drawing the line

When I graduated from college, I was part of an influx of new workers into an already depressed economy. Jobs were few and far between, and many of us took whatever we could get. My first couple of jobs after college were pretty dismal indeed. I was overly qualified and likely took these low-paying jobs away from someone who may not have even graduated high school. It was an employers' market, and they knew it.

That first job was especially hard. I was working for a woman who was rumored to be a cocaine addict, and her personality was erratic at best. Our boss was demanding, and she expected us to lie to attorneys about her whereabouts – I'm glad I was never caught in that position, though it could have happened at any time. Whenever she got edgy, we knew someone was about to get the axe. It was an incredibly stressful environment.

My second job was better in some respects, but worse in others. Jobs that make us miserable can defeat even the most optimistic and cheery personality and ultimately affects job performance, and that heavy dread of going into work every day ends up deflating every part of our lives

Why did I stay? Because the job market was tight, and prospects were dim. I – and many others like me – treated those life-sucking, soul-starving jobs as though they were the last lifeboats on the Titanic.

But, of course, they weren't.

Years later, we're again in a tight job market, and my youngest sister and brother are facing similarly tough choices as new graduates. It's hitting even the older, more experienced workers – I suppose I fall into that category now – but I was encouraged by an experience a friend of mine had recently.

My friend, Amy (not her real name, because she values her privacy), had been temping for what seemed like forever. She relocated to Portland less than a year ago, and – like many transplants and natives alike – she was having difficulty breaking into a grim job market. Finally, she thought she had struck gold when she was hired as a clerk by a local company, but after only a couple of hours in the office, she knew that her new job was a soul-sucker.

Instead of sticking it out for the rest of the week, or the rest of the month – which could easily have turned into lost years of her life as she got comfortable with the discomfort – she quit, on her very first day. She came home feeling frustrated and disappointed with herself, but I think she is a real hero. She made the hard choice of putting herself and her spiritual and emotional health ahead of economics and financial security. Very few of us escape the kind of trap that had been laid for Amy; very few of us are willing to draw that line in the sand, refusing to compromise ourselves for a couple of extra bucks in the bank.

In poor economies, many of us adopt the attitude that the available jobs – as rotten, dysfunctional, and demoralizing as some of them can be – cannot be replaced, when it's really the other way around: we are the ones who are irreplaceable. Amy refused to sell her soul for short-term job security, and she will no doubt enjoy hefty returns of self-confidence and self-value for many years to come.

what's in a name (part 1)

This will likely be an ongoing topic here....

My mother recently was divorced from her second husband. What was surprising to us both was that she had to file a second set of papers petitioning the court for the right to use her own name (without her former husband's name as a hyphenate). Let me say that again: she had to ask the court for the right to use her own name.

And she had to pay additional filing fees to do so.

I do not understand the concept of one partner taking the other partner's name when they are married. Personally, I have yet to see a man change his name, so for the sake of argument, I'll assume that it is always the woman making this change. Traditionally, a woman adopts her husband's last name as her own – e.g., Jane Doe Smith becomes Jane Smith Jones when she marries John Jones. Except that legally – if my understanding is correct – her name is Mrs. John Jones; in other words, she is no longer Jane at all.

Customarily, while a woman's name is structured to immediately reflect her marital status, there is no way to tell from a man's name whether he is married or not. John Jones is still John Jones, both before and after he signs his marriage license, and both before and after a subsequent divorce. There is no impact on his professional life.

I remember hearing a lawyer talk about her experience of taking her husband's name after marriage. At the beginning of a trial, the judge asked her to state her full name for the record. She stated her name as "Abigail Louise Taylor" (or whatever her name was, as I've now forgotten it). The judge asked her if she were married. When she responded in the affirmative, he asked her again to state her full legal name. To her chagrin, she had to state her name as "Mrs. John Albert Taylor." Not only had this experience deflated her personal feelings of self-worth, but this not-so-subtle exercise of being put in her place (by a male judge) also placed her at a disadvantage from the very beginning of her case before the court.

Historically, this imposition of surnames implied ownership. The wife belonged to her husband, and so she carried his name to let others know that she was "taken." Their children also belonged to him, and so carried his name. His slaves belonged to him, and so were similarly given his surname. In the twenty-first century, is it appropriate to continue this custom?

I had a similar conversation with my grandmother about this, perhaps a decade ago. She married my grandfather in the 1930s and took his name without a thought. In response to my perspective, she told me that she was proud of her husband's name and was happy to become a Willis. I replied that I was also proud to be a Willis, so why should I be expected to give that up simply because I fell in love?

Though an increasing number of women are choosing to retain their own birth names when they marry, I struggle with the concept of this antiquated practice still being utilized in a supposedly "enlightened" society. There are even same-sex couples who choose one partner's surname over the other. There is great power in a person's name, and having one partner adopt the name of the other speaks volumes as to the balance – legal and otherwise – between spouses; it also implies the negation of the other partner's family heritage.

Some will argue that a family unit (parents and children) needs not only the social identification of a common name, but also the "belongingness" that a shared name offers. I do not take issue with that, especially for children who often take comfort in belonging to a structured group. Certainly the adoption of a common hyphenate name for everyone would only work for the first generation, as in a few years you'd have Sarah Smith-Jones marrying Fred Doe-Johnson, and I don't think anyone would want to be Mr. and Mrs. Smith-Jones-Doe-Johnson.

So why not create an entirely new name at the outset of marriage, something that reflects the new union between the spouses? There are cultures in which it is customary to adopt a new name for each stage of life, and certainly the lifelong partnership of marriage would qualify as a significant life event deserving of a new name. I had a professor once who talked about how he and his wife had both considered adopting the surname "Redweather" upon their marriage, rather than having either spouse take the name of the other.

Alternately, the married partners can keep their own legal names and simply create a new surname for their children.

My sister got married nearly two years ago, and she is still dealing with the tedious aftermath of a name change. One government agency will accept the name change, while another one won't. She has to get a new driver's license, apply for a "special declaration" in her passport, have new credit cards issued, change her voter registration, have new bank checks printed with her married name, change her e-mail addresses (and update everyone in her address book), change her name on all utility accounts.... and the list goes on. You'd think that a society which largely still demands the subservience of women would make that kind of compliance less of a hassle.

The good news is that the court graciously granted my mother the use of her own name.

IMAX censorship

When I first saw this article about some Southern theatres rejecting the IMAX movie "Volcanoes" based on concerns about evolution, I could feel a blog coming on. I wasn't the only one, of course, and some friends beat me to it.

Here's the lowdown, from the CNN.com website:

CHARLESTON, South Carolina (AP) -- IMAX theaters in several Southern cities have decided not to show a film on volcanoes out of concern that its references to evolution might offend those with fundamental religious beliefs.... IMAX theaters in Texas, Georgia and the Carolinas have declined to show the film.

I have a problem with sensitivity to fundamentalist belief being the driving force behind what will and will not be shown at a science museum IMAX theatre. After all, this is a science museum, not a tent revival, and evolution theory is a contribution of modern science. How many Christian fundamentalists -- at least, those for whom modern science contradicts the 'word of god' -- visit the local science museum, anyway?

If people are going to be offended by the inclusion of evolution theory, they will either go to the theatre and choose to be offended, or they will stay home. In the meantime, the folks that don't have a problem with evolution theory will still buy tickets; plus the "controversy" may even attract more people to the showings. If you don't show it, you don't sell any tickets. From a business standpoint -- in a country where business dictates the bottom line of life -- it's a no-brainer.

Not to mention that not everyone from or in the South is a Bible-thumping, closed-minded conformist. I'd offer myself as an example, but it might give the Bible-belt even more ammunition. ;)

death with dignity

I had been putting off writing on this topic. My mother's sister has begun her own death walk, and while I am a firm supporter of and believer in the right to die, I am only just starting to sort through all of my feelings about facing death with such courage and grace. But the Terri Schiavo case has forced the issue of quality of life vs. life at all costs into the public spotlight, so perhaps it is now time to comment.

In the case of my aunt, to whom only clinical trials are available as possible treatment for her aggressive melanoma, she is fully lucid and cognizant and so is able to make her own choices about her remaining days. Rather than compromising her current health and filling her life with various medical appointments and procedures, she has chosen instead to allow nature to take its course. She has entered a hospice program and is planning on dying at home, surrounded by her family. Between now and then, she is doing what she wants with herself and her time.

I don't expect her to opt for euthanasia, but I am comforted to know that physician-assisted suicide is at least available to her here in Oregon.

My personal experience with euthanasia involves my cat's passing in November 2002. I had known and loved this kitty since before he was born. He was the son of the family cat, and while still in utero the kittens were quite active, making their young mother very uncomfortable. So, she would lie down on her side, and I would stroke the little kitten heads through her skin, to calm them down so she could get some rest. When the kittens were born, Grit decided that he was my kitty. I was fourteen years old when he was born, and more than eighteen years later, he gave me the gift of allowing me to help him die.

That was two-and-a-half years ago, and I still easily become emotional about it. But even moments after his passing -- by injection from a vet -- I was so grateful that this option was available to him in his aged and pained state, and I knew that there might come a time in my life when I would want such an option for myself.

And so I come to the matter of Terri Schiavo. I am deeply troubled by the direction this case is taking, and by the drawn-out duration of this family struggle.

I don't believe that the government should dictate who is allowed to die, and who must be forcibly kept alive. Certainly, this struggle has its roots in the conflict between the husband and the Terri's parents; I wish there were some quieter and more peaceful way for this to be resolved.

The broader issue, of course, is death with dignity vs. life at all costs. There is a point when life becomes a miserable hardship and death offers true release. It's difficult to draw a definitive line across the board as to where quality of life deteriorates enough to allow euthanasia as a legal option, which is why (I believe) the choice should be left up to the individuals and families rather than being dictated by law.

Unfortunately, even with Terri's feeding tube removed, there will be no dignity in her death, as she will simply starve and wither away. There is no merciful, lethal shot available to her that would bring her suffering to a quick end. We're living in a society in which our pets are allowed to die more gracefully than are we.

i wish you enough

I composed this as an e-mail to some friends this morning, and as the response has been overwhelmingly positive, I thought I'd share it with a somewhat broader audience rather than just keeping this to myself. :)

---

You've probably all read the story that has been circulating in e-mail, about the parent and adult child saying their last goodbye at an airport, and the blessing of "I wish you enough."

I was thinking about this as I was walking my dogs, and I wanted to bestow a similar blessing on all of you, written rather spontaneously at my computer this morning:

I wish you enough.
I wish you enough love in your heart, and enough communion with your soul.
I wish you enough light to illuminate your lessons, and enough dark to integrate your wisdom.
I wish you enough giving to open your heart, and enough receiving to bring you home.
I wish you enough commerce to enrich your bank account, and enough service to enrich your life.
I wish you enough activity to sharpen your mind and strengthen your body, and enough rest to bring you peace.
I wish you enough sunshine to warm your face and to cheer your heart.
I wish you enough gentle wind to lift your hair and your dreams.
I wish you enough friendship to remind you that you are not alone, and enough solitude to remember your center.
I wish you enough rain to nourish your garden and to cleanse your spirit.
I wish you enough storms to clear away the old and make room for the new.
I wish you enough mist to bring you into the here and now and to remind you of your own magic.
I wish you enough dirt to grow your herbs and flowers and to keep your feet firmly on the ground.
I wish you enough clouds in the sky to inspire you to reach beyond them.
I wish you enough birds in flight to delight your eyes, and enough birdsong to serenade your ears.
I wish you enough kisses and cuddles with children and animals to bring you simple joy.
I wish you enough earth to sustain the roots of your trees and the roots of your intentions.
I wish you enough starlight to inspire your imagination, and enough moonlight to stir your soul.
I wish you enough.

-- rev. jen willis, 2005

march madness

I have spent the past several day in front of the television, and the next couple of weeks should bring more of the same. The Atlantic Coast Conference began on Thursday, with the championship game played this afternoon (this morning for me, on the West coast). Now begins the NCAA championship, winnowing an exceptional field of 64 teams down to a single national champion.

I am a graduate of Duke University, and we Blue Devils take basketball very seriously. I'm also the daughter of a jock, so it's doubly ingrained. March Madness is a sacred time of year.

When I was applying to colleges, I submitted only three applications: Massachusetts Institute of Technology, Duke University, and the University of Virginia. Finances were tight, so I offered to go to UVA as an in-state student, but my parents wouldn't hear it. Even with partial scholarship, MIT was the most expensive option, so we compromised on Duke, which turned out to be a very good fit. There was some concern about ACC rivalries -- pretty much everyone in my father's family has been a Virginia Cavalier at one time or another -- but my Blue Devil transgression was forgiven in that we had a common rival: the Tar Heels (University of North Carolina - Chapel Hill).

Growing up, I'd thought that the rivalry between UNC and UVA was strong, but it's nothing compared to the friendly tension between UNC and Duke. Maybe it's because the schools are just 15 miles apart on Route 15-501. Maybe it's because both schools wear the color blue (make no mistake: there is a big difference between Carolina Blue and Duke Blue). Maybe it's because UNC has a goat as a mascot. But it's a very healthy rivalry that pushes both teams, especially in what my father calls "roundball."

But what happened to UNC during the ACC tournament? Ranked number one in the conference going into the tournament, they very nearly fell to Clemson in the quarter finals (what was that about?), then narrowly lost to Georgia Tech in the semifinal game. But the second-ranked team, Wake Forest (of which my step-brother is a recent grad), didn't make it out of the quarter finals at all. It was a weird tournament. Despite not having a deep bench this season, Duke pulled through the tournament to win the championship game.

(Go, Devils!)

They have announced the four regional brackets for the NCAA tournament, beginning on Tuesday. Duke has moved up to a number 1 seed in the Austin region. It's time for me to print out the brackets and tack the paper on the wall for easy reference.

But what March Madness comes down to for me is missing my father. My father is more of a college basketball fanatic than I am. When Virginia won the ACC tournament years ago, my parents ran outside and painted the driveway Cavalier orange. My father still buys season tickets every year, driving to Charlottesville for the home games and even traveling to see away games from time to time. While I never went to a Duke game while I was a student -- there were very few seats available, and I didn't want to cut class to camp out -- I always followed the games on the TV in my dorm's commons room.

The last few years I was living in Richmond, Dad and I fell into a kind of rhythm as the NCAA tournament got under way. The early games we might watch independently, checking in with each other on the telephone from time to time, but as the "Sweet Sixteen" teams began to play each other, I'd show up at his house with a mass of chicken wings (Dad's favorite) and would watch games late into the night.

But now we're 3,000 miles apart. This year, I'm watching basketball alone.

Dad and I touched base a few times during the regular season, and again during the ACC tournament. We were both excited that Virginia made it out of the first round, only to lose to Duke in the quarter finals. Then there was the shocking loss of my step-brother's Demon Deacons. On our wireless phones, we tried to figure out what had happened to the Tar Heels, when Dockery might rejoin the Duke bench after his injury, and what teams might end up in the NIT instead of the NCAA circus.

With the NCAA tournament starting this week, I'll have to start a new, solo tradition. I doubt there will be chicken wings involved, but I have high hopes for homemade humus and herb bread, with the occasional pizza or Chinese delivery making an appearance. And I anticipate a few calls on the wireless phone back to Richmond.