We are Not a Theocracy (thank God)

One of the great and exceptional facts about the United States is that ours is a nation of many religions, spiritual practices and views.  Our nation was founded by people seeking freedom to practice their religion; and it is specified in our constitution.  For the Europeans who first came to this New World, separation of church and state was a new concept.  To this day religion is still far too enmeshed with governments in too many places on the planet.

It is a disturbing trend in the United States that over the last 40 years the presence of religion spilling over into our electoral process has been increasing.  Too many candidates wear their religion on their sleeve in an effort to gather votes.  More and more religious leaders endorse candidates, and priests from the pulpit tell their congregations how to vote.  Though they were men of faith, this is not what the Founding Fathers had in mind, and this is clear in the founding documents. 

Even knowing this, I found Marco Rubio’s in-your-face hangout of his religious beliefs at the Iowa GOP debate on January 28 surprising, though it is well known that there are many evangelicals among Iowa voters.  When he was referred to as a political savior, he quickly responded by mentioning his personal savior, Jesus Christ. His connection of his candidacy to run the country with his goal to spend eternity in heaven was, just TMI.

What he said was quite different from what another religious young presidential candidate,  John F. Kennedy, was forced to assert in order to be elected in 1960.

“ I believe in an America where the separation of church and state is absolute, where no Catholic prelate would tell the president (should he be Catholic) how to act, and no Protestant minister would tell his parishioners for whom to vote,…

I believe in a president whose religious views are his own private affair, neither imposed by him upon the nation, or imposed by the nation upon him as a condition to holding that office.”

Times have changed, I will grant.  But not that much. 

During the election year of Kerry-Bush in 2004, I had a conversation with a high-level Italian cardinal in Rome about the campaign.  At that time, some American priests were denying Kerry communion at Mass because of his political views on abortion.  When asked how he viewed the American election, this cardinal, a leader in the church, was quick to say emphatically, “Here at the Vatican, we pray Kerry wins.”  I was a bit surprised and asked, “Really?” He nodded, adding, “Because of the war.”  For him, and many, issues trump religious dogma, and that is as it should be.

There are those who believe that Jesus was a socialist, but few Christians will be voting for Bernie Sanders.  Catholic Democrats include a good number who have socialist political leanings and vote accordingly.  For all religious Americans, once in the voting booth where choices must be made, issues should predominate, but whatever informs a voter in pulling that lever, it should remain a private contract between him and his God.

MENTAL ILLNESS AND UNDIAGNOSED BRAIN TRAUMA


There is promising news in the area of mental illness and treatment.

It is increasingly becoming obvious to brain specialists that a percentage of people suffering from an assortment of psychiatric disorders may have undiagnosed brain injury as the cause.  In recent months, autopsies of former NFL players (such as football legend Frank Gifford, and just this week, 27-year-old Tyler Sash, who died of an accidental overdose of pain medication) have indicated that brain injury is common among them.

Dr. Daniel Amen, who has specialized for over two decades in a specific type of brain scan that measures brain performance, has seen strong evidence that this is true, not only of football players, but of mentally ill criminals in the penitentiaries, as well as others.  He has treated children who have been screened and found to have injuries or other brain illness that have caused behavioral problems.  The best news is, he has also found that many of these injured or diseased brains can be treated and rehabilitated.

There will be more on this as time goes on.

THE NOMADIC LIFE OF A MILITARY BRAT....

Thinking of my dad today --- he was a brilliant guy who loved the Navy and then loved his second career as an academic in maritime schools.

WHERE IS HOME?

by Mary McKay

Spring 2010

Though I am currently between gigs (a.k.a., a recession victim, an unemployed writer/teacher) there is a question that continues to place ahead of "What do you do?" on my dread meter: "Where are you from?"  I've lived in the Washington, DC area for decades, but like most people there, I consider myself from somewhere else, though in my case I'm not exactly sure where that is.  I always give the convoluted truth:  "I don't really have a home town; you see, I was a Navy brat, so I lived all over the country, but my parents were from Massachusetts originally, and I was born there, so I guess I'm a New Englander…..”  I imagine many have regretted asking the question, since it's a bit like asking "How are you?" and getting, "Actually, funny you ask, I've had this pain in my knee for about a week….."  Perhaps long ago I should have practiced the equivalent of "Fine, and you?":  "Home?  The U.S. Navy."

I have always envied people from "normal families" who can name a single town, a single house on a single street, where they grew up, like the families I saw on TV while I was growing up.  The Andersons and the Cleavers and the Nelsons and the Ricardos didn't move every year!   By the time I left for college I could recall living in 13 different houses and attending 12 different schools.  Seventh grade was the worst:  September and October in Rhode Island; November until February in Seattle (it rained every one of those days); March through June in San Diego.  Anyone who has lived through seventh grade with eyeglasses, freckles and frizzy hair knows how hard that was.  

Of necessity, our moveable home remained spare on "stuff," so once something had outgrown its daily usefulness, it disappeared (charity or the dump, I guess); this applied to furniture, toys and clothing; everything was disposable.  Our home was noticeably lacking in the kinds of things I saw in non-military homes, like collections of stuffed animals, or books or Hummels, or things to hang on walls.  As we moved around the country to a series of seaside Navy bases, some prettier than others, I learned from an early age not to become too attached to a house or a school or a friend (my circle of permanent friends were my brothers and sister).  I don't remember complaining about the impermanence of military family life.  Though inconvenient, it seemed okay because it was the only life I knew.

I did become quite accustomed to being close enough to the ocean to smell the salt.  Many years later, I visited Chicago and casually mentioned that being away from the water made me feel claustrophobic and landlocked.  A Chicago friend became testy, pointing to the prized blue-green enormity of Lake Michigan, "But you ARE near water!"  I smiled apologetically, while thinking, "It's just not the same!"

While I was growing up, my father was stationed in Newport, Rhode Island five different times, for a total of about ten years.  In the 1960's and 70's, Newport was home to a fleet of ships and the town was crowded with transient Navy families, renters of small bungalows and ramblers in modest neighborhoods; their children like flocks of geese flying into and out of the public schools every year.  What was left of Newport's aging Gilded Age wealthy seemed to hide behind their high Bellevue Avenue hedges, rarely sharing space with Navy people.  Dad's longest stint was an unheard-of three-year span covering my time in high school, but in the middle of my senior year, he received orders to the Pentagon in Washington, DC.  To spare me the agony of changing schools again, my parents let me stay with family friends and graduate with my class.  When it came time to choose where to attend college, I convinced my parents to allow me to pass up a scholarship from a more prestigious college in Boston and attend the University of Rhode Island instead.  At the time it seemed to be a decision based on teenage rebellion, now it strikes me as an attempt to secure my roots in what had become the closest thing I had to a real home.

Ironically, as I settled into my dorm at URI, I was once again the "new kid," surrounded by cliques who moved to college together from high schools in Rhode Island towns like East Providence and Cumberland and Cranston. Many of them had never been outside the state; most had never gone further west than New York City.  I was different and I didn't quite fit in, having traveled by car and camper across the country twice. I had been to Niagara Falls and Boot Hill, Toledo and Omaha and Albuquerque and Portland; I had traveled through Snoqualmie Pass in a snowstorm, swum in the Pacific, seen Mount Rainier from the Space Needle and rode up and down the hills of San Francisco in a red cable car.  I hadn't realized that these experiences were unusual.

After college I settled into an entry-level job and a crummy apartment in East Greenwich, but my Rhode Islander roommate and I soon decided we weren't going to stay.  Perhaps life as moveable feast had settled in my bones.  Like the script of some corny movie, we were going to save some money, pack up her Volkswagen and drive across country, chasing a new life in California.  We dreamed of waitress jobs in Hollywood, visits to Disneyland, learning to surf, California guys with sun bleached hair .  But our plans fizzled when a great job and a boyfriend came into her life.  Not long after, a very special guy entered my life, too -- someone who had lived in the same town, on the same street, attending the same schools all his life.  On a bright September day, with ocean winds sending my hair and veil flying, I got married at the foot of the massively graceful Newport Bridge (now the Pell Bridge) in the Chapel by the Sea on the Naval Base.  We talked of our future in terms of buying an affordable little house and raising an army of Rhode Island kids.

But my personal tug of war between pack-up-and-go and "stay-put-edness" continued.  Shortly after we married, my new spouse's lifelong fascination with politics and the Potomac led to his being offered a job in Washington.  No problemo!  It was easy for me to pack up and leave Rhode Island; I'd done it many times. A true Rhode Island girl might have persuaded him to pass it up and stick to the plan -- that wasn't me.   This was a job opportunity of a lifetime, and being young, adventurous, childless and broke, we decided to try it.  For one year.  Then we'd return to the Rhode Island life we'd planned. 

Thirty years and four grown kids later, we are still in Washington.  This is no surprise to many who have come to DC from other places who, years later, find themselves totally dug in.  Over the years, we have done a lot of traveling -- all over the world, but every summer we have visited Rhode Island to savor in a few days a year's worth of the local seafood, salt air and sunshine. Our DC friends would ask us why we would pack four kids and a dog into the minivan for a nine-hour drive up to Rhode Island every year, when there were great beaches only three hours away in the Delmarva.  Our answer:  because we wanted our kids to feel a New England connection, we had a ramshackle cottage on a small island, and because -- pssstt! 400 miles of Ocean State shoreline is the best-kept secret in the Union.  For our kids, just as we hoped, New England stuck.  They are as devoted fans of fish-and-chips and the Boston Red Sox as any kids who grew up in Providence or on Cape Cod.  

This spring, after enduring a record-setting brutal winter and dealing with several pressing family issues that were driving me crazy, a friend advised me to "get out of town for few days; you need it."  At first, I resisted the idea of going off by myself, but my husband pushed me to consider all the places where I could go.  There were many options; familiar places, fun places, places where frequent flyer miles and vacation club points would make it an inexpensive trip.   Finally, he said, "Go to Rhode Island.  It's home."  

Home? Really? My husband's home, surely, but home for me?  What about that whole homeless Navy-brat thing?

So, during the first weekend in May, I found myself happily looking out an airplane window as we glided over Narragansett Bay on a clear, unseasonably warm day and I got a first look at those familiar and beloved islands and beaches and bridges.  As I drove my rental car high across the Pell Bridge into Newport, the sky was so clear I swear I saw Boston and the Cape in the distance; I know I smelled the salt.  The bay sparkled and so did I.  Over the next four days, memories washed over me as I visited familiar places from my past.  I took walks on the deserted beach and put my toes in the icy surf.  One foggy morning I drove out to Ocean Drive, where as a kid we'd join dozens of Navy families to watch and wave at the ships taking our dads out to sea.  I sat on a sea wall and listened to the breakers crash on the rocks, remembering those gray behemoths gliding down the channel and my dad, the captain, signal flashing "1-4-3" ("I love you") before they passed out of sight.  With a high school friend, I savored chowder and clam cakes at Quito's on the dock in Bristol; had dinner and too much wine at Ristorante Pizzico on Providence's East Side with a dear old friend; and I made sure to get a coffee-flavored Awful-Awful milkshake at the Newport Creamery.  When it was time to return to Washington, refreshed, I was wishing fervently that I could stay.  

Why is Rhode Island home?  The comfort of nostalgia gave me my answer.

Because home is where you first heard the Beatles. Home is where you fell off a swing set and broke your arm; where in winter you could go sledding down the perfect hill on the golf course.  Home is where you got the braces off your teeth.  Home is where a boy first broke your heart. Home is where your dad taught you to drive, you got your license, and within days you hit your neighbor's mailbox. Home is where you drank your first beer.  Home is where you lost your virginity. Home is where you can still giggle with girlfriends from high school.  Home is where you go for your high school reunion and you know everyone there, and sadly, learn that several classmates died young.  Home is where you had your first job, at Dunkin Donuts, where you learned how to make change quickly and experienced the secret joy of eating a hot honey-dipped donut before it cooled and was put out for the customers.  Home is where the brilliant future father of your children first made you laugh, where his Rhode Island family immediately welcomed you as a daughter.  Home is where you see the Prudence Island ferry leaving the dock in Bristol, and wish you were on it.  Home is where, someday, your headstone will be planted.

Yes, I have finally dispelled that little bit of dread when people ask me, "Where are you from?"  I wasn't born there and I have reached middle age having lived more years out of the state than in it, but the answer is Rhode Island.  It took me far too long to see it. 

(Originally published in militarybratlife.com which apparently no longer exists.)

A HOUSE DIVIDED



For those who are on the right politically, President Obama cannot do anything that isn't met with disdain, or worse.  Last night's State of the Union speech is no exception to their knee-jerk negative reaction and excuse to vent their hatred.

After watching the speech, I thought it was one of the better SOTUs, because it was a truthful swan song for a much maligned man who has led this country at a very difficult time. It must pain him to have been unable to realize the promise he made coming into office to unite us politically. He has made mistakes -- plenty of them -- but has not deserved the hatred and obstruction that he has endured.

I am actually feeling sad -- is my country so divided that we actually exist in alternate realities? If you compare SOTU reviews on Fox vs. NBC you would think they saw a different speech. Over the last two decades, the "HowardSterning" of public discourse has made it increasingly permissible to be rude, disrespectful, hateful, even to the point of promoting revolution. Donald Trump is the result. The disinformation media on the extreme right has been undermining and eroding the security of a united America for a generation; I believe if it continues, it could lead to another civil war sometime in the future. This time, given modern technology, a permanently dis-united nation could result. It is still true that a house divided against itself cannot stand.

There. I've shared my biggest fear, and I hope it is unfounded. I still need to believe that the majority of people in this country fall into the reasonable middle politically (the bell curve), respect the office and listen with open minds even if they disagree. We who exist in that middle of the bell curve must be vigilant that the bell doesn't flatten in the middle and allow the extremes to rise further.

PSYCHOLOGY 101:  HOW IT FEELS TO BE PINK-SLIPPED

You plan your life, the future is clear

You sleep at night, though danger is near

And you’re clueless.

You are you work, your labor is you

You would almost pay them to do what you do

And they don’t know it.

You work hard, you love your job

Then out of the blue, a rock is lobbed

At your head.

 You feel like a fish thrown on the dock

Everything seems to stop; even the clock

On the wall.

You try to believe it wasn’t you

They say there’s nothing else they could do

It’s you or the company.

You want to throw up; you can’t; you’re at work

You feel like an idiot, you feel like a jerk

Though you know that’s not true.

You are loyal, you have to believe what they say

But not long after you go away

Your work is done by another.

You find a new place, do what you do

It’s not the same, but it will do

For now.

That is not the end of the tale; for

You always wonder did you actually fail

And they were right?

 

Time passes, you try not to care, but

Questions abound. That rock left a scar

On your head.

IT TAKES A VILLAGE.....

(an excerpt from

"Swimming Lessons:  a mother's tale of navigating the mental illness tide")

It takes a Village

It is true that it takes a village to raise a child.  This is not some hippie socialist idea about communes, state daycare, and sister wives.  It doesn’t have to mean we are responsible for other people’s children, nor is it a license to stick one’s nose into other families’ business, but it does mean that our community does affect how a child develops.  As stated earlier, parents have limited control over how their child becomes himself, in part this is due to the pervasiveness of outside influences.  Teachers, babysitters, coaches, clergy, peers, other parents -- all carry some weight that affect a child’s growth.

Parenting classes, teacher training, and school health curricula should include the latest information from the mental health field, and the actions that can be taken.  Even children on the playground could benefit from age-appropriate knowledge.  Middle school is not too early to understand what “if you see something, say something” could mean in this context.  A program about mental health could be useful and help sidetrack the tendency to bully or tease another student who seems different.

We all should have some knowledge about early signs of emotional disturbance, so that efforts at intervention can be supported.  We all should keep up with the research into new and better treatments for the youngest of our mentally ill.  This must happen before these children’s illnesses worsen due to their experiences of becoming outcasts and the targets of bullies.  The behaviors of a child who is viewed as “odd” can start an ever-growing and deepening reaction on the part of peers, teachers or family members that lead to the child reacting in even more odd ways, and warping his ability to grow up in a healthy way.  If the “village” has some understanding about this and engages in positive approaches, a child who is perceived as “different” has a better chance of embracing instead of running from his uniqueness.

OBAMA IS NOT TAKING AWAY YOUR GUN!


The paranoia of gun owners once again is blinding them to the common ground we all stand on:  the need in this country for some kind of action or measure that will prevent firearms from falling into the wrong hands.  "Wrong hands" is defined as criminals, terrorists and mentally ill individuals.  

President Obama made an appearance yesterday at the White House, surrounded by family members of those who were in the wrong place at the wrong time when guns were in the hands of the wrong people. Those who would denigrate the President's tears at yesterday's event have reached a new low. If one watched the entire speech, they would know that he was making a reasonable point about the preserving 2nd Amendment rights vs. the freedoms (speech, assembly, religion, life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness) denied victims of gun violence, and he began to touch on the very long list of tragedies. When he came to Newtown, he lost his composure -- who wouldn't?  To use that moment to criticize his sensible proposals on firearm safety is unconscionable. 

I am less scared of being shot in a movie theater by a schizophrenic off his meds than I am of the fact that gun sales are rising along with the paranoia of 2nd amendment fanatics, the so called "law abiding gun owners".  Reasonable interpretations of the 2nd amendment indicate that it never meant for every American to have an arsenal at their fingertips.  Having said that, reasonable people should agree on supporting the President, and through our representatives in Congress, any measures that would at least chip away at the number of guns and gun deaths that are proliferating in this nation.

I’M A STAY-AT-HOME MOM, AT AGE 62

Er….no I am not the lady who had fertility treatments and gave birth at 62.  That woman was nuts.  I am, however, a little bit nuts anyway because my granddaughter (who I will call ‘Skye’), age 3, lives with me and my husband.  I am a writer, a teacher, and now a stay-at-home-mom.  This was not in the master plan for my life.  How did this happen? 

Did I mention that I love this child more than life?

I raised four children quite well in my 30’s and 40’s.  Three boys, followed by a girl.  Raising four was mostly easy and fun, but I won’t lie:  there were tough days, like the time one vomited all over the table at a restaurant, or trips to the ER for broken bones or stitches, usually to the head, or the time I was down with pneumonia and still had to drive the carpool, or the time I couldn’t go to a friend's wedding because I couldn’t find a sitter, or the time I quit a job I loved because the balancing act between home and work was killing me.  Then there were the teen years. 

My boys all went a little bit wild from puberty through the teens to finally becoming human.  One went well beyond “a little wild.”  But the girl.  Well, there is a problem with a girl going “a little bit wild”.  Girls can get pregnant.  When I knew my daughter Katherine, who has emotional illness and learning issues, was living recklessly in her late teens, I made sure she was on birth control, and warned her:  “Do NOT get pregnant.  I won’t help. I won’t raise your child.”   I stupidly had a vague hope that being tough like that would deter her from ever taking a chance on unprotected sex.  I was serious about having no intention of starting over again with a baby in middle age.  That vomiting, ER visits, taking-no-days-off part of my life was over.  Over.

Well, she did it anyway.  Got pregnant by someone she was no longer seeing.  Abortion was out of the question; for her on principle, for me, because she was already in her fourth month. We dragged her to see an adoption attorney, but she insisted she would not give up her baby.  We hoped that would change.  In the meantime, she met a new young man who said he loved her and wanted to marry her, even though he knew the baby wasn’t his biologically.  They eloped.  We breathed a sigh of relief because it seemed they might be able to forge some kind of normal family life.  The baby would have a name and two parents.  We provided what they needed to get started; an apartment, some secondhand furniture, an old car.  He had a job, he was calm, he was strong, he seemed devoted to her.  They talked about baby names.  He seemed ready to be a father.

Just before the baby came my daughter began to complain to me that she wanted out of the marriage.   He was with her in the delivery room, and took to parenting the newborn like a natural.  My daughter, on the other hand, developed a severe case of post-partum insanity.  She was irritable, unreasonable, and unable to consistently care for the baby.   Within weeks she left her husband and baby behind and took off with an old boyfriend from high school.  She disappeared for several months, while her husband and the baby moved in with us.  We went to court to legalize Skye’s shared custody between him and us.  As the months went by, he began to spend more time away from our home than in it, sometimes returning to his parents house, where his mother began caring for the baby more than he did.  He was attentive and loving when with his daughter, but wasn’t around all that much, leaving the area for months at a time over the next two years, while the grandparents (we, and his parents) took turns caring for Skye.  She spent increasing amounts of time with us, to the point where by the time she was 18 months old, she was like our own child.  With seeming no other options, we began to think of adopting her officially, so she would have a permanent home and permanent caregivers. Parenting in our 60’s was daunting, and worry about how long we could actually do this was scary, but what alternative did this little girl have?  No mother around, and an itinerant father.  Did I mention we were madly in love with this adorable child?

Every day that she is with us, Skye is more like our own child. Sometimes in her presence I forget to refer to myself as “Nana” and say “Mommy” instead.  I have to catch myself.  She makes me laugh. She looks like our family, and could be a sibling when you look at pictures of our children at the same age.  She is smart, charming, funny, independent, flexible and beautiful, with a head full of curls and the longest lashes in the world.

What kind of parent am I now, compared to my first go-round?  Some observations about how things are different:

How I admire my younger self, who traveled this road so easily with four kids, and now I find just one child exhausting.

I know I can’t balance a job and a child, so I am a teacher who has stopped looking for a new teaching position.  I miss work outside the home.

I’m now obsessive about germs and common illnesses; so much more conscientious about handwashing and general hygiene in the family. 

Since becoming a stay-at-home mom again, I have developed health issues:  I’ve gained 15 pounds, and my cholesterol, blood pressure and glucose levels are all up.

I’m less worried that everything may permanently damage the child.  Ice cream for dinner?  Okay!  Watching “Frozen” for the 60^th time?  Okay!

I’m less concerned about whether she will eat vegetables.  I take my time responding to boo-boos and fevers.

Her speed at developmental benchmarks, like weaning, crawling, walking, potty training don’t preoccupy me;  Skye has done these things when she decided to.

I’m not afraid to tell her “No.”.  Time-outs are rare, but so much easier to enforce.

Time moves slowly now; it isn’t the same busy, rushed life when I was raising my kids.  Much of the time, it’s just her and me, and we have the time now to read a book together, or sit on the floor and play with blocks.  Skye and I have moments to just be.

At 62, parenting skills come back easily, even stronger.  However, there is one big, sobering difference between being a young parent and being an older one:  At 32 life seems to stand endless in front of you; you know that your children will grow up and eventually be adults, but that time seems a million years away.  I have seen my own four children grow to their late twenties and thirties; sadly, I have already buried one of my children.  At my age I understand the fragility and brevity of life; and I know that time doesn’t stretch out ahead forever.  When Skye is a teenager I will be in my 70’s (GULP!).  I may not be around to see her reach age 30.  This is a perspective that can only come with maturity.

In the meantime, she keeps me and my husband active and not preoccupied with retirement planning. We do the same things with her we did with our own kids: Disney movies and playgrounds, shopping and beach vacations, playing with our dog and reading books.  We are reliving our youth in these ways, experiencing joys that normal “occasional” grandparents never will.  Sometimes she makes me feel 32 again.

I love the saying, “Life is what happens when you are making other plans.” because it is so very true, at least for me.  Parenting Skye was not my plan; in fact I did everything I could to avoid being exactly where I am. I have to believe there is a power greater than myself for whom this IS the plan, and I am the beneficiary.  Perhaps there is meaning in having lost a son at the same time I have gained a new little daughter.  I have to focus on each day, to appreciate each and every happy moment with this little girl, and not allow worry about what lies ahead diminish the joy of today.

(Note:  some of this is excerpted from my (as yet unpublished) memoir “Swimming: A mothers tale of navigating the mental illness tide”

Blog:  Truthaccordingtomary.blogspot.com

Twitter:  @marymckay3