Surprisingly I am able to write this. There was a brief time over the last day or two that I wondered if I’d be physically able to. On Sunday I broke out a new workout DVD. Billy Blanks: Beginner’s Boot Camp. It was a beginner’s workout so no worries right?
Last week during my weekly trip to Target I was cruising the back side of the store coming up in the electronics department, an aisle I’m usually not in. Much to my delight there was a combo-pack DVD-- one was the original Taebo workout, the other a four-workout DVD starting with the Beginner’s Bootcamp. It was an absolute steal at $4.98 for two DVD’s. I had scored the ultimate workout combo for five bucks.
I admit I haven’t been a gym-rat for the last six weeks or so on Sunday I popped in the DVD vowing to start anew.
And I did, for the most part. I don’t know who Billy was referring to when he made a tape for beginner’s as it definitely wasn’t somebody with my skillset and fitness level but I trudged through it as Billy promised my life and spirit would improve. I would get the life I always dreamed of. All this for five bucks. Thanks Billy.
I muddled through the 55 minute workout and after I recovered I of course felt wonderful, until yesterday morning that is.
I strained to get out of bed Monday morning and the aches and pains grew throughout the day. I went to the gym after work to try and loosen up. That was to no avail. I currently feel aches in muscles I forgot I had. I hesitate to do anything quickly and sitting down is not an easy task.
But in a weird way I love the feeling. It reminds me that I actually got some much needed exercise and a start on my dream life. All for five bucks!
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
Shades of gray...
Shades of gray. What if everyone viewed the world in shades of gray? What if all the extremists in the United States (or better yet the world), the ones that can only see black or white, suddenly opened their minds and hearts to a different world view? What if there were no more hate? What a world it would be! What a glorious state our country would be in! What if?
Don’t get me wrong, if we all agreed on everything the world would probably be in worse shape than it already is, but I can’t help but think that if the far right and the far left would actually take their blinders off, open their eyes, and stop spewing hate, something could be done about the state of our country and the world itself.
And what if the far right and the far left actually quit blaming each other, accepted responsibility for their own actions, and looked at the big picture? What if the far right and far left stopped inciting hate and ignorance every time they opened their mouths? What if they stopped looking at the black and white, and looked at the gray? What if?
Call me crazy but a simple conversation that starts something like this could go a long ways in improving our “civilized” country, “Hi, my name is Far Left. I strongly believe that our country should look like this and I understand that you, Far Right, feel strongly that our country should look totally opposite. Maybe if we explain to each other the reasons we feel this way, actually listen to each other, agree to disagree, and find some common ground between us, we can COMPROMISE and make our country a better place.”
Maybe it’s an Utopian concept to actually believe that our extremist elected officials could compromise based on the good of the people they represent instead of constantly streaming biggotry, criticism, violence, hate, and ignorance.
But, unfortunately it’s unfair to place the entire blame of the state of our country solely on our elected officials because, who are they elected by? Us! (and well, whichever side whines the loudest and throws the most money out there, but that’s another column for another day).
Maybe all of us that generally see gray should start to speak out? Maybe those of you that only see black and white should actually take your blinders off and realize that there is more to every “ideal” than your own perfect opinions. Maybe you will find out that there are many that actually may agree with you on some level but because you fail to see any possible reason why somebody might think differently, civility and compromise take a backseat to ignorance and hate. The blinders stay on and our country continues in it’s downward spiral with nobody really to blame but ourselves.
So I challenge everyone, myself included, to this: next time somebody disagrees with you, instead of insisting that you’re right and they are wrong, maybe you can ask them politely why they feel the way they do. Maybe you can politely tell them how you feel. Maybe you will find you have something in common. Maybe we will all begin to see beautiful shades of gray.
What if?
Don’t get me wrong, if we all agreed on everything the world would probably be in worse shape than it already is, but I can’t help but think that if the far right and the far left would actually take their blinders off, open their eyes, and stop spewing hate, something could be done about the state of our country and the world itself.
And what if the far right and the far left actually quit blaming each other, accepted responsibility for their own actions, and looked at the big picture? What if the far right and far left stopped inciting hate and ignorance every time they opened their mouths? What if they stopped looking at the black and white, and looked at the gray? What if?
Call me crazy but a simple conversation that starts something like this could go a long ways in improving our “civilized” country, “Hi, my name is Far Left. I strongly believe that our country should look like this and I understand that you, Far Right, feel strongly that our country should look totally opposite. Maybe if we explain to each other the reasons we feel this way, actually listen to each other, agree to disagree, and find some common ground between us, we can COMPROMISE and make our country a better place.”
Maybe it’s an Utopian concept to actually believe that our extremist elected officials could compromise based on the good of the people they represent instead of constantly streaming biggotry, criticism, violence, hate, and ignorance.
But, unfortunately it’s unfair to place the entire blame of the state of our country solely on our elected officials because, who are they elected by? Us! (and well, whichever side whines the loudest and throws the most money out there, but that’s another column for another day).
Maybe all of us that generally see gray should start to speak out? Maybe those of you that only see black and white should actually take your blinders off and realize that there is more to every “ideal” than your own perfect opinions. Maybe you will find out that there are many that actually may agree with you on some level but because you fail to see any possible reason why somebody might think differently, civility and compromise take a backseat to ignorance and hate. The blinders stay on and our country continues in it’s downward spiral with nobody really to blame but ourselves.
So I challenge everyone, myself included, to this: next time somebody disagrees with you, instead of insisting that you’re right and they are wrong, maybe you can ask them politely why they feel the way they do. Maybe you can politely tell them how you feel. Maybe you will find you have something in common. Maybe we will all begin to see beautiful shades of gray.
What if?
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Falling Whistles- Dec. 15, 2010 Editorial, RP News
“I had heard. Known. Cared. I had even reacted and raged. But when these boys told me of the whistleblowers, the horror grew feet and walked within me.
Boys not big enough to hold a gun were given merely a whistle and put on the front lines of battle. Their sole duty was to make enough noise to scare the enemy and then to receive- with their bodies- the first round of bullets. Lines of boys fell as nothing more than a temporary barricade.”
-Falling Whistles, a journal entry.
When I first read the above journal entry, I was completely dumbfounded and horrified at the same time. Kindergarteners with whistles sent to take bullets in a bloody, pointless war that has been raging in the Congo since at least 1997. I literally cannot wrap my head around it. What kind of monsters do this to children?
As an advocate in the field of sexual violence, the Congo was already on my radar. Soldiers on both sides of the war use rape as one their main weapons; the United Nations has dubbed the Congo as the “rape capital of the world.” I also knew of child soldiers but this story was new to me.
I searched out the Falling Whistles website after I first saw one of their whistles in a magazine. The author of the above journal had been on a mission to Africa to equip kids with shoes when circumstances led him to the plight of the child soldiers in the Congo.
Enraged by what he saw, he returned to the states wanting to do something to help the children of the war-ravished Congo.
“Coming home, a close friend offered a fierce embrace and an unusal gift. A whistle. Hanging over my heart this tiny tool kept the Falling Whistles story alive. Everywhere we went, people asked what it was. That’s when we saw- their weapon could be our voice.”
It was then that Falling Whistles was founded. Buy a whistle, wear it in protest, and pray for peace. 100% of the proceeds go towards rehabilitating war-affected children.
So, I ordered my whistle hoping that somehow it would make a difference- yet knowing I could buy a million whistles and the war would still rage, kids would still suffer, soldiers would continue to rape and pillage thousands upon thousands of Congolese. In all reality, what difference does one whistle make?
After nearly a month, my whistle arrived. I humbly put it on. I rarely take it off.
Surprisingly, several people, including strangers, have asked me what is around my neck? “Is that a whistle? Why are you wearing a whistle?” It was then I really understood what the Falling Whistles founder meant when he said, “their weapon could be our voice.”
No matter how big or small, our voices do make a difference. Every time somebody new asks me about the whistle, my voice makes difference. Every time somebody new hears the story of the Congo, a tiny bit of power is ripped from the monsters that rape and force children into the front lines of a senseless war.
A whistle can’t save a nation but maybe, just maybe, it can save one child at time. Maybe one whistle does make a difference?
Please add the children and people of the Congo to your prayers. Your voice does make a difference.
You can check out www.fallingwhistles.com for the complete story of Falling Whistles.
Boys not big enough to hold a gun were given merely a whistle and put on the front lines of battle. Their sole duty was to make enough noise to scare the enemy and then to receive- with their bodies- the first round of bullets. Lines of boys fell as nothing more than a temporary barricade.”
-Falling Whistles, a journal entry.
When I first read the above journal entry, I was completely dumbfounded and horrified at the same time. Kindergarteners with whistles sent to take bullets in a bloody, pointless war that has been raging in the Congo since at least 1997. I literally cannot wrap my head around it. What kind of monsters do this to children?
As an advocate in the field of sexual violence, the Congo was already on my radar. Soldiers on both sides of the war use rape as one their main weapons; the United Nations has dubbed the Congo as the “rape capital of the world.” I also knew of child soldiers but this story was new to me.
I searched out the Falling Whistles website after I first saw one of their whistles in a magazine. The author of the above journal had been on a mission to Africa to equip kids with shoes when circumstances led him to the plight of the child soldiers in the Congo.
Enraged by what he saw, he returned to the states wanting to do something to help the children of the war-ravished Congo.
“Coming home, a close friend offered a fierce embrace and an unusal gift. A whistle. Hanging over my heart this tiny tool kept the Falling Whistles story alive. Everywhere we went, people asked what it was. That’s when we saw- their weapon could be our voice.”
It was then that Falling Whistles was founded. Buy a whistle, wear it in protest, and pray for peace. 100% of the proceeds go towards rehabilitating war-affected children.
So, I ordered my whistle hoping that somehow it would make a difference- yet knowing I could buy a million whistles and the war would still rage, kids would still suffer, soldiers would continue to rape and pillage thousands upon thousands of Congolese. In all reality, what difference does one whistle make?
After nearly a month, my whistle arrived. I humbly put it on. I rarely take it off.
Surprisingly, several people, including strangers, have asked me what is around my neck? “Is that a whistle? Why are you wearing a whistle?” It was then I really understood what the Falling Whistles founder meant when he said, “their weapon could be our voice.”
No matter how big or small, our voices do make a difference. Every time somebody new asks me about the whistle, my voice makes difference. Every time somebody new hears the story of the Congo, a tiny bit of power is ripped from the monsters that rape and force children into the front lines of a senseless war.
A whistle can’t save a nation but maybe, just maybe, it can save one child at time. Maybe one whistle does make a difference?
Please add the children and people of the Congo to your prayers. Your voice does make a difference.
You can check out www.fallingwhistles.com for the complete story of Falling Whistles.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
From the Huffington Post: No more rape
By:
Bukavu, Democratic Republic of Congo -- I have been back in Bukavu, Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), for two weeks now meeting with leaders, activists, social workers, therapists, recent survivors, business owners, UN officials. There is good news and bad news. The bad news is that the situation on the ground remains the same if not worse. Just a few weeks ago more than 600 women were raped on the Congo-Angola border, and more than 15,000 women have been raped in Eastern Congo this year. The massacres and recruiting of child soldiers continue. The indiscriminate and random killings rage on.
The good news is that there is palpable change in the women. Just last month, the Women's World March brought out thousands of Congolese women who vocally and proudly stood up for their rights. The women of Congo have broken the silence and are claiming their voices and vision. They are resilient and brilliant. They have huge dreams and ambitions (even if they are often muted by the massive trauma and violence). They are outspoken leaders and visionaries and they could and should lead Congo out of her misery. They are indeed building a movement. There is AFEM, a network of women journalists, run by Congolese women reporting on the war and daily news throughout the region. There are the Green Mamas, a collective of survivors who have planted fields of vegetables, and who are not only surviving off the profits, but bringing more and more women into the process. There are hundreds of local women's groups creating businesses, building leadership, fighting for judicial reform, developing healthcare and education, and there is V-Day's City of Joy, a revolutionary community for survivors of gender violence where women will turn their pain to power. It opens Feb. 4, and it is owned and run by the Congolese.
It is very clear now that those of us supporting from the outside need to listen and take direction from women on the ground. We need to be very careful that in our well-intended rush to help end sexual violence we don't institutionalize victimization or create a self-sustaining and self-perpetuating business of rape. We need to keep the focus razor sharp on the root causes of the war, and not only on the consequences.
There are so many questions.
Why, when so many war criminals have been identified, have the vast majority of them not been arrested or held accountable? Why, after 13 years, are there still weekly massacres and thousands of rapes and former child soldiers being brought back into the militias when the world knows exactly what is going on? Who is invested in keeping it this way? Why is the UN spending $3 million a day on peacekeepers who are there to supposedly protect the women, but whose main contribution seems to be taking photographs of the devastated women after they've been raped? Why isn't $1 million a day of that money going for training, paying, and feeding a Congolese army that in a very short time could be capable of purging the FDLR and protecting the borders of the Congo? Why are the failed (as the ICG recently stated) military strategies Kimia 2 and Amani Leo still being implemented by the Security Counsel and the Congolese government? Where is President Obama, who as a senator shepherded a piece of legislation, SB 2125, the Obama Democratic Republic of the Congo Relief, Security, and Democracy Promotion Act of 2006? There, he seemed to understand that "both the real and perceived presence of armed groups hostile to the governments of Uganda, Rwanda, and Burundi continue to serve as a major source of regional instability and an apparent pretext for continued interference in the Democratic Republic of the Congo by its neighbors [Uganda, Rwanda, and Burundi]." Why has he suddenly gone silent? Who changed his thinking? Why, when it is known that the war in Congo is an economic war fought over the mines and minerals, isn't there monitoring in place of the flow of gold, copper and coltain by now? Why continue to do very expensive, elaborate and time-consuming UN reports without any follow up or enforcement of law? Why are we still arguing over the definition of genocide and femicide and spending fortunes counting the numbers of raped women rather than stopping the atrocities?
Here and now we actually need to end the rape. We need to say NO MORE. No more millions spent counting the raped and studying the raped. No more gratuitous rape interviews. (I think the Congolese women should declare a story strike.) No more gawking. No more tragic photographs of nameless black women. No more pity. No more feigning ignorance about the situation. No more minerals stolen out from under the people. No more raped and re-raped and re-re-raped. No more children born of rape. No more fistula. No more stigmatization. No more destroyed vaginas. No more brutalized wombs and bladders and colons. No more dead raped nine-month-old babies or 80-year-old mamas. No more money being spent on or made on rape. NO MORE RAPE.
Bukavu, Democratic Republic of Congo -- I have been back in Bukavu, Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC), for two weeks now meeting with leaders, activists, social workers, therapists, recent survivors, business owners, UN officials. There is good news and bad news. The bad news is that the situation on the ground remains the same if not worse. Just a few weeks ago more than 600 women were raped on the Congo-Angola border, and more than 15,000 women have been raped in Eastern Congo this year. The massacres and recruiting of child soldiers continue. The indiscriminate and random killings rage on.
The good news is that there is palpable change in the women. Just last month, the Women's World March brought out thousands of Congolese women who vocally and proudly stood up for their rights. The women of Congo have broken the silence and are claiming their voices and vision. They are resilient and brilliant. They have huge dreams and ambitions (even if they are often muted by the massive trauma and violence). They are outspoken leaders and visionaries and they could and should lead Congo out of her misery. They are indeed building a movement. There is AFEM, a network of women journalists, run by Congolese women reporting on the war and daily news throughout the region. There are the Green Mamas, a collective of survivors who have planted fields of vegetables, and who are not only surviving off the profits, but bringing more and more women into the process. There are hundreds of local women's groups creating businesses, building leadership, fighting for judicial reform, developing healthcare and education, and there is V-Day's City of Joy, a revolutionary community for survivors of gender violence where women will turn their pain to power. It opens Feb. 4, and it is owned and run by the Congolese.
It is very clear now that those of us supporting from the outside need to listen and take direction from women on the ground. We need to be very careful that in our well-intended rush to help end sexual violence we don't institutionalize victimization or create a self-sustaining and self-perpetuating business of rape. We need to keep the focus razor sharp on the root causes of the war, and not only on the consequences.
There are so many questions.
Why, when so many war criminals have been identified, have the vast majority of them not been arrested or held accountable? Why, after 13 years, are there still weekly massacres and thousands of rapes and former child soldiers being brought back into the militias when the world knows exactly what is going on? Who is invested in keeping it this way? Why is the UN spending $3 million a day on peacekeepers who are there to supposedly protect the women, but whose main contribution seems to be taking photographs of the devastated women after they've been raped? Why isn't $1 million a day of that money going for training, paying, and feeding a Congolese army that in a very short time could be capable of purging the FDLR and protecting the borders of the Congo? Why are the failed (as the ICG recently stated) military strategies Kimia 2 and Amani Leo still being implemented by the Security Counsel and the Congolese government? Where is President Obama, who as a senator shepherded a piece of legislation, SB 2125, the Obama Democratic Republic of the Congo Relief, Security, and Democracy Promotion Act of 2006? There, he seemed to understand that "both the real and perceived presence of armed groups hostile to the governments of Uganda, Rwanda, and Burundi continue to serve as a major source of regional instability and an apparent pretext for continued interference in the Democratic Republic of the Congo by its neighbors [Uganda, Rwanda, and Burundi]." Why has he suddenly gone silent? Who changed his thinking? Why, when it is known that the war in Congo is an economic war fought over the mines and minerals, isn't there monitoring in place of the flow of gold, copper and coltain by now? Why continue to do very expensive, elaborate and time-consuming UN reports without any follow up or enforcement of law? Why are we still arguing over the definition of genocide and femicide and spending fortunes counting the numbers of raped women rather than stopping the atrocities?
Here and now we actually need to end the rape. We need to say NO MORE. No more millions spent counting the raped and studying the raped. No more gratuitous rape interviews. (I think the Congolese women should declare a story strike.) No more gawking. No more tragic photographs of nameless black women. No more pity. No more feigning ignorance about the situation. No more minerals stolen out from under the people. No more raped and re-raped and re-re-raped. No more children born of rape. No more fistula. No more stigmatization. No more destroyed vaginas. No more brutalized wombs and bladders and colons. No more dead raped nine-month-old babies or 80-year-old mamas. No more money being spent on or made on rape. NO MORE RAPE.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Does it get any easier?
They say reality bites.
When my brother and his family left for Oman last August, we knew the separation would be difficult. We had been preparing all summer for the day that they would leave. Many tears were shed and hugs were plentiful, but we all agreed that time would fly by until next summer when we would all be together again. Between Skype calls and Facebook, we’d make it.
While we knew it would be difficult, I don’t think any of us expected it to actually be so hard, if that makes any sense. I surely never expected it to hurt so much.
A simple drive through Eden Prairie a few weeks ago, where they used to live, was when reality jumped up and bit me. Occasional tear-ups ensued over the next day or two which was followed by a complete and total meltdown (something I hate and can count on one hand the actual meltdowns I have had in my adult life. Not a fan of being an emotional wreck.)
Driving home from Target, a favorite haunt of my sister-in-laws and mine, the waterworks started and didn’t stop. I drove home through blinding tears (in retrospect I should have pulled over) and cried until there were no more tears.
I missed them all so much but I was missing my sister-in-law Michelle the most.
Somewhere over the years we had transitioned from in-laws to friends, from friends to one of my very best friends. From one of my best friends to someone I relied on for laughs, advice, and comfort. She had become one of the rocks in my inner circle.
Sometimes we would talk daily, other times not for a week or so. Sometimes we might go a month or more without seeing each other but I always took comfort in the fact that she was just a phone call away. At any time I could hop in my car and be there for one of her amazingly warm, heartfelt hugs. Hugs like no other.
Now, that was gone. Who knew several thousand miles and a 10 hour time difference could throw a such a wrench into a person’s life? Yeah, reality really does bite.
Since the meltdown, on any given day I find myself missing each and every one of them more and more.
I miss my nephew Joey’s smile, a rare smile that literally lights up a room. He makes everyone else around him smile. His love for family is unparalleled.
I miss my nephew Jake’s sense of humor and his passion for whatever he’s into at the moment (currently skateboarding.) With both of us being the oldest in the family, we kind of “get” each other.
I miss how my niece was just beginning to really be one of us “girls.” She loves to wear dresses, shop, and eat chocolate yet at the same time will chase down a snake or an insect of any kind. We aren’t sure where she gets that.
I miss my youngest nephew’s nonstop chatter and story telling. He can make us laugh till we cry and has on several occasions. He stated a few weeks ago that he is ready to go back to Minnesota. My heart melted.
My brother? I just plain miss him.
With the holiday season fast approaching, the entire extended family is feeling the pain of the distance between us, yet we are comforted in the fact that we will be them in six more months. However painful at the moment, we know the separation isn’t permanent.
As for their experiences so far in Oman?
Their jobs are good and the kids have adjusted well to school.
They have a beautiful apartment with a view of the mountains. Their surroundings are breathtaking.
They have swam in the ocean, explored caves, camped in the mountains, and recently spent three days camping on the beach.
We take comfort in the fact that their family is making memories and gaining experiences that will last a lifetime.
We’ll keep the Kleenex box close throughout the season and we'll probably have a couple of family Skype dates, which will no doubt ease the pain some. Maybe after the holidays it will be easier?
My heart goes out to everyone that will be separated from loved ones this holiday season. Whether temporary or permanent take some comfort in the fact that you aren’t alone.
I wish you safe travels and good times with friends and family. Happy Thanksgiving to all.
When my brother and his family left for Oman last August, we knew the separation would be difficult. We had been preparing all summer for the day that they would leave. Many tears were shed and hugs were plentiful, but we all agreed that time would fly by until next summer when we would all be together again. Between Skype calls and Facebook, we’d make it.
While we knew it would be difficult, I don’t think any of us expected it to actually be so hard, if that makes any sense. I surely never expected it to hurt so much.
A simple drive through Eden Prairie a few weeks ago, where they used to live, was when reality jumped up and bit me. Occasional tear-ups ensued over the next day or two which was followed by a complete and total meltdown (something I hate and can count on one hand the actual meltdowns I have had in my adult life. Not a fan of being an emotional wreck.)
Driving home from Target, a favorite haunt of my sister-in-laws and mine, the waterworks started and didn’t stop. I drove home through blinding tears (in retrospect I should have pulled over) and cried until there were no more tears.
I missed them all so much but I was missing my sister-in-law Michelle the most.
Somewhere over the years we had transitioned from in-laws to friends, from friends to one of my very best friends. From one of my best friends to someone I relied on for laughs, advice, and comfort. She had become one of the rocks in my inner circle.
Sometimes we would talk daily, other times not for a week or so. Sometimes we might go a month or more without seeing each other but I always took comfort in the fact that she was just a phone call away. At any time I could hop in my car and be there for one of her amazingly warm, heartfelt hugs. Hugs like no other.
Now, that was gone. Who knew several thousand miles and a 10 hour time difference could throw a such a wrench into a person’s life? Yeah, reality really does bite.
Since the meltdown, on any given day I find myself missing each and every one of them more and more.
I miss my nephew Joey’s smile, a rare smile that literally lights up a room. He makes everyone else around him smile. His love for family is unparalleled.
I miss my nephew Jake’s sense of humor and his passion for whatever he’s into at the moment (currently skateboarding.) With both of us being the oldest in the family, we kind of “get” each other.
I miss how my niece was just beginning to really be one of us “girls.” She loves to wear dresses, shop, and eat chocolate yet at the same time will chase down a snake or an insect of any kind. We aren’t sure where she gets that.
I miss my youngest nephew’s nonstop chatter and story telling. He can make us laugh till we cry and has on several occasions. He stated a few weeks ago that he is ready to go back to Minnesota. My heart melted.
My brother? I just plain miss him.
With the holiday season fast approaching, the entire extended family is feeling the pain of the distance between us, yet we are comforted in the fact that we will be them in six more months. However painful at the moment, we know the separation isn’t permanent.
As for their experiences so far in Oman?
Their jobs are good and the kids have adjusted well to school.
They have a beautiful apartment with a view of the mountains. Their surroundings are breathtaking.
They have swam in the ocean, explored caves, camped in the mountains, and recently spent three days camping on the beach.
We take comfort in the fact that their family is making memories and gaining experiences that will last a lifetime.
We’ll keep the Kleenex box close throughout the season and we'll probably have a couple of family Skype dates, which will no doubt ease the pain some. Maybe after the holidays it will be easier?
My heart goes out to everyone that will be separated from loved ones this holiday season. Whether temporary or permanent take some comfort in the fact that you aren’t alone.
I wish you safe travels and good times with friends and family. Happy Thanksgiving to all.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
"It" always happens this time of year...
This time it started a little over a week ago. I think it was a simple conversation with Pastor Joyce in the News office or maybe it had already started and that’s what sparked the conversation.
The mention in last week’s column made it worse.
It always comes this time of year-my incessant craving for lefse that mysteriously strikes when November comes along.
I don’t know when it started.
I grew up eating lefse. My mom always broke it out around the holidays, something I continued in my own family. It was only in the last few years that I noticed my cravings for lefse intensify each year.
Mind you, I didn’t know that people actually made lefse until I was an adult. We bowed to Mrs. Olson whose lefse always hit the shelves around the holidays. Die hard Scandinavians and lefse-ites will tell you that there is no comparing homemade lefse to store bought. Some of us don’t care.
It was “store bought” that got me the other day. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I caved to Mrs. Olson. Maybe if I downed a package of the white stuff, it would go away? Definitely worth a shot I thought to myself.
On the way home, I think I drooled at the thought of tearing into the package, loading each amazing slice with butter and sugar, and enjoying a little slice of heaven for a while.
The first bite of the season was magnificent. Amazingly, I only had a couple of pieces that night. I was pretty proud of myself for not downing the whole package.
I was out of town for a couple of days and on the way home late on Saturday I remembered the stash of lefse still in the fridge.
I made it until Sunday morning when I discovered that lefse and coffee make an amazing breakfast combo. I had never paired the two and was impressed with how the two complimented each other.
Sunday night came and the rest of the package had to go. I even offered some to my oldest. He thankfully declined so I was able to chow the last piece.
The package was gone. The craving was gone! Yes, I thought to myself. One pack this year did the trick. I was free from it.
That was until this morning however. Usually on Tuesday mornings there is absolutely no room in my brain for anything other than “getting the paper out.”
Somehow, it crept back in. I have the feeling it won’t go away anytime soon.
Maybe, one more package will do the trick. It’s worth a shot, don’t you think?
The mention in last week’s column made it worse.
It always comes this time of year-my incessant craving for lefse that mysteriously strikes when November comes along.
I don’t know when it started.
I grew up eating lefse. My mom always broke it out around the holidays, something I continued in my own family. It was only in the last few years that I noticed my cravings for lefse intensify each year.
Mind you, I didn’t know that people actually made lefse until I was an adult. We bowed to Mrs. Olson whose lefse always hit the shelves around the holidays. Die hard Scandinavians and lefse-ites will tell you that there is no comparing homemade lefse to store bought. Some of us don’t care.
It was “store bought” that got me the other day. I couldn’t stand it any longer. I caved to Mrs. Olson. Maybe if I downed a package of the white stuff, it would go away? Definitely worth a shot I thought to myself.
On the way home, I think I drooled at the thought of tearing into the package, loading each amazing slice with butter and sugar, and enjoying a little slice of heaven for a while.
The first bite of the season was magnificent. Amazingly, I only had a couple of pieces that night. I was pretty proud of myself for not downing the whole package.
I was out of town for a couple of days and on the way home late on Saturday I remembered the stash of lefse still in the fridge.
I made it until Sunday morning when I discovered that lefse and coffee make an amazing breakfast combo. I had never paired the two and was impressed with how the two complimented each other.
Sunday night came and the rest of the package had to go. I even offered some to my oldest. He thankfully declined so I was able to chow the last piece.
The package was gone. The craving was gone! Yes, I thought to myself. One pack this year did the trick. I was free from it.
That was until this morning however. Usually on Tuesday mornings there is absolutely no room in my brain for anything other than “getting the paper out.”
Somehow, it crept back in. I have the feeling it won’t go away anytime soon.
Maybe, one more package will do the trick. It’s worth a shot, don’t you think?
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
What is American Heritage?
From my editorial column in the 11/10/10 edition of the RP News:
When reading the MACCRAY School Board report today the last few paragraphs struck me with concern and wonder. If you haven’t gotten to the story yet (it’s on the next page), a district resident questioned the board on why they would “allow” a Hispanic Heritage Day to be celebrated at the MACCRAY Schools. “Why not an American Heritage Day?” the resident asked.
My first reaction was, of course, a huge concern over the underlying prejudice and the racial tones of the question posed to the board. Honestly, I have no idea if prejudice and racial issues were the cause of the citizen’s “concern” over Hispanic Heritage Day.
Nonetheless, it angered me. After finally simmering down a bit, I began thinking about the statement and to really wonder, what is American Heritage? Do you know?
My ethnic background is Swedish and German. Ron “the print guy” is also of Swedish and German descent. My news-mate Char is a bit different. She is of a Norwegian and German background. My husband is German, Polish, a smidge Native American, and I believe a couple of other things tossed in. Our kids are then an even bigger mix. Where does it end? When do we quit identifying our heritage with the countries our ancestors came from? When do we start being Americans? Nothing else, just American?
Imagine for second that our little corner of the world quit identifying with their Dutch background? What if Madison ceased to be the “Lutefisk Capital” because it no longer celebrated the town’s Norwegian heritage? No more lutefisk and lefse? Or take the city of New Ulm and its longstanding German heritage? How many communities in Minnesota would change tremendously if they stopped identifying with their “heritage?” I can’t imagine how different our state would be. Can you?
Personally, even though it’s my “ethnicity,” I really can’t identify with being Swedish or German. I learned a couple of Swedish phrases from my grandpa, who had immigrated from Sweden, and growing up I was forced to eat lutefisk (I thought lutefisk was Norwegian?) with my mom and my grandpa when they would cook up a batch (love you mom!).
Growing up I loved to listen to my grandpa talk with his thick Swedish accent and he loved to laugh at a good “yoke.” If my grandpa hadn’t been an immigrant, I highly doubt I would know much about Sweden at all. As for my German heritage, no one that I knew in my close family had ever lived there.
The United States is called the “melting pot” of the world for a very good reason. We are! We are a nation of every single race and ethnicity mixed together in one big place.
What would we celebrate if we were to have an “American Heritage Day?” Would we dress up as cowboys? Would we eat burgers, fries, and apple pie all day? Are burgers, fries and apple pies even “American?” Would we play baseball and eat hot dogs?
American Heritage is all of the above. We are lutefisk, lefse, apple pie, burgers and fries. We are a little bit of every corner of the world. We are truly a melting pot. How can we celebrate one ethnicity and not all?
It is only when the day comes, if ever, that we stop celebrating and acknowledging all of our ethic backgrounds, that we can stop celebrating “Hispanic Heritage Week.” In this great melting pot of a nation, I don’t foresee that happening for generations to come.
That is our American Heritage.
When reading the MACCRAY School Board report today the last few paragraphs struck me with concern and wonder. If you haven’t gotten to the story yet (it’s on the next page), a district resident questioned the board on why they would “allow” a Hispanic Heritage Day to be celebrated at the MACCRAY Schools. “Why not an American Heritage Day?” the resident asked.
My first reaction was, of course, a huge concern over the underlying prejudice and the racial tones of the question posed to the board. Honestly, I have no idea if prejudice and racial issues were the cause of the citizen’s “concern” over Hispanic Heritage Day.
Nonetheless, it angered me. After finally simmering down a bit, I began thinking about the statement and to really wonder, what is American Heritage? Do you know?
My ethnic background is Swedish and German. Ron “the print guy” is also of Swedish and German descent. My news-mate Char is a bit different. She is of a Norwegian and German background. My husband is German, Polish, a smidge Native American, and I believe a couple of other things tossed in. Our kids are then an even bigger mix. Where does it end? When do we quit identifying our heritage with the countries our ancestors came from? When do we start being Americans? Nothing else, just American?
Imagine for second that our little corner of the world quit identifying with their Dutch background? What if Madison ceased to be the “Lutefisk Capital” because it no longer celebrated the town’s Norwegian heritage? No more lutefisk and lefse? Or take the city of New Ulm and its longstanding German heritage? How many communities in Minnesota would change tremendously if they stopped identifying with their “heritage?” I can’t imagine how different our state would be. Can you?
Personally, even though it’s my “ethnicity,” I really can’t identify with being Swedish or German. I learned a couple of Swedish phrases from my grandpa, who had immigrated from Sweden, and growing up I was forced to eat lutefisk (I thought lutefisk was Norwegian?) with my mom and my grandpa when they would cook up a batch (love you mom!).
Growing up I loved to listen to my grandpa talk with his thick Swedish accent and he loved to laugh at a good “yoke.” If my grandpa hadn’t been an immigrant, I highly doubt I would know much about Sweden at all. As for my German heritage, no one that I knew in my close family had ever lived there.
The United States is called the “melting pot” of the world for a very good reason. We are! We are a nation of every single race and ethnicity mixed together in one big place.
What would we celebrate if we were to have an “American Heritage Day?” Would we dress up as cowboys? Would we eat burgers, fries, and apple pie all day? Are burgers, fries and apple pies even “American?” Would we play baseball and eat hot dogs?
American Heritage is all of the above. We are lutefisk, lefse, apple pie, burgers and fries. We are a little bit of every corner of the world. We are truly a melting pot. How can we celebrate one ethnicity and not all?
It is only when the day comes, if ever, that we stop celebrating and acknowledging all of our ethic backgrounds, that we can stop celebrating “Hispanic Heritage Week.” In this great melting pot of a nation, I don’t foresee that happening for generations to come.
That is our American Heritage.
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