I was thrilled for him. Today was the unveiling for the sculpture. There would be a big stage set up with all sorts of important people there.

I went with Matt and Josh. It was so exciting, many black political figures were there, and Branly gave such a lovely speech. The speech really demonstrated what a peaceful and loving place Branly heart is in now, as well as the desire for peace and equality that was the goal of ACP Jr. and the whole movement. When they finally uncovered the sculpture, it just took my breath away. The details were extraordinary, the pose, and the suggestion of wind in his face, the look of determination in his eyes. I first saw it from a distance, I had taken the kids into a shop across the street to warm up and I thought how perfectly the sculpture fit in it’s space, It was just the right size, yet beckoned me for a close up look. When the crowd began to subside we went back to congratulate Branly and I was overwhelmed by the power and presence the sculpture had up close. The piece was exquisite, it was perfect from every angle. I hope this is the beginning of some serious recognition for Branly.

The piece is in Harlem on 125th street and Adam Clayton Powell Jr. Blvd.