Chaim Potok and Place

For our book group this month, we read Chaim Potok's The Promise. I also read The Chosen. I read these books years ago as a teen-ager and it was great to revisit them. The themes in both are similar. I was especially taken with the inner conflict that the two main characters Danny and Reuven face in trying to reconcile the conflicts they feel between their Orthodox Jewish background and the secular world. Both are intelligent young men who have dedicated their lives to studying the Talmud. But, they also feel drawn to study other things as well: for Danny, Freud is forbidden; for Reuven, his method of understanding the Talmud through text emendation is seen as borderline apostate. By the end of The Promise, neither one has completely managed to incorporate these two somewhat conflicting parts of their intellectual quests into one complete whole, but the tone is optimistic: they are on the right paths for them, they will find a way to meld two disparate worlds within themselves.

After the discussion about the book was over and several of the women had gone, the husband of the host joined us. He talked about his reaction to watching the second half of the PBS documentary on the church, which led to polygamy, and questions of gender and priesthood and on and on. I should have left at 11. I shouldn't have stayed. It was a discussion I didn't want to get into. He described the commentators on the PBS program "pseudo-intellectuals" and "fringe intellectuals." He felt that they didn't accurately represent the rank and file of the church. I'm not sure why he used the qualifier "pseudo". I really loved the talking heads they had on Monday night. And the idea of fringe intellectuals: so negative. Crazy people who are talking about things that don't matter, talking about ideas that no one cares about that have no relevance to anyone. That frustrated me. I haven't seen the second half, but I'm sure, 100%, that my reaction will not be like his.

Then there were conversations about why women don't have the preisthood (with the explanation of the inherent deficiencies of men who need the priesthood to make up for their inherent lack of spirituality), the idea that women are naturally nurturers, etc etc. I made a few contradictory comments, but didn't have the heart to engage in a full on debate.

For one, I have a problem thinking and talking quickly on the spot to make a coherent argument. But, for another, I don't want to let it all out. To be "that woman". To be labeled in some sort of negative way. I know I shouldn't care what others think, but I find it difficult not to. In our ward, I haven't met any intellectually kindred spirits. I have met a lot of great women though. My children play with theirs, and we have good conversations too. I like every single one of the women that were there last night who believe things that I do not. I don't want to make certain beliefs about gender some kind of litmus test for whom I am friends with. But, I also question who I can be really close to in my ward. I came home sad and feeling a little lonely. In my past two wards, I've had all kinds of friends, but those circles have also included women who I feel free to discuss anything with and who have pushed me in intellectually new directions. I will probably grow in other ways with the women in my ward now.

This all ties back to Chaim Potok and finding a place of my own. It's not easy to navigate between disparate worlds. I know my schisms are not nearly as wide as many others', but I long to find a sense of unity and wholeness between Mormon, mother, academic, feminist. This morning, my wonderful neighbor called to see if my kids could come over to play with hers. I gladly dropped them off and headed to the library. When I couldn't find what I wanted, I went to the nearby Barnes and Noble to pick up a copy of Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own. I saw it on a compilation of feminist writing recently and added to my list to read. I love the title and long to find my own place, so I decided to treat myself to it.

This all also relates to those who leave the church because they cannot reconcile their intellectual and religious beliefs. I met a woman last week like this--I need to finish writing about that experience--but I always feel sad when a intellectual feels that the church is no longer a good place for them, or when the church feels like that intellectual does not belong in the church. I don't want to have to choose between one side or the other.
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Letter to stake presidency

Dear stake presidency,

First, thank you for your recent participation and direction in both stake conference and our ward's conference. I have appreciated your direct counsel and your personal regard and love for our stake which I have felt several times. I was amazed when you, President P, greeted me by name in the hallway of our church building after ward conference. I am not only new in the ward, but I can think of no reason that you might know me. I know that as a stake presidency you work tirelessly and at great personal sacrifice--the many hours you devote to your calling could be dedicated to your families, jobs, or, quite simply, to rest and leisure! Thank you for all you do.

I write to bring one small matter to your attention. Recently, a letter from you came to our home. Enclosed was a letter detailing the stake goals that you are encouraging our stake to adopt and complete this year. I did not open the letter when I retrieved it from the mailbox because it was addressed solely to my husband. I assumed it had something to do with his calling, or a stake meeting that he was to attend. Of course, I found out differently when he opened it later and I saw that it was intended for all stake members.

I realize that this is most likely a technical issue. The address labels were printed out, using some computer program, and the first name listed in each household record was printed out. I know that there was no exclusionary or malicious intent. I feel that, however, no matter what the cause, this (seemingly small) oversight should be remedied in future mailings to stake members. As a full fledged member of the stake, I would like to be recognized and acknowledged as an individual, capable of inspiration with regards to my calling, my family, my life direction, and my interactions with others. My husband and I are jointly the head of our household, and together we seek the Lord's will for us as a family. We want to grow as a family in beoming disciples of Christ and in nurturing our children on that path, as I know you want for us. By including both of us on the address label, you imply all this. By not including me, I know that you are not implying otherwise, but I personally felt excluded from your message.

Thank you for taking the time to read this. I know that there are many issues you are concerned about and working on for our stake, and I wondered whether to even bother you with something relatively small in comparison. Please know that I am interested and invested in the the growth and development of our stake, and I and my family will be working on the goals which you have set forth for us. I am grateful that I can be a fellow citizen with the saints here in the B stake.
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Helping the Poor and Needy

This month's visiting teaching message was different than it's been in a while. The end of last year, I felt like we were talking about the benefits of membership in the Relief Society ad nauseum. This year, we've focused on personal testimony, faith, and other personally meaningful aspects of spiritual development. April's message, though, was about helping the poor and needy. I glanced at the title and was excited about it. Finally, something about reaching outside my social and church circles, a focus on a major problem in the world.

So, my partner and I went visiting teaching this morning. We sat outside on a beautiful spring day (spring is finally here! The leaves are starting to grow back.) and talked with a new sister in our ward who just gave birth to her first child. My partner is a wonderful woman and I see her quite a bit. She lives near me and we often trade kids back and forth. She is always cheerful, despite the demands of a large family.

She started the lesson by recounting a story found in this month's New Era. The author writes of her patriarchal blessing, which stated "You may help the needy with your time, effort, and means.” She feels drawn to help the poor in her area, but her first two efforts are unsuccesful. She goes home, depressed. How can she fulfill her calling? How can she help the needy? She walks into her home, and her younger brother is crying, upset from being teased at school. The words from her patriarchal blessing come back to her, and she concludes that "the poor are just as likely to be in your home as on the streets." My partner then talked about how that message really resonated for her. With 5 children, she has little time to do other things. I understand this, and can empathize with her.

The deeper implications, though, of the New Era article bothers me. If I equate the poor and needy only with my family, then I am not forced to personally confront the poor and needy in the streets and in my community. I have given up my responsibility to help them. I am not required to look beyond my comfort zone to those who may be in need.

On another level, I was upset by this thought. Here is yet one more way that children prevent me/others from having an impact on the world at large. I don't want my influence to be felt only within the walls of my home, no matter how important that work may be. I want to reach beyond my family to help others.

I'm not sure exactly how I should help the poor and needy. Obviously, there is a great deal that can be within the community of the ward. However, I feel like I need to reach beyond that boundary as well. I am glad for the chance today to think about this issue and ponder ways that I can offer assistance. I am going to do some research and find a specific way that I can help.
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True North and A Woman's Education

Two things that I find most amazing about Jill Ker Conway

1. Her mind: she is able to read large amounts of material and piece together a large picture of a field. She sees connections between ideas, and is able to make lateral jumps across fields too. (I read articles in the Annual Review of Sociology and am entirely sure that to compile, ingest, process, and analyze a large body of literature would be SO HARD for me. That makes her all the more amazing to me)

2. Her feminism and activism for women. As an academic, she writes a dissertation about women who pioneered social work. But, her feminist interest is also personal, in the way she has been treated in her college days from Australia, as well as the world that she and her female colleagues and roommates experience.

I love the story she recounts in True North about earnings disparities. As a youngish professor in Canada, she is not promoted when many of her cohort of male colleagues is. She finds out that they are also making more money than she is. She schedules a meeting with the department chair, then the dean of her school, and calmly discusses the issue. With an objective eye to her accomplishments, the decision is made to promote her as well and raise her salary.

But, this is not where she leaves it. She goes on to organize a committee of women at the university to look into the overall system of pay discrepancy between men and women faculty. She is also concerned about other university employees including all the women that secretarial staff. She describes the way that she gives her own assistants tasks to help them learn broader skills and encourages them to take classes, with the hopes that in 1-2 years they will have outgrown their jobs with her and moved on to something else. Her values and her committment to women and their education are probably the main reason why she was chosen to be the first female president at Smith and explain many of her initiatives and priorities there.

I was jealous of her early graduate school experience. She talks about the intense conversations she shares with her 5 roommates, all in different fields, and the world of ideas into which she is immersed with other students and faculty.

She is deliberate in her studies and manages to knock a year off of her coursework to take her exams earlier than most. She marries a faculty member 18 years her senior in the middle of her 3rd year, in every way a true partner for her, and they embark on their life together. They go from Harvard to Toronto, then on to Smith College (at her husband's urging), and finally back to Boston.

Although she longs to have children, she is unable to do so, and never becomes a mother. I wondered how her life would have been different with children. She is able to manage immense amounts of work, long hours in the library and later in university administration, and maintaing an intense schedule. It is possible that she would have managed the same amount with children, but I wanted to see her personally struggle with balancing children and a career. Her husband suffers from severe manic depression, requiring hospitaltization at times, but she does not talk much about what this requires of her personally.

A Women's Education is probably my least favorite. Here, her writing becomes more academic and less accessible. In both this and True North, she describes in too much detail the people in her life, that do not reappear after their two pages of discussion. But, all in all, I really enjoyed reading her three memoirs. She is a master of describing place and her connection to physical places and her grounding through location was apparent.

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The Road from Coorain

The Road from Coorain is a fascinating description of the early life of a precocious and lively girl---Jill Ker, the author--who spent the first decade of her life in the rural Austailian bush on a sheep station. She and her family were literally the only ones around for miles: in the morning, when her mother would drop her father off at a corner of their property, she is terrified that she will be unable to find her way home again, and hunches over the steering wheel, trying to see the tire marks in the dry Austrailian dirt. The story of Jill's early life in prominently marked by a drought which eventually kills off all their animals, results in the death of her father (whether by suicide or accident, it is not clear), and finally eventuates in the relocation of Jill and her mother to Sydney. Coorain is left in the hands of a manager, and Jill begins school. The description of the starving and dying sheep is haunting, as are the desparate measures that the family attempts in order to save their livelihood. They are at the mercy of natural forces beyond their control. Then, her father dies in a reservoir, and Jill and her two brothers are not allowed to grieve. Her mother is also suffering from terrible grief and is emotionally withdrawn. When they finally admit to failure and leave Coorain for Sydney, Jill consciously leaves her toys and dolls behind. "I knew that in most important ways my childhood was over."

In Sydney, Jill's mother is determined to keep her children in school and works two jobs in order to pay for their educational costs. After some time, she makes a gamble, buys some more sheep for Coorain; within hours, 2 1/2 inches of rain falls, and from that point on, Coorain is financially successful and the family is able to live off its profits.

Interestingly, although her early life in the bush was important in shaping her life, Jill thrives in school. Attending a top-notch British girls school, she discovers that her mind is powerful and that she has many academic interests. She goes on to study history at the University of Sydney, and eventually enrolls at Harvard as a graduate student. I wonder if she would have had the same career if her family had been able to ride out the drought in the bush and how her life would have been different.

One of the central themes of Jill's early life is her conflicted relationship with her mother. Early on in her life, Jill's mother has iron control of the household and domestic activities in Coorain. It seems that she and Jill's father share their lives together in partnership, working hard to make their ranch successful. When Jill's father dies, her mother begins to tighten her grasp on her children, almost as though she fears losing them too. She tries to control their every move, including their friendships, their careers, and their schooling.

As financial pressures eased, her anxieties were simply redirected...She could manage a sheep station superbly, but managing a social world alone as a hostess was simply beyond her consciousness. This meant that her efforts to control our destinies were mostly negative, and that our youthful quests for peers and lively social relationships took place entirely outside our home. It also meant that she relied more and more on her children for intellectual and emotional companionship, and that there was no constructive outlet for her formidable energies.

When the oldest son Bob dies in a car accident, Jill's mother turns all her energies on Jill and her other brother Barry. Her mental health declines, and she starts exhibiting signs of hypochondria, using her health to manipulate her children. She attempts to destroy Jill's and Barry's romantic attachments, and later in Jill's life, as recounted in True North, she and her mother have a deep schism over Jill's marriage.

This caused me to reflect on my relationship with both my mother and my children. Looking back, my parents made conscious decisions to limit our choices in ways that shaped my life and my sister just younger than me. They were probably terrified of the harm we could inflict on ourselves as adolescents and wanted to do anything they could to prevent anything from happening to us. They eased up on their rules as my younger sisters grew up, but for me, I think, this behavior made me feel like I had to hide anything that I thought they would disapprove of (probably a lot of different things). I think it may have also contributed to a contrarian feeling that I have. I want to be different and act differently than I think they want me to. (I'm not sure that this is directly attributable to that time period. And it's surely not onloy because of that.)

I also sense in myself the tendency to want to control my children more than probably necessary. I want things to be done my way. I need to learn to give up ground that isn't important for their sake. I can only imagine how such tactics could truly backfire as they get older.

Additionally, in the book, we see the seeds of Jill's feminism planted as she struggles to find a place as an intellectual woman in a society that disdained big ideas "and found them specially laughable in women." Upon graduating with top honors from the University of Sydney, she is turned down for a government job quite clearly because she is a woman. "It chilled me to realize that there was no way to earn my freedom through merit." This is the first time that she has recognized her position in life as a woman and began to identify with women, rather than "acting unreflectingly as though I were a man."

She is detemined to leave the destructive relationship with her mother, and applies to go to graduate school at Harvard. She is admitted, and leaves Austrailia, never to return for good.

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Jill Ker Conway in Three Volumes

For book group this month, we read The Road from Coorain, Jill Ker Conway's personal memoirs chronicling her life from birth to age 25 in Austrailia. Because I liked it so much, I went on to read True North about her life at Harvard as a history graduate student, her marriage, and her move to Canada with her husband to pursue work as a professork, and then as a university administrator, at the University of Toronto. Ker Conway also wrote a third personal memoir, A Woman's Education, detailing her 10 years as the first female president of Smith College.

I thought I could condense all three into one post, but after writing 750 words about The Road from Coorain, I have decided to separate them.
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Pearls Before Breakfast

The Washington Post this weekend reports on the results of a most amazing experiment. They line up a premier, world class violinist, Joshua Bell, to play at a Metro station. Then, they start rolling the film to see what happens. Who notices? Who stops? Who throws money into his violin case (that houses and protects his multi-million dollar Strad)?

Street musicians and performers are familiar to anyone who has regularly used public transportation. I've heard Simon and Garfunkel on pan flute, watched accordianists, and of course, heard many of the all popular violin players. And my reaction to them has mostly been to notice, but to just keep on walking. The Washington Post found that the vast majority of the 1,097 commuters who passed by Joshua Bell did was exactly the same thing. Their pace didn't slow, their eyes weren't averted toward the musician. They just kept up walking, heading towards the escalator, focusing on getting somewhere. Somewhere else.

As I read this article, I was moved. I kept hoping that someone would stop, that some person would respond to the amazing music that was being played out in a lowly, grimy, smelly Metro station. And as much as I would love to believe that I would be different, that I would have instinctively known something beautiful and precious and amazing was being created, and would have stopped to listen, one description of a commuter stopped me flat.

A woman and her preschooler emerge from the escalator. The woman is walking briskly and, therefore, so is the child. She's got his hand.

"I had a time crunch," recalls Sheron Parker, an IT director for a federal agency. "I had an 8:30 training class, and first I had to rush Evvie off to his teacher, then rush back to work, then to the training facility in the basement."

Evvie is her son, Evan. Evan is 3.

You can see Evan clearly on the video. He's the cute black kid in the parka who keeps twisting around to look at Joshua Bell, as he is being propelled toward the door.

"There was a musician," Parker says, "and my son was intrigued. He wanted to pull over and listen, but I was rushed for time."

So Parker does what she has to do. She deftly moves her body between Evan's and Bell's, cutting off her son's line of sight. As they exit the arcade, Evan can still be seen craning to look.

I am almost entirely sure that this is exactly what I would have done. Firmly grasped my childrens' hands, tried to distract them with something else, and just kept on moving. And recognizing myself so clearly, I felt profound sorrow.

I wonder about how many times I myself have unknowingly passed by some event or scene of majesty and profound beauty, completely ignorant, intent on hurrying along, not taking time to stop, pause, and notice the world around me. More hauntingly, I wonder how often I have forced my children to match my pace, depriving them of experiencing firsthand the world around them.I

n a more spiritual realm, too, I wonder what of God's small miracles I have missed because I was too occupied with mundane tasks and daily frustrations.

The staff of the Washington Post found one interesting thing in their observation of the passersby. All the children turned back to look at Bell, and tried to stop and watch. Every single one. To my dismay, not one single parent stopped, but hurried them on their way.

Like most children, mine do not have the false sense of urgency that I often force upon our days. They are content to stroll along, picking up rocks, playing in the water, and looking at dogs. They like to giggle and dance and chase each other and jump on the couch. Their eyes are newer, and they are more attuned to the world around them.

I admit, I have a hard time stopping and and enjoying the moment for what it is. The Post article quotes W.H.Davies

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

I do love this idea, that pausing to take in the world around us will more often give us life than hurrying from one location to another, either physically or metaphysically.
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Easter Music

I love to play the organ on Easter. It's one of the few times where I can literally pull out all the stops, throw down some trumpet, and really let it rip. I love the exuberance and jubilation of Easter hymns, especially Christ the Lord is Risen Today. The choir sang a simple, yet beautiful arrangment of He is Risen in the middle of the meeting that gave me goosebumps. (On the other hand, I'm not very fond That Easter Morn, which we sang for the opening song today.) I practiced a lot for this week, including learning a new version of Beautiful Savior for prelude. I played one of my favorites for postlude: a Douglas Bush arrangement of All Creatures of Our God and King, in trio and fanfare form.

I felt the spirit of Easter today most in singing with the choir and playing the closing hymn and postlude on the organ. I need to make music a bigger part of my life.
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"Mother Come Home"

I haven't been reading the Ensign much. I looked through the February issue and found only one thing that had any resonance at all for me--the article was a stripped down version of a FARMS piece about the symbolism of the parable of the Good Samaritan. It had some depth that I could actually chew on. But, for the most part, there isn't much there that I enjoy reading. I don't find the personal stories to be inspirational without the context that comes from knowing someone. And I dislike a strung together compilation of GA quotations on a topic, without any connecting essay, and find it difficult to digest.

When my mom was in town, she mentioned an article from April's issue about a mother who made a decision to stay home with her children, despite having many opportunities for success in the business world. I can't remember if she actually said I should read it, or just implied it. So, yesterday, when I was cleaning out the magazine basket, I picked it up to look at it.

It was clear that the woman writing was a smart and ambitious woman. Her article chronicles her desire for a high powered business career changing over time to desiring to stay home with her children. I would love to meet this woman and talk with her. It is clear that she has worked though a lot of issues and sought the guidance of the Lord in all of them. But, I felt that her representation in the article didn't do justice to her struggles. She had these desires, it was hard to turn down the job of a lifetime, but she felt like she should and so she did. Motherhood was very hard. What does that tell me? I want to know how she managed the day to day routine of staying at home. I want to know if her change of heart took place over many years of struggle. I want to know if she felt happy staying home and how she dealt with life when she wasn't so contented. I want to know what she did to keep her mind nimble and active while staying at home, and how she uses her talents that made her successful in the business world as a mother. No, none of this is addressed. Instead, there is a standard "pray, follow the Lord, and you will be blessed" line, combined with a bunch of quotes about the importance of being a mother. That may be what it boils down to, but it doesn't help with the day to day details that, woven together, form who I am as a mother and a woman.

It's been a hard week. Spring break. Ha! MJ keeps saying, "This is spring break, not winter break!" The weather has been depressing. In a fit of exuberance during an 80 degree day last week, I put the heavy coats and boots away. This morning, I finally broke down and got them back out again, since with the wind, the temperature felt like 1. Yes, 1 degree. Almost below zero. Then, there's no school, no dance class, no routine. And I have had less than my usual low levels of patience with my kids. All of it has added up to an unpleasant week, complete with my monthly (or maybe it's more like every two months) major mothering breakdown.

I'm not sure what to do or even how to figure out what to do. And I find that frustrating and depressing. I did love Elder Holland's talk about receiving a new tongue at GC last weekend. That's certainly something I need as a mother.

One of the things that bothered me the most was the title of the Ensign article: "Mother Come Home". To me, it suggests pitiful, mewling cries from forsaken children who are floundering and are being denied nourishment of all forms due to their mother seeking identity outside of the home. And it implies that mothers' primary identity should be domestic in nature.

I have decided that we are going to start getting the Ensign in Spanish. That way, I can work on my dwindling Spanish skills, if nothing else.
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Reading Oprah

Reading Oprah is a somewhat academic treatment of Oprah's book club by an English literature professor. I was drawn to the book because the author, Cecilia Konchar Farr, is a former BYU prof who now works in my geographical area. In the book, Farr makes a compelling case that Oprah has truly created a reading revolution. By interspersing serious heavy-weight literature with lighter choices, Farr claims that Oprah has been able to improve the critical reading skills of a large number of woman, and, as a professor of literature, admits to envy at her widespread influence. She breaks down several of the book group discussions in detail, and in particular, focuses on the selections written by Toni Morrison, who attended the discussions (as did all the authors), to provide lesson in thinking deeply and critically about reading.

She also has a fascinating section where she discusses the tension between economic consideration and cultural capital. It is often the case that blockbuster books are not necessarily those with high literary quality. Yet, as an author, the desire to sell books is of course an important consideration. With Oprah's imprimatur, the book club selections were destined to become best sellers. And with her nod of approval, books that could have been previously unknown were being read by thousands of women across the country. These tensions erupted in the choice of a Jonathan Franzen novel. He decided after the original selection that his book was "too good" to be an Oprah book. That it was better destined for elite and highly selective readers. I admit that in the past, I have pooh-poohed Oprah books and have made a conscious choice to avoid them. I felt that they were either pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps, scrappy underprivileged heroine finds amazing success against the odds or self helpish books. Essentially that they were too "middle-brow" for me. But after reading this, I thought that I should pick up a few Oprah books and I admire what she is trying to do.

I also was fascinated by the academic treatment of book groups. On the personal side, I have been in two different book groups over the past 2 1/2 years. And they have been an important part of my life. I love getting together with other women to talk about a book, the ideas it contains, and about our lives. Farr discusses the talking life of a book. Books, she argues, are not only for private and solitary consumption, but, at times, they can also have a social and public function. Books that are rich with ideas, that cause us to reflect on their deeper and broader meanings and applications, and that teach us about ourselves are ideal for shared discussion. As an academic and sociologist, I love the idea of using academic methodology to explore this social phenomena.
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2 year old language skills

Language development is one of my favorite stages to observe in my children. Every day, my 2 1/2 year old says things that totally amaze me and that make me laugh out loud. And precious few things make me laugh out loud. I wanted to record a few gems of recent past so that I can remember them.

The other morning, it was early, and T was up. AJ was gone, so I got up with him, and took him down for breakfast. He asked for waffles, and so I put some in the toaster. When I got to cutting them up, I didn't do a good job and was cutting them somewhat haphazardly, leaving the pieces with jagged edges and irregular shapes. He looks at me, on the verge of crying, and said, "This is a disaster!" This is the child who likes everything just so.

That same day, we were at MJ's ballet lessons and he was playing with blocks in the ante-room while I watched her. After a bit, he came running in to tell me, "Mom, you have to come see what I built." I came to see, and he proudly said, "This is my masterpiece!"

He also talking about the duck hatching the eggs. And,while in the tub, he repeatedly told my mom, "For the love of ice." I think that is a direct quote from the Backardigans.

One day, in January, he was waving an empty paper towel tube in front of him at me, and said, "I'm going to use my powers to stop you."

In Feb, we were in the car, and he said, "That's one silly snowman, huh sis?"

I have also been trying to keep in my mind the words that he has mispronounced in memorable ways. I feel sad to see the pronunciations disappear. Here are some of them:

Pocks-ebola: Popsicle. He used this one all last summer. AJ thought it sounded like some tropical disease.
Bagoon: Balloon
Compluter: computer--he still says this
O-gen: orange
girl-o: girl
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New Yorker: Betrayed--The Iraqis who trusted America the most

Last night, I finished a super-long New Yorker article by George Packer. It details how the military and the state department are treating the Iraqis who have risked everything to work for the Americans in Iraq. These jobs include translation, and embassy and non-profit work. The men that Packer profiles welcomed the Americans into Iraq and were eager to help them secure a democratic and stable Iraq. However, their loyalty was repeatedly questioned, and many times they were deserted by those whom they were helping. They were not allowed to stay in the Green Zone, making a dangerous journey back and forth across Iraq necessary each day. They lives were repeatedly threatened, while the military would not do anything to protect them, not even providing them with the standard military issue body armour. They were forced to sit in long car lines upon entering the Green Zone, areas ripe for suicide bombers, while Americans with priority clearance breezed by in a neighboring lane. Their lives have been uprooted, many have been killed, and many are in exile. (A statistic I found amazing is that last summer, 40,000 Iraqis were leaving the country each month, going to Jordan and Syria, "taking with them the skills and the more secular ideas necessary for rebuilding a destroyed society, leaving the city to the religious militias.") The United States has provided precious few visas for Iraqis seeking asylum (although in partnership with the UNHCR, more Iraqis could be admitted to the US this year.) Those that worked with the Americans are especially vulnerable to militia groups.

This is such a simplistic summary of Packer's article. I was moved, however, by his description of the plight of those Iraqis who have provided invaluable assistance to the Americans. And also by a deepened understanding of what common Iraqis are facing. Their entire society is in a state of unimaginable upheaval and violence. What chance of successful outcomes is there?

Last week, at dinner with friends, one of them commented how at church, we often hear prayers for the troops, but no prayers for peace. Last night and today I was thinking how I have never heard anyone pray for the Iraqis who are the middle of a terrible situation, whose lives are being torn apart (and who, for the most part, have done nothing to be on our national "enemy list.") I know that headline after headline of suicide bombers has made me numb to their desparate predicament, and I really don't know what I can do. But, I resolved to make praying for them a priority.
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The Awakening

As a 27 year old mother of two children in a cordial but emotionally unfullfilling marriage, Edna Pontellier experiences an awakening, leaving her restless and dissatisfied with her domestic life, the life of most women in her social class. She begins to struggle with her place in Creole society and (seemingly) lacks at outlet to the conventional roles of wife and mother.

We read this book in book group for March and I have needed to return to it to write a few notes. I really enjoyed Kate Chopin's beautiful and descriptive writing. Her descriptions of Creole locations evoked the sticky feeling of humid muggy summer weather and it was the perfect companion for a cold wintertime day. I noticed, though, that it seemed to add to my sweat output when I read it at the gym.

The first line of the book describes a bird in a cage, an apt symbol for Edna's feeling that society has trapped her with narrow and, to her, constrictive expectations. Chopin returns to images of birds several times in the book. The final scene before Edna's suicide swin in the ocean portrays a bird with broken wings fluttering about helplessly, reeling toward the water. To me, it was a sad and depressing image. Rather than experiencing the freedom of flight, Edna's awakening has only produced a tragic figure, unable to find a place to live and find happiness.

I read several of the essays in the Norton Critical Edition of the book, and I was frustrated with how many of the writers characterized her awakening in purely sexual terms. The cover of one of the editions shows the misleading picture of a partially nude woman gazing out the window. Yes, she falls in love with Robert and experiences entirely new physical feelings. She seeks physical fullfillment with a man known for his sexual escapades. But, there was so much more to her awakening that this. It all begins, at least in the novel, with Leonce, her husband, choosing to eat dinner at the club rather than with his wife and children. He comes in late, after she is sound asleep, and expects her to talk animatedly with him. Then, he "checks" on the children, enough to tell her that one of them is feverish, although she is certain this is not the case:

He reproached his wife with her inattention, her habitual neglect of the children. If it was not a mother's place to look after children, whose on earth was it? He himself had his hands full with his brokerage business...He talked on in a monotonous, insistent way.

Mrs Pontellier sprang out of bed and went into the next room. She soon came back and sat on the edge of the bed, leaning her head down on the pillow. She said nothing and refues to answer her husband when he questioned her. When his cigar was smoked out, he went to bed, and in half a minute he was fast asleep.

She responds to this incident by going outside, where she begins sobbing, but for what reason, she cannot tell. "An indescribable opression filled her being with a vague anguish."

This chapter ends a few paragraphs later when a gift of delicious chocolates and sweets is sent to Edna from Leonce, her husband. The women with whom she shared this treat "all declared that Mr. Pontellier was the best husband in the world. Mrs Pontellier was forced to admit that she knew of none better." She is unhappy with her marriage, she feels anguish and oppression, but yet, she believes that Leonce is one of the better husbands around.

Looking at it with cynical and post-modern eyes, I, of course, completely reject the idea that a husband's measure of success is how often he provides chocolates and gifts and the manner in which he provides money for household luxuries and furnishings. I firmly believe that he should be up with the children at night if he believes they need it. And I have words to describe why a woman should be dissatisfied in such a marriage as Edna's. However, Edna lives in the 1890's: female discontent and balking at traditional roles is uncommon. She cannot express the reasons for her emotional state.

I also found the scene where Edna learns to swim particularly poignant, especially on my second reading of it. After trying to learn to swim all summer, one evening she finds herself with sudden success.

A feeling of exulatation overtook her, as if some power of significant import had been given her soul. She grew daring and reckless, overestimating her strength. She wanted to swim far out, where no woman had swum before.

Here, she begins to feel her own power. She has success in swimming and immediately begins to anticipate excelling. "As she swam she seemed to be reaching out for the unlimited in which to lose herself."

The tragedy, in my estimation, is that this new found independence is ultimately the cause of her demise. She experiences the sublime pleasure of discovering that she can accomplish something new, but in the end, the same ocean where she learns to swim is where she gives up her ambition to live and lets herself drown.

I didn't love the character of Edna. I felt that, if she were a woman of flesh and blood, there was much she could have done to shape her circumstances and that the story of a woman like Edna didn't have to end tragically. Yet, I think Chopin is very wise in the way she lets the story unroll and with the final scene of Edna's suicide. She is telling a story on a broad level, on a societal level, drawing out to its fullest the consequences of pigeonholing women in narrow roles, with little room for personal choices. I really loved this book.
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2nd Article of Faith, with Additions

MJ's primary teacher is encouraging the class to memorize articles of faith, with the promise of a reward for each one they can recite in class. Last Sunday, she recited the first one, and this past week, she wanted to learn the second. This is how I taught it to her:

We believe that men and women will be punished for their own sins and not for Adam and Eve's transgression.

She had it down cold. When the mom sitting in the class to help out tried to correct her, "We believe that MEN will be punished..." MJ was quick to retort, "Men AND WOMEN". I wonder how long it will take her to realize that this version is not in the official canon. To me, it only makes the principal taught more accurate. I felt quite happy with this small little act.
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The Lost

I just finished reading The Lost: A Search for Six of Six Million.
I reserved this book quite a while ago at the library, and then when I could finally check it out, I was given only two weeks, rather than the normal three, to read and return without incurring fines. This is because there are a lot of people who want to read it. The timing, of course, on when you finally get the book doesn't necessarily correspond to when you have time to read it, and until last Tuesday, I was preoccupied with The Awakening for my book group. As soon as I set that aside, I picked up Mendelsohn's book, and dug in. It was lengthy, coming in at over 500 pages, but I finished it late last night before the due date today. My next book is also due in two weeks (now a week and a half) so I know what I'll be reading next. No time to catch up on the New Yorker! All this an aside to the main feature. The book.

I loved this book. Ever since childhood, Mendelsohn has been collecting family stories and compiling charts and tables of family connections. Yet, very little was spoken of the story of what happened to Uncle Schmeil, his grandfather's brother, and his family-- Ester, Lorka, Frydka, Ruchele, and Bronia during World War II. Vague notions of death at the hands of Nazis have made it back to the extended family in Israel and in the US, but there are no definites. In the book, the author details his search to find them and give life to what happened to them during the Holocaust in Bolechow, their town in eastern Poland. He travels around the world to find and interview extraordinary and elderly Jewish survivors from Bolechow who are able to shed light on the details of what happened to these six members of his family. It reads like a detective novel, with incredible plot twists and turns, even to the last minute. The way in which the story unravels, bit by bit, is amazing--what seems like amazing luck and coincidence to find just the right person at just the right time provide a great deal of what Mendelsohn ultimately learns. The last trip he takes, returning to Bolechow, is gripping and moving. When the author sinks to the ground, overwhelmed by what he has learned, I, too, felt a rush of emotion for the finale of such an incredible and heart-rending quest.

Additionally, the author recounts the stories in Genesis--the creation, Cain and Abel, Noah, Abraham and Isaac, and Sodom and Gomorrah--in parallel with his own story, "highlighting eternal themes of origins and family, temptation and exile, brotherly betrayal, creation and annihilation." I found some great insights into these stories that are often bewildering.

He also includes many thoughts on the process of using fragile and subjective memories of many individuals to obtain History as it truly occurred. Ultimately, he concludes that the definitive version of the story of Uncle Schmeil and his family could not be obtained. In fact, it was remarkable that he could piece together what he did. He often reflected on how fortuitous it was to find these elderly Jews at the end of their lives and capture their memories before their seemingly imminent deaths. He also laments what he just missed, by not asking the right questions or finding the right people soon enough.

I love the way his book uses a personal family story to shed light on the larger historical context of the time. I find that for me, one of the best ways to understand history is through a personal lens. One family's story illuminates the larger issues and gives sense and personality to the historical details. Another of my favorite books that does this is Wild Swan, chronicling the 20th century in China through the lives of three generations of women.

Interestingly, the timing of reading this book corresponded with a surge in my own interest in my family's history. I have been poring over microfilm to locate Italian ancestors. I have been reading some histories of long gone Mormon pioneers and wondering about their families. That could be why I found his account so moving. I long for details on the lives of these vague women and men who have predated me and about whom I know so little.
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Rebecca Wright

For my family history class this past week, I had to look up census information for an ancestor and I did some research on my Great Great Grandmother, Rebecca. She was a third wife. Although her husband William's first marriage had ended unhappily in a divorce, by the time Rebecca and William marry in 1869, William and Sarah, his 2nd wife, already have 8 children. In 1870, a year after they marry, Rebecca was not listed on the census at all. I found a record for William and Sarah, and their, by this time, 9 children. I also found a record for Rebecca's parents, whom she was supposedly living with. In this same household, William and an infant daughter, Rebecca's first child, were recorded, yet for some reason she was absent. Thus, in 1870, William was listed as a member of two households.

In 1880, the next year the census was conducted, Rebecca was indeed recorded, but this time, while Sarah was listed as wife, Rebecca was labeled as a 12 year old daughter, 2 years older than her oldest child. Her age at this time was 35. Clearly, the census taker was not introduced to Rebecca, and I assume that this tactic was used to try to deceive government officials that this was a polygamous household. Interestingly, Rebecca's location was listed, correctly, as Scotland. While the location of all the other children's births was listed as Idaho, it seems that Scotland would throw up a red flag for anyone bent on locating polygamists.

Because of a fire, records of the 1890 census were destroyed, and the remnant that remains does not include Idaho. However, in 1882, Rebecca moved to a farm with her 7 children to live separately from Sarah's family. Thus, in 1890, she would have been recorded as living in a separate household from Sarah. The question is where William was recorded.

In the 1900 census, Rebecca was given full legitimacy as a wife. William was included here with Rebecca, as household head, and 5 of their children were recorded as well. Sarah, age 72, was also included in this census, living with her youngest daughter, now age 27. William was not listed as part of Sarah's household. It is unclear whether his primary residence was now with Rebecca, or how he divided his time between the two households.

William died in 1907, and so by the time the next census rolled around in 1910, Rebecca, at age 63, was head of her household, living alone. She died in 1919 at the home of her daughter Ruth in a neighboring town.

I was most impacted by the 1880 census. I felt so much sorrow that Rebecca, as a third wife, she was not given any sort of official status. Perhaps she was happy to hide her wifehood from the census recorder, but to me, it symbolizes all my internal queasiness about polygamy. Later in life, only a few years before William dies, they are married by the state, with a marriage license, "according to the law." Interestingly, their marriage was performed in a furniture store, and in his journal, William lists the names of the two witnesses. (This, despite the fact that at their births, the names of several children are not recorded in his journal.) Unfortunately, because of several missing years of William's journal, we have no account of their 1869 sealing.

After my census research, I looked up Rebecca and William's family information and found that on average, she had a baby every year and a half, over the course of 17 years, totaling 12 children. However, only 7 grew to adulthood: her 5th child in 1876 was a stillborn daughter, in July 1885 her 5 year old Winnie died after an illness, in June 1886, she gave birth to Mina, who died three days later, in May 1887, her 2 1/2 year old son Fabius fell into a scalding hot tub at 2 1/2 and died shortly after, and then her final child was born dead, only two months later, in July 1887. Just the bare bones account of her life are sobering.

I wondered how she felt about being a plural wife, how she got along with Sarah, the other wife, and how she felt about the tragic deaths of so many of her children. I called my mom to ask what we knew about her, and she pointed me to the William book that had been compiled from his journals. I had recently received a copy. I spent some time looking through it, but was quite disappointed. William's journals were very dry. This is a typical entry. "March 1877: Sunday 4 Attended circle meeting this noon. Rebecca was delivered of a son at 8:10 PM. Roads muddy. Busy around home all week." Or this one: "March 1881: Sunday 17 Rebecca visited her mother to day who was quite sick. Deborah, Phoebe, and Ivan came home in the afternoon and told me their grandmother was dying. Weather fine today. Much good instruction given by the brethren. Monday 18: Rainy. Rebecca came home and informed me that her mother died this morning about 1 o clock. Maple Creek was overflowing the bottom." The only thing he says of his 5 year old daughter Winnie's death is "My girl Winniefred died this morning and was buried today."

There is no detail about how he felt save for the paragraph about the beetle in his ear that was driving him crazy and the paragraph discussing his frustration and sorrow that his daughter Phoebe is associating with Gentiles and not attending her meetings. He labels his own children by the name of their mother, such as "Rebecca's girls". This, I guess, to distinguish them from the children of his other wife. But, yet, they are still his children. Granted, I didn't read the entire book--I was skimming to find information about his family life and about Rebecca. But, his accounts of family events are devoid of emotion. I wonder if he was emotionally detached as a husband and father or if this is simply his writing style.

A brief bio of her, written in 1970 by someone not attributed, stated that she liked to visit her sisters and neighbors and always invited anyone who came to the farm to stay and eat. I wonder what she would think of my house: "She was a very particular housekeeper, and meticulous in her ironing, washing, and cooking." I wonder if she was happy. I wonder what her questions and heartaches were. I wish I had some of her own personal writings.
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Marriage Dreams

Picture a smiling couple exiting the temple. The woman, beautifully clad in white, is walking down a hill, slightly in front of her new husband, holding his hand. All of a sudden, she shakes her head slightly and looks around with confusion etched in her face. "Where I am?" she thinks. She looks down, and sees her dress, looks back and sees the temple and a man, smiling broadly at her. With a shock of realization, she knows that she has just gotten married to someone, yet, she has no idea who he is. The last she can remember of her life is from 4 months earlier. She asks the stranger, "What is my major?" He looks at her quizzically. "Hurry! Answer the question!" He responds that she is studying elementary education, of course. Her thoughts are like a shriek. "No! No! That's not right. I am a physics major." She begins to panic. What can she do? She glances again at the man. He is smiling lovingly at her, but there is also a glint of anxiousness in his eyes. With a jolt, she realizes that he expects to have sex with her that very night. The thought revolts her--not only is he a total stranger whom she just married, but she is not the woman he thinks she is. She starts to walk quickly away. What can she do?

Then, I awake, my heart racing.

This is a dream I had probably 12 years ago, long before I married. I am the woman who comes to myself on my wedding day. As in most dreams, the boundaries between the surreal and the possible are blurred, and here, it is not clear what the dream events are that led to the "wedding day."

I have often thought on this dream. On my mission, I had several experiences with elders where they unrighteously tried to control my missionary behaviors. I began to understand that it would be possible to have a marriage where a husband--my husband even--would try to control his wife--me!--using his priesthood as justification. And I was scared thinking of marriage--for how could I know for certain that any man would not become the dominator or resort to such behavior? Perhaps that had in part spurred the dream, which, best as I can recall, occurred shortly after my return from my mission.

I think that the dream also reflected my fear that to marry as a Mormon woman, I had to become something that I was not. That I would not be able to find someone who would accept me as I was and would have to resort to hiding certain aspects of myself in order to find a husband. However, I knew that no such mask would be permanent and I would be left desperate and unhappy. For such a marriage, I feared.

This first attempt to write a story of my life was inspired by my recent reading of Kate Chopin's The Awakening. Written in the late 1800's, it is prescient in its look at women, domestic life, and discontent.
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Stories from my life

Last week, we had an enrichment meeting that I organized. The topic was personal narrative and storytelling. G, the woman who ran the class, had the idea to do it--she said, she felt inspired that the sisters in the ward needed it and talked to the RS president about it.

In preparation for this evening, I had several conversations with G and wanted to write about some of the thoughts she mentioned to me about the process of writing.

• Everyone wants to believe that her life has meaning. Writing helps you find the meaning. Writing conveys the meaning to others.
• You are the link to five generations. You are the only person who will be able to tell your grandchildren about your grandparents. If you don't, how will they know? G told some great stories about her grandmother.
• Although typically you write for an audience (to their benefit), the person who gains the most insight is the writer herself. You don't know what happened to you until you write it down. I really like that thought. The process of writing actually helps you process and figure out the larger patterns of events in your life.
• Writing will help the sisters find a voice.
  

As an offshoot of this meeting, which turned out so wonderfully, we are going to have a writers' workshop. Sisters will bring stories they've been working on and then we will share in a safe environment and give feedback. I am really excited about this. I feel that there are a lot of things that I need to process in my life. It has been a very long time since I kept a journal regularly, and I am anxious to add this piece back into my life. And it will be a lot cheaper than therapy.
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Parenting with Love and Logic

In my attempt to figure out how to handle some of my kids' less desirable behavior, I checked out a book from the library with authors from the Love and Logic Institute. I heard about them from my sister--they have workshops, books, and dvds to teach a method for parents and other adults (like teachers) to take back control from children, while at the same time promoting children's agency, responsibility, and ability to think for themselves. Over the last couple of day, I read through this book which first gives a basic overview of their philosophy and then gives examples to deal with specific kinds of problems. Like a lot of parenting books, it was a bit fluffy and the parent-child scenarios could be cheesy, but I think that their basic message is useful and I want to work to implement some parts of it.

The most important part of their philosophy centers around the idea of giving children choices and then letting them struggle with the consequences of their decisions. In an introductory chapter, they discuss two types of parents:
1. Helicopter parents whose lives revolve around their children, who hover over and rescue their children whenever trouble arises. Examples of this type of behavior include bringing their lunches and other forgotten items to them at school, protecting them from all unpleasantness, etc.
2. Control parents: These are the kinds of parents who make the children's every decision for

Ok, this draft has been sitting here a while. So just a few more thoughts:
--seemed more appropriate for older kids, not my 2 year old. I can't ask my 2-year old to walk outside the car for a couple of blocks when he and his sister are yelling at each other
--Christian beliefs pervade the book, moralizing that children who haven't learned responsibility are "going to be a certain way" so you have to look past all that, distill to "the program"

Overall, though, I feel the need to give my kids agency. It's hard to relinquish control for me, but I don't want to be one of those parents who are very controlling of their teen-agers. I've seen others like this, and I felt it was one of the things my parents could have done better as well.

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Left to Tell

I read Left to Tell: Discovering God Amidst the Rwandan Holocaust a while ago, but forgot to write anything about it. It is the personal story of a Tutsi woman who survived the massive killing of her people by hiding in the miniscule bathroom of a Hutu pastor with 6 other woman. She is able to pass away the long hours there in prayer and meditation, with the end result being an amazingly strong faith in God and the ability to forgive the men who had murdered her family. The story is simple in its telling--it is only her personal narrative with little of the historical context--but powerful in its message.
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