The Great Wall of Mainstream Feminism

Published on by Lisa Category: Feminism

There are few things in the world I hate more than when the words “prominent,” “feminist,” “icon,” and “won” are jumbled together in a feminist context.

I don’t know why I do this to myself. I have long sworn off mainstream feminism and yet, like a moth to a flame where I know I shall burn myself to death, still, I am drawn to read articles that ponder whether Angelina Jolie is “the next feminist icon.”

According to “prominent feminist,” Naomi Wolf, Jolie “is hot” and “has it all.”

Let’s skip the whole song and Hollywood dance of her celebrity and take a closer look at what Naomi Wolf says of her,

“Against every Western convention, she has managed to draw together all of these kinds of female liberation and empowerment. And her gestures determinedly transgress social boundaries — boundaries of convention, race, class, and gender — giving many of us a vicarious thrill.”

Um, pardon me, but am I the only one that nearly puked up colonialism when I saw her adopt children all over the world, bringing more wind to the Oprah theory that we, those with money and in industrialized countries, should feel free to “save” these other children from the violence and poverty they would be otherwise subject to?

It’s not as if I expect Bazaar or Forbes to take that kind of approach to celebrity analysis. Far from it, I expect mainstream media to further confuse the notions of liberation with colonialist domination. But from writers, thinkers, and philosophers teaching from the walls of feminisms (yes, read it, again my friends – it’s plural) — in what orbit are you circling where you think Ange-freaking-lina Jolie is the “next feminist icon?” What kind of sound minded, socially-just conscience gets a “vicarious thrill” through ethnocentric, heteronormative practices and then sings ignorant praises and files it under Liberation, Best Practices?

From the same brand that said Sex and the City was a cultural phenomenon that further liberated US women, that also denounced Obama during the primaries because Hillary Clinton was the first women to potentially clinch the White House, which also says NOTHING in celebration of or in defense of Sotomayer — comes the newest installation of mainstream feminism: the (slightly) nuanced message that tells women that, YES, we CAN have it all. By golly, if a big boobed and heavy lipped white actress who makes millions off of her sex appeal can fly a plane, snag a handsome and doting beau, and have her pick of the world’s poorest children, well, shit! I CAN HAVE IT ALL TOO!

Ah, mainstream feminism…how many times must I say this? The demise of our efforts will not be neoconservative right-wing bats who look an awful like Dick Cheney. It won’t even be the machismo. I’ll even go as far to say the collapse won’t come from a thousand reincarnations of Ann Coulter.

The damning crack in the great wall of feminisms is caused by the mainstream feminists, the “prominent” writers and thinkers who jump and down on the wall, throwing praise to other White women who have money, small waists, and heterosexual sex. They continuously and knowingly break the backs of the women and daughters who need more advocacy than they need to hear about a wealthy, country-jetting actress. This wall will certainly cave from the Utah-sized egos that ignore race and colonial theories and teachings, who offer their souls to Hillary Clinton and nothing to Sonia Sotomayer. And when this wall crumbles, the dust will settle and reveal two things that mainstream feminism has caused: the majority of women are trapped under the wall and are dead while the women who walked the the top and caused the crack are still alive.

Letter # 8

Published on by Lisa Category: Letters to my Daughter, Notes From Home Plate, pregnancy

Dear Veronica,

I’ve been thinking about how these letters will be if I find out you are, in fact, a boy, not a girl as I have been thinking.

I don’t think it will matter much. You’ll be either Veronica or Isaiah and what I have to share with you is the same, regardless of what sex you happen to be.

I’m about to enter my second trimester with you and I can scarcely believe it. The picture Dr. David gave me yesterday of you nearly took my breath away. You LOOK like a baby. A head, limbs, and the outline of a body…I couldn’t believe it. I also couldn’t believe how I already thought you looked so cute. You’re, literally, a picture of shadows and, to me and your Pops, you looked simply adorable.

I’ve been thinking about what kind of world you are about to come into when January 2010 strikes and what captives me most is you are in me, yet not of the knowledge that I have. You have no knowledge of what evil looks like, or how it will pain you once you come into this world. You have no knowledge of what kindness looks like. The only thing you know is peace inside a floating sac of my blood, nourishing you with no disturbances or worry. All of that will change soon.

I shared with your father yesterday that I have observed how protective of children I feel these days. Suddenly, the world seems like a cold, cold place. An unloving and precarious playground with sharks in the pond, strangers leering at the fences, and untrustworthy mystery figures walking about. Isn’t it clear? I’m afraid to bring you into this world and the responsibility I will have to protect you as best as I can. So far, the only person I’ve really looked out for is myself. Selfishly, I sometimes think I will be a good protector because I don’t know if I can handle any amount of harm done to you. A selfish mother, indeed.

The wonder and innocence you symbolize to me right now cannot be adequately communicated. You are life, a breathing life waiting to grow and come into the world through my body and I find myself writing about the rights of women’s bodies, the rights of our voice and the place of our humanity. Your mom’s writing is often misunderstood and I hope you can learn from me. There is nothing wrong with being misunderstood. Actually, it only confirms that the more you speak your own way, the more of your own path you’ll find, the more others will misunderstand your ways.

I spoke to you this morning of individuality and trusting the voice you will develop inside you. The voice may not always be certain, but it will be strong in curiosity and wanting to do the most loving thing. That will lead you to where you will need to go. I don’t know if you can hear me, let alone understand the little talks we have in the car, but I hope you can soon understand that individuality can and should only exist in the context of community, accountability, and justice. Never, in all the days you will live, should you ever think you are alone in this world or this world was made just for your path. It is a beautiful, intimidating mudball where you will be pressed to find your own path. If it resembles anything like mine, it should be crooked with lots of uneasy turns that are hard to navigate. But it’ll be your path.

And then you are to share it with others. Should you ever be misunderstood along the way, know these letters serve as my companionship in your journey. To be misunderstood, my dear Child, is a blessed thing.

Love,
Mama

Doctor’s Visit, Week 10.5

Published on by Lisa Category: Notes From Home Plate, Pregnancy and Parenting

Yesterday was our 10.5 week visit and it was another eventful afternoon. Nick brought his Time magazine for what he knew would be a long wait before we actually get to see the growing Plum.

But it wasn’t long before we were in there with the wonderful Dr. David and she says, “Ok, let’s hit the lights and take a look at the little critter.”

Excited to have another look at the Plum, I was expecting to see the small little dot bobbling along in the round sac I’ve understood to be my uterus.

I was shocked to see that the little dot looked more like a baby. “Oh yeah, your baby’s growing like a weed!” Dr. Davis was impressed.

She poked around to see if the fetus would move and, Nick swears, I must have blinked, he said he thought he saw it shimmy at one point. Shimmy? This is definitely our child.

We couldn’t get over how amazingly large the baby had grown. Of course, we were grinning ear to ear and agreed with Dr. David when she said, “It looks like a teddy bear. Whose genes are playing into this kid’s growth spurt?”

Without looking at Nick and knowing he’d agree, I explained, “It is for certain the German/Irish/French side of the family.” I watched her measure the baby from head to rump and was impressed with the healthy growth of our little one.

Class, Race, and Privilege in the ‘Central Park Jogger’ Story

Published on by Lisa Category: Race

This essay is written with nothing but the deepest respect of Trisha Meili’s story and her compassion to share herself with the world and aid those in despair. In the tangled web of examining privilege that comes with race and class, and scrutinizing the judicial system, difficult questions arise about the background of the survivor and the wrongly convicted. Looking at how privilege impacts the crime and conviction is not a strike against Meili. It’s an attempt to take a cold, hard look at the judicial system.

In 2004, I read I Am the Central Park Jogger, a best-selling memoir about the healing road to recovery of Trisha Meili, a Wall Street Investment Banker who in 1989, was brutally raped and beaten in Central Park. The story lit up the nation in outrage.

Her book, released fourteen years after her attack, focuses on the neurological and spiritual healing of the violent crime that nearly took her life. Now a motivational speaker, Trisha Meili has been recognized as a leader and advocate for brain trauma, sexual assault, and survivor rights.

I remember reading it in graduate school. Counseling sexual assault survivors, doing group work, and individual therapy peaked my interest in her memoir. I remember telling a friend, “There’s no criticism after reading a memoir of survival. What am I going to focus on — how the writing wasn’t that sophisticated or the strength of coming out to share her story or rape and recovery after she nearly died? Some stories are not about the writing, it’s about the lives underneath it.”

As is with sexual assault, there’s always more to the story.

One thing I know about sexual assault is that the judicial system often deepens the wrongs and violence of the crime. Usually, it’s implicating the survivor. The system is often a jungle, an impassable jungle of victim-blaming, terrorizing, disbelief, and sexism from the moment a womyn admits she has been sexually violated.

The story of Trisha Meili is different.

The truth is that a convicted rapist and murder, Matias Reyes, would eventually confess that he alone had raped, tortured and beaten Trisha Meili. That truth would not surface, though, for thirteen years after the attack and not until five other Black and Latino young men, known as the Central Park 5, would be wrongfully interrogated and convicted for the crime.

Now, Raymond Santana, Khary Wise, Antron McCray, Kevin Richardson and Yusuf Salaam, are still seeking damages for wrongful convictions and time served, ranging from 6 years to 14 years by different members of the Central Park 5.

While this story bears no surprise to anyone familiar with the judicial system, the lives of all of those involved have a horrendous twist of irony.

Trisha Meili, the strong survivor of this terrible and unthinkable crime, has no memory of that night. The brain trauma suffered rendered her memory blank. She does not even remember going out for the run that night. Her story and pain left me speechless, but I also know that the story of Trisha Meili is not the usual case of rape.

The majority of rapes are perpetrated by known acquaintances, friends, and partners. The majority of rapes are not reported, go to trial or have a named, guilty rapist sentenced. The majority of sexual assault survivors do not have the privilege of attending ivy league schools or working at prestigious Wall Street banks. Yet most speakers who circulate public speeches about rape are White women. After working at *University and being in the field for a while, I’ve observed that most paid speakers who openly share their lives, are White women and are accepted as the face of strength, resilience, and courage. They are some of the faces of strength, but most women, particularly women of color and women of low-income do not have the freedom, ability, or support to seek services, publicly speak, or even share their story of sexual violation.

I am speechless once again, this time for the five young men, teenagers back then, who were guilty of many crimes, but not the rape and beating of Trisha Meili. The unthinkable waste of 20 years, a lifetime, for them and their families…are there any words?

How do race and class factor into this horrible crime? This White, Yale grad has been able to miraculously recover and inspire others after a barbaric shredding of her body and humanity. These men of color, tortured in a completely different way, and forced to admit a crime they never committed, endured an injustice that stole their lives and families for two decades. And now, the city is “dragging its feet” when responding to the request to compensate $50 million each to the wrongly convicted and their families.

In the background, New York City, the city of dreams, and of horror. The place of reality which illustrates that racial division and class differences still don’t mix well in the law.

The Central Park 5. Some stories are not about the writing, but about the lives underneath it. I wonder if these young men will have best-selling memoirs.

Happy Summer is Here

Published on by Lisa Category: Notes From Home Plate, Roadtrips and Travels, Weekend Updates

June 4th unfolded much like every morning of our previous anniversaries. We wake up, greet HAPPY ANNIVERSARY and then look at the clock, wondering what part we were at in our big day 4 years earlier.

After a few minutes of reminiscing, I’ll say, “OK, let’s watch the slideshow.”

And Nick always says, “Yes, good idea.”

So we hobble to the TV, put in our slide show from our reception and watch the pictures go by. From the opening chords of the background music, it’s just floodgates from my end of the couch. OH PATHETIC. I am bawling before my childhood pictures are even over. When I see pictures of my parents, I think, “OH those poor people! What they sacrificed to raise four children! I was so ungrateful and now our children are going to think the same of us! How naive we all are until we ourselves become parents!” The bawling continues.

Nick remains relatively calm until the music switches and the pictures turn to an adorable pretty blond baby (clearly that is not me) and it’s Nick’s turn to lose control. Nick doesn’t say anything, but he gets all choked up and his eyes fill as pictures of Russia, his siblings, his parents, his sporting events, his life parades on by…

It’s a good thing we only do this tradition once a year, because we wouldn’t get anything done in the mornings otherwise.

We head off to work for a 1/2 day and then celebrate later that afternoon with small, thoughtful gifts, dinner at J. Alexander’s, and then Dairy King for soft serve ice cream. We cap off the evening watching the Lakers demolish the Magic.

The weekend takes us to Cincinnati. Nick and I haven’t been to Cincinnati together in nearly a year or so and it was terrific to see everyone. Nick had Eric Rosenbeck’s bachelor party and I was to house-hop, seeing friends and catching up and then going to a Patty Griffin concert with my friend, Claire Mugavin at Riverbend.

Cincinnati hasn’t changed, but Xavier continues to respond to a “rapidly changing global society,” (that’s in their mission statement and I heard it 294874729 times over the four years I was there) and it’s looking entirely different since Nick and I were there. Good ol’ XU. It felt great to revisit our old home.

We concluded the busy weekend in southern Ohio with lunch at Arthur’s in Hyde Park with all the Borchers siblings. Over a ridiculous 2-serving order of fried cheese, we caught up on the latest job updates, friend updates, spouse/significant other updates, and anything else we thought critical to say. It was so nice to just relax and spend time with family.

Albeit wonderful, there’s nothing like heading home and unwinding in your own house. Nick replaced all the storm windows with screens so there is a lovely breeze moving through our house and my allergies have subsided.

As summer slowly approaches, Nick, Plum, and I continue to be extremely grateful for all the friends and family in our lives.

Hope your summer is unfolding as great as ours!

To Whom You Are Accountable

Published on by Lisa Category: Accountability

Filipinos have a cultural trademark of slapping nicknames on folks which have absolutely nothing to do with their real names. For example, my full first name is Ana Lisa, but growing up, my parents had a slew of nicknames for me that slid in and out of my life. I never questioned it, just knew they were terms of endearment and I embraced my cultural names.

My father called me Shouloo [SHAO-loo], which typically meant, “little one.” The youngest of four, it seemed appropriate and a sign of affection. “Shouloo! Get me my tsinelas [sandals]!” My nickname always softened the request to get my father whatever he was requesting.

My mother had a few names for me. “Anak,” [ah-NAHK] means “dear” or “child” as she also frequently called me “Ming,” which I never completely understood. But they were always said lovingly so I had a feeling they were similar in nature.

As a child, they told me stories of the Philippines and I imagined a faraway place of paradox. A tropical paradise. Unthinkable poverty. Dirt. Spirit. Malls. A home.

* * * *

Last year, I went to the Philippines for multiple reasons. One reason was to academically immerse myself in history, economics, language, and the arts. I was also researching the history of the women’s movement in the Philippines and was to study under a professor who had endured political trauma – kidnapping and torture – during the martial law under then president Ferdinand Marcos. Dr. T* was an excellent teacher and I often felt confounded by her life experiece that she used in her teaching college students.

I studied at the University of the Philippines (UP) and quickly absorbed the political tension on campus. I was to attend a rally in one of my first afternoons at the campus. The rally was to raise awareness about the missing Sociology professor and student who disappeared during a research project they had been conducting in the mountains. These young women – Karen* and Carolyn* – were intent on researching the trials and life of rural agricultural workers in the mountains.

They disappeared.

Like so many other philosophers, teachers, activists, and thinkers in the Philippines. Disappeared.

Gone.

* * * *

No one was as interested in my research as they were about my personal story, however. Most of the feedback I received when folks learned of my trip mostly centralized on either one of two assumptions. I actually 1) “abandoned my husband” to learn and conduct independent research OR 2) defiantly traveled alone to the other side of the world without him

* * * *

My parents never taught me or my siblings Tagalog, or any other dialect of the Philippines. Language, its sole function so often understood as the train of understanding, is the carrier of so much more in the Philippines. Being able to speak Tagalog is a marker of cultural acceptance, of union. Stuttering in half English (though nearly all urban areas speak English) is a billboard of westernized upbringing.

The latter. That was me.

* * * *

I meet with all kinds of human rights groups that talk about the many struggles of the bleeding nation. Without filters or softeners, the reality of the corrupt violence makes me afraid. I tell a native that I am afraid. She laughs in my face. “You are an American citizen, yes?”

I nod.

“Just show your passport. No one will ever touch you.” She dismisses me.

Feeling slighted and awkwardly untouchable, I turn to a friend for a brief processing. She is from New York. “Yeah, Leese, I mean, come on. We lead different lives. It doesn’t matter if we’re Filipino, we don’t live the same danger these other women do. Janice* just survived her first round of chemo therapy while she spent the night in her office, advocating for justice. She’s committed. Why? Because her friends, her actual friends, have been kidnapped, murdered and raped. She’s allowed to laugh at us because we don’t live that. We can take her bitter laughter if we understand what she goes through.”

* * * *

“Tell them we’re beyond poverty. We’re not even allowed to eat the garbage. We’re even charged for the remains no one wants,” a Filipina tells me as my research project ends. I say nothing, remembering the communities I met who are charged $60 USD for a truckload of garbage to sift through.

* * * *

“Please, don’t forget us. Please, tell others our stories so others will understand what we’re living through.” I hold the hand of a widow whose husband, a union rights organizer, was assassinated two years ago with no one brought to justice.

* * * *

My parents call me Ming and Shouloo, names of love. Lately, though, I notice they don’t call me those names anymore. I realize it’s because they were all names for a little girl.

I am no longer.

* * * *

It has been almost a year since I left for my first trip to my parents homeland and I have written nothing but scratches about its impact on my life. My notes, my research sits out waiting for me, waiting for my commitment to travel back in my memory and relive some of the most gorgeous moments of my life, and also some of the most horrific.

I realize, with sadness, as I nurse this plum of a life inside me, s/he will likely not receive the cultural division that I experienced growing up. The intense confusion, and resulting drive, that came with growing up Ming and Shouloo in the United States will not be present for my child.

But the stories I have, the memories still burning in my mind will shape this child into understanding a certain part of the world to where s/he will always have a connection. With connection, comes accountability. Loving accountability.

* * * *

With a picture of the growing Plum on my desk, I reach for overstuffed notebooks with handouts and maps as bookmarks, reeking with the smell of dust and dried sweat.

I remember. I begin writing.

__________________________________________________________________
Salamat to Tanglad for your inspiration, companionship, support, and incivise writing.

The Relationship: Pregnancy, Abortion, Faith, Violence

Published on by Lisa Category: Reproductive Rights

I attended my first pro-life rally when I was 10 or 11 years old. With my mother on a back breaking smelly bus, we traveled through the night to D.C., arrived, marched with our church group, and boarded the bus to drive home. I barely slept.

The pro-life march was my first trip the our nation’s capital and the magnificent sites were shadowed by the thousands of pro-life marchers I walked with. Huddled under a tent from the dripping rain, I listened to stories of guilt-ridden women who’d had abortions and realized their mistake.

I held a sign of some sort. I don’t remember what it said, but I’m sure it was something along the lines of “Love them both. Choose life.” As I held my mother’s hand, I smiled at a group of women in business suits who I thought looked like congresswomen. They smiled at me and gave me a thumbs up sign, my heart soared.

I was ten when I walked down the pro-life avenue and clung close to my mother as pro-choice advocates stood with their signs on the outskirts of the march. As I passed a group of pro-choice ralliers, one said to me and my group of walkers, “You all make me sick. I want to spit on you.” I buried my face into my mothers stomach, afraid of what might happen.

My mother whispered into my ear, “You pray.”

I thought she meant for my safety so I threw a prayer skyward that sounded something like, “Please God, I don’t want to be attacked. I don’t want to be spit on. I just want to walk.”

* * * * *

I was 25 when I moved in with Katie*. She worked at the local Planned Parenthood and though we went to the same undergraduate university, I’d never met her before. We got along swimmingly. I worked at a university’s women’s center, she at Planned Parenthood and we mostly talked women’s issues, feminism, and the differences that lay between us.

One night, over a tiny wooden table with crowded plates of rice and chicken, Katie asked me, “So, where do stand on abortion? Does your faith steer you pro-life or the women’s center steer you pro-choice?”

I slowly swallowed my food, hating that question, and deliberately delayed because I wanted my heart beat to slow before I answered. A shot of adrenaline always pulsed through me when I spoke of issues of reproductive health, abortion, life, and faith.

“I don’t think you’ll like what I have to say. No one does. I don’t identify pro-life and I don’t identify pro-choice. I don’t think either ‘side’ has the vision for what women in this world need.”

I moved my eyes from her face, knowing the line of questions that were coming.

“But do you believe in a women’s right to an abortion?” Katie wasn’t eating anymore.

“I believe in women. I believe that all this crap and dialogue is bullshit. I believe we haven’t been given the funding, education, and means to even think beyond having a baby or having it terminated. We don’t even envision the kind of LIFE women should be given and so we aren’t given the options we deserve, the resources we need, or even the chance to consider what else is possible with our lives. So when you ask whether a women has a right to an abortion, all I think of are ALL the things, all the basic things that women don’t have that lead to make her choose between ‘life’ and ‘choice.’ It’s not that simple.”

Katie resumed munching on her rice and chicken, “Well, yeah. I mean, women don’t have access to the education and resources they need in general, but that’s a whole other conversation.”

I looked up, “Is it?”

* * * * *
A few months have passed since that discussion and I come home to find Katie watching Desperate Housewives. I made a snide comment about trashy evening programs that do little for our brains and notice she is not throwing back any signature sarcasm. I ask her what’s wrong.

Katie tells me a long story. She tells me a long story on the slashed tires she’s endured. The man who photographs her car license plates. The daily protesters outside her office. The security measures when she walks into work everyday.

I listen to this woman, my friend, who tells me what it’s like working at a Planned Parenthood in Cincinnati, Ohio. I think about the mild harassment endured when I tell people I work at women’s center – a non-medical facility – where it is always assumed I provide information and possibly even assist abortion procedures.

It is then I realize that there are several battles going on, but one war. There are different battles of those who fight the front lines of gender equality, those of us who try to raise consciousness and educate about the damning effects of essentializing the characteristics and roles of women and men and ignore anyone else who doesn’t fit our expections. And then there are those on the front lines of reproductive rights who go live an almost double life. Katie tells me how she has two resumes she sends out, one that is open about Planned Parenthood and another that softens the position and her role in its function. Katie tells me endless stories of dinner parties gone awry because of political debates, family gathers that bleed awkwardness because of her work, and the silent assumptions of acquaintances when she shares the nature of her occupation.

* * * *
Today in the news there is much talk about the murder of Dr. Tiller and even our normally calm Mr. Obama President expressed his “shock and outrage” about what has been called a”reprehensible act of domestic terror.”

According to the Op-Ed in the New York Times, this is the fourth killing since 1993 of a physician who provides abortion procedures. Not to minimize this heinous and unthinkable crime, but let’s look at the global picture of abortion via reproductive rights. Four murders in 16 years averages to one every four years.

Every minute of every day, a woman dies from pregnancy-related complications. Approximately 530,000 women and girls die worldwide from such complications every year, including as many as 70,000 women and girls who die from botched abortions, according to Population Action International.
* * * *

But those women dying is not a crime because most of them occur in “developing” countries. All the women who die from botched abortions do not have reactions from our President because…simply because it’s women who are dead from botched abortions.

The President from D.C. says it’s time to find common ground. I disagree.

It’s not time to find common ground, it’s time to admit there is no common ground and, still, cease fire.

It’s not time to try and say pro-lifers understand pro-choicers or vice versa because the decades of divisive rhetoric has split this country into a segregation deeper than red and blue states.

There’s no time to find common ground when so many women are dying from lack of education, resources, and freedom. I believe the access to healthcare, education, and information trumps the rallies and cries for choice. True freedom is full access to the knowledge of health, consequence, givings and sacrifice of our actions. Why are we so damn staunch in our fight for abortion and so up in arms when a physician is murdered? Albeit, it’s a tragedy, but LOOK AT WHAT WOMEN IN THIS WORLD ARE ENDURING.

But as so many have reiterated to me, when I speak of vision and freedom in regard to reproductive health and “choice,” it becomes “a whole other conversation.”

As long as it remains a whole other conversation, it will never be our reality.

The Year is 2100

Published on by Lisa Category: Life is Never General, Notes From Home Plate, Purchases that Cause Headaches, The Cheap Life is a Life Worth Living, This is Us

Last night I came home from work at roughly 9:30pm. Driving in a rental, I pulled up and saw Nick sprawled on the couch, watching our old but new to us TV (huge applause to Nick’s cousin, Abby Cordonnier and fiancee for selling us a monstrously large and much improved telly) with an intent look on his face. I was chatting on the phone with Kelly, Nick’s sister, about the joys and woes of the growing Pinto Bean in my belly.

As I babble, I observe Nick is flipping the channel between some NBC news special on the White House and an ABC special program about what the earth will look like in the year 2100. After I got off the phone, Nick scooted closer to me and says, “It’s good your home. I was about to kill myself after watching this,” he referenced the Earth 2100 show.

I sat down to watch.

In the next 20 minutes, I watched the most depressing and strange story which told a part cartoon, part computerized tale that predicted what the world will become should we continue in our fossil fuel consuming ways. The southern states of the USA were desert, the coasts were in perpetual threat of flooding, and everyone was hoodlums with shopping carts on the side of the road, hitch hiking their way to Canada. I felt like I wanted to just bury my head in a sand dune and hope for a quick death. That or drink myself into an oblivion.

“Ugh,” I grunted at Nick, “it IS a good thing I came home when I did. You might have put a bullet to your noggin if you were alone watching the world go to shit.”

We tried to focus on something else to cheer ourselves up from the morbidity of 2100 and impending doom of human life.

Nick asked, “Did you see our new car?”

Yesterday, we had our insurance agent shop and find us a car. When they find one that fits your general description, s/he will arrange a test drive and get the car to us for inspection. If we like it, we buy it on the spot. It’s a nice FREE service from Nationwide. (Nick asked the agent 3 times to make sure it was FREE.)

Our used but new to us (do you see a theme emerging yet?) car is 2006 Honda Accord, blue, with a non-descript gray interior. According to Nick, back in his seminary days, one of the older priests drove an Accord and Nick told himself, “If ever someday I have a lot of money, I’m going to buy an Accord.”

I don’t know anyone whose car fantasies began in the parking lot of a Cincinnati seminary.

As Nick retold me his vow to buy an Accord someday, I jested, “Well, we are just rolling in the millions these days, so let’s pull the trigger. It’s now or never.”

The test drive was scheduled at 2pm yesterday and I was not able to get off work. Nick was hesitant to be the only one driving/inspecting the car, but I told him, “Look, this will be the second biggest purchase you have to make without me. Remember, we bought our house without my ever seeing it. Now it’ll also be our car.”

The Accord runs beautifully.

We returned our rental last night and then drove around Cleveland, frequently getting lost because we are the two most geographically challenged people in the midwest.

“I like it,” I told Nick. “Good job.”

Nick muses, “This thing is going to last forever. I mean, it’s an ACCORD. It’s supposed to run forever. For real, the world is going to collapse on itself in 2100, but this car is still going to be running.”