While I've Been Away...

It's been a while...and I missed it.

I thought about it each night, wondering what I would write if I had not have been immersed in the world of Lungas and Danu the lions, and Riley and Owen, their little cubs. Don't get me wrong, I truly enjoyed the challenge of scripting a children's book, but this blog has gotten a bit under my skin. Time away has taught me that I am much better suited for essay writing, memoir writing and adult fiction writing, than I am for the intricate responsibility of packaging a moral lesson into a box of imaginative adventures.

Several months back, my husband and I made a promise though. We decided we would write a children's book for our brand new niece and nephew. With the days ticking past until Christmas, we knew this was our opportunity to act. And I knew there was no way I could avoid an all-encompassing immersion into the world of our little imaginary creatures; that's why I decided to put my blog on hold.

This was absolutely true, as Lungus, Danu, Riley, and Owen, as well as Finn, the baboon, managed to invade my dreams. I loved every minute of imagining their story, and everything seemed to be going perfectly until I realized the book needed pictures. I'm not sure why that didn't occur to me from the outset--after all, I've read a gazillion children's books throughout the course of my life. Nevertheless, as I stared at the black and white letters filling each edge of a word document, I realized our story about respecting differences, and meeting in the middle, seemed naked without appropriate images. My stomach churned with anxiety; drawing is not my forte--and to say it is not my forte is actually an understatement.

Contemplating my options, I ultimately settled on cutting out images from scrap booking paper. I found traceable lions online, and I made them out of unexpected patterns. I drew the outline of a less-than-identifiable baboon and I added him into the mix. Then I made a tree, I cut out a hill and I found the colors of my sky. Suddenly, I had something to work with. I laid out my images and I snapped photographs. Inserting them into the slots beside the words, my husband and I managed to make something that seemed to finally resemble a children's book.

Through the process, I realized how much creative energy it took to bring our idea to life. I found myself considering images in a way I never considered them before, and I came to appreciate an art form I've never explored. Any time you throw yourself into unfamiliar territory you are bound to grow, and I feel like my endeavor to produce a children's book pushed me in ways I didn't know I could be pushed. It also made me TRULY appreciate the efforts of all children's book writers who penned and drew the books I loved as a child.

Hopefully one day little Owen and little Riley will like their story. Their aunt and uncle sure had a great time making it, and we can't wait to fly across the country, hold them in our arms, and read every last page together.

And though I'm proud of our creation, I'm also pretty darn excited to be back to my world of blogging. Though still a bit unfamiliar, I think it's slightly better suited for my wandering mind.

To The Veterans:

Thank you for my breath--

Colliding with clouds of chilled air,

It was visible, tangible even.

And I observed it as I walked,

As the chill prodded open my eyes

Before my able hands pulled open a car door,

And I nestled into my seat,

And I drove myself to work--

Appreciating endlessly

This simple gift of independence.

Thank you for the freedom to dress myself

To choose sweaters and slacks,

Silly shoes and mismatched socks,

Pearl earrings or dangly hoops

Or empty, happy pinholes with nothing at all.

For scarves wrapped loosely around my neck,

Covered slightly by long, styled hair

And framed with bronzed cheekbones,

Which aren't required to hide

Behind a veil I didn't choose to wear.

Thank you for the children I'm allowed to teach--

For their questions

More so than their answers.

For my freedom to ask them why--

To push them to think outside of boxes,

And to read,

And to write,

And to speak,

And to imagine the future

They will carve out of the bowels of their dreams.

Thank you for my choices--

For open doors and opportunities,

For my chance to choose,

To switch directions,

To go to school,

To accept a job,

To head back to the classroom,

To accept another job,

To wait for marriage,

And to be free to marry for love.

Thank you for my space to speak

To shout from the rafters,

To pry open my soul,

To bare my identity,

To type any keys I choose,

And in any combination,

To unravel my disappointments,

To combat injustice,

And marbleize my joys

With the rock of voice.

Thank you for my nation,

For my family,

For my friends,

For my home,

And for the water,

The earth,

And the sky--

And for sacrificing everything you have

To keep it blistering with sunshine,

And glowing a cerulean blue.

The Disgust of Inaction

I want to purge sizable chunks of disgust and slimy, wilted leaves of disappointment, and I want every last morsel to stream down the face of every Penn State coach, former coach and administrator who stood by and said nothing. I want to sit them all down on a bench in the locker room and force them to listen to every excruciating detail Jerry Sandusky’s victims endured, and I want them to dry heave and convulse as they wrestle with the images unfolding in their imagination. Then, I want to ask each man—face-to-face—if he can sleep at night knowing there were so many boys who could have been spared if he would have had enough decency to speak up.

And, while this is all unfolding, I want a camera crew there to film it, and broadcast it to an auditorium where every single Penn State student who pounded cases of beer and took to the streets to riot will be committed to a seat and forced to watch the entire exchange, piece by horrifying piece.

As soon as the broadcast ends, I would like to look into their sober eyes and ask them to honestly determine if Joepa should have kept his position. Ask them if they could have worn their Penn State football garb with pride knowing their institution did not take action—didn’t recognize how absolutely despicable it was for their hero to keep his mouth shut when he most needed to open it.

The entire scandal at Penn State is but one example of a much larger issue in society. It is but one example of a hyper-sensationalized culture focused more on “me” and less on “community”, more on money and less on morality, more on saving one’s own butt than saving our vulnerable children.

Nothing about this is okay. Jerry Sandusky’s actions are obviously abominable, but so is the widespread epidemic of inaction. It is not okay that Mike McQuery walked in on a 10 year-old boy propped against the wall, screaming out as a grown man violated him from behind and he did nothing to stop it. It’s not okay he called his dad and not the police. It is not okay that Tim Curley failed to insure Sandusky was harshly punished. And though it may not be against the law, it is not okay for the most powerful man in Pennsylvania to keep Sandusky on his staff, to avoid following up, and to fail the kids who needed someone to stand up for them.

Mostly though, it’s not okay that the majority of the hoopla surrounding this case has focused Joepa’s sad story, rather than on the damage Sandusky’s action, and Paterno’s inaction, caused for the boys who were violated, vilified and shamed. It’s not okay that in every interview he seems to focus more and more on himself—and very little on the bigger issue. It’s not okay that he doesn’t seem to understand what is so very wrong.

Seething with hubris, Joe Paterno fell like a greek hero—but perhaps all of us are a little bit to blame. We crown sports heroes with jewels of idolatry, worshipping them, abetting them, dangling money in front of them, hoping to get “in” with them because the affiliation breeds envy and status. But the moment they are caught, we throw our hands up and wonder what’s wrong, wonder why this keeps happening, why our heroes keep collapsing. We wonder why they think they’re infallible even though we are the ones who propped them high on ivory towers.

Paterno might have been a great coach, he might have built an empire, he might have made a difference in a lot of lives—but when it mattered most, he let everyone down. He let down the potentially dozens of kids who were sodomized by Sandusky. He let down his players who bought into his myth and lost the purity of their dream. He let down his loyal fans, his community, his institution. And he let down all of the kids who are missing out on the lesson he could be teaching right now—the lesson of fully owning one’s mistakes, and promoting the cause of action, of speaking out, of realizing that we all have the responsibility to protect each other.