SPOILER ALERT:  ESTIMATE TIME OF “ARRIVAL”

If you haven’t seen it; you should.  Read no further, as I am about to reveal points that are so thought-provoking I am provoked and must share my thoughts.

Yes, as you have undoubtedly heard, it is an alien movie.  They have arrived.  They are not cute little gremlins nor naked childlike creatures.  In fact, they are hideous.  They are huge monsters.  They communicate with sprays of indecipherable round inkblots.

And you will come to love them.  This is a unique hybrid of “Close Encounters,” “Signs” and “Back to the Future.”  Think about that for a moment. 

The plot you can easily follow is the world’s reaction to an invasion by spaceships full of these creatures.  Countries determine on their own, without sharing information, how to interpret this invasion, and what to do about it.  Some bring the world to the brink of war.

There is no big action in this movie.  It is quiet, profound; soon you realize this is less about aliens and more about humanity and love.  And time.  The aliens have a relationship with time that is as circular as their language.

Here is the spoiler part:  Amy Adams plays Louise, a linguist hired by the government to translate the alien’s communications.  Her understated performance blows your mind; her face expresses every thought and emotion, and much of her thoughts center on the daughter who has died.  Too many words would dilute and dissipate what you think you know about Louise until the very end of the movie.  Her character asks another “If you knew what your entire life would be beforehand, would you still go ahead with it?”  It is a question that haunts, long after the movie ends.

As a mother who has buried a child, my mind is boggled considering this question while watching this amazing film.  Thought provoking doesn’t adequately describe the feeling.

Had I known the entirety of Brendan’s life beforehand, would it have been preferable that he was never born? 

As I think back at key moments in his life (as Louise does regarding her daughter) I remember the joys:  his amazing birth—almost in the car-- at 11 pounds; his blond curls during toddlerhood bouncing with his joyful exhuberance; his nicknames:  Piglet, Cubby Bear, Madball; his stoic courage as the doctor sewed up his four-year-old head after an accident at summer camp;  his seriousness in an interview in his tiger-scout uniform as he and the scoutmaster appeared on a local cable station; the loud SPLASH! that echoed in the church when he fell into the baptismal pool at his baby sister’s baptism; his bond with his Uncle Russell; his grandmother saying he was her favorite.  The spectacular winning championship little league game where the youngest boy on the team held the trophy in his catcher’s glove; his debut at age 5 as an actor in his big brother's play:  "Brendan, just stand there and say, 'I am Willow of the mountains.'"  

So many other sweet memories of a darling little boy, who could be quiet and mysterious, or defiant and boisterous, but always adorable.  Later, such strong pride we felt in his adult success -- academic honors, enormous numbers of friends, people who owed their lives to his help, his finding and loving a brilliant and beautiful young medical student; his unforgettable best-man speech at his brother's wedding.

But then, we endured terrible dark times.   The school failure by a child thought to be gifted; the tearful panic attacks; the sick stomach every time we traveled anywhere; stealing, vandalism, a car accident, time in juvie, addiction, the overdose, the rehabs. And finally, after he pulled himself up from the abyss and became successful in life, love, work and family, the tragic untimely death in a fall from a balcony far from home.

Would I go through all that again, and the continuing reverberating pain in my heart to enjoy his spirit, his place in our family?  Miss out on the love, the hugs, the pride?  Do without his charm, his brilliance?  The many moments of laughter?

Would I do it all again?

Spoiler alert:  to this, Louise says YES. 

My answer:  I'm sorry to say this -- I'm his mommy -- but truly, I do not know.

JESUS FREAKS AND DONALD TRUMP

When I was young, immature, and impressionable; searching for my place in the universe and wondering about the meaning of life, I joined a religious cult.  I became a “Jesus freak”.  This was in the early 1970’s when the word “freak” was a compliment – it referred to young hippie-types who not only dressed in bell bottoms and beads, but drifted happily through days of unreality, irresponsibility, and rebellion to their upbringing.  Usually funded by dad’s good job, because most of the freaks were middle and upper class kids who had been raised in comfort by a stay-at-home-mom and in their late teens realized the luxury of choosing to be hippies, to turn their backs on their backgrounds and goof off in college, or join communes in the country, raise their own vegetables and listen to a new kind of music.  Drugs were usually part of the picture, but not always.  Sometimes experimentation leaned toward non-drug experiences, such as religion, incense, meditation and other consciousness-altering pursuits. The belief that turning on one’s background was necessary for a larger purpose spread like a virus.  The anti-war movement had Vietnam and the draft to coalesce around and firm up this anti-establishment movement.

In college I drank too much, smoked cigarettes and pot, wore the same pair of hip-hugger jeans for days at a time and no makeup.  I never carried an anti-war sign – coming from a military family my dad had warned me on pain of death if I dared.  But I kinda liked calling myself a hippie. Then at some point I became a “Jesus freak,” but luckily for only a short time. 

Now to my point.  The important word here is “short”.  Why does that matter?  Because in retrospect I can expertly speak to how easily and quickly a person can become a firm believer in something, even when it is in opposition to everything one was taught or believed previously.  Using the words “Trump” and “brainwashing” is offensive; many will stop reading right here, but there is no other appropriate word.  I could use the lesser known term “Stockholm Syndrome” which applies to what happens when a person is kidnapped, isolated from his own world, comes to rely on captors for sustenance and safety, and eventually accepts the positions, beliefs and actions of one’s captors.  At any rate, this is what happened to me when I joined them, and I see parallels with Donald Trump today.

This is how they got me:  First, I was vulnerable; having just been dumped by a boyfriend.  Then, I was “friended” by a charismatic girl who carried a worn paperback King James Bible around all the time, and made notes and underlined passages and shared advice from it constantly.  Her joy was infectious.  I wanted to feel that joy, and my Catholic upbringing had never supplied such happiness.  I wanted to belong somewhere, be accepted somewhere, be loved somewhere, as she seemed to be.  She invited me to a meeting.  The meeting took place at a ministry group home and was so full of people who were loving, understanding, and accepting I was immediately seduced, as all the young people in that place had been before me.  They all had stories like mine – depression, too much unhealthy pursuits, not loved enough by anyone.  I learned that there was a national leader in another state who had started this church, and God had seen to it that this holy refuge had grown exponentially in only a few years on college campuses all across the country.

It was quick, insidious, this seduction.  It wasn’t until I had attended four or five meetings in a row that they told me I must begin to “spread the Word”, cut off all “nonbeliever” friendships and family and devote myself to God and The Word. Any doubts I expressed were smoothly explained away:  “Don’t listen.  Satan knows you have found the Way, and he will do whatever it takes to get you away from us.  Don’t listen.”  I saw signs in my daily life that seemed to prove this; everything began to appear in a God vs. Satan battle, from difficulty getting to a meeting (“Satan doesn’t want you here!”) , to “God help me get a parking spot close to the store.  Hey thanks!”  As I sank deeper and deeper, with their constant influence over each and ever day, I took my newfound religion home and attempted to convert my family.  Of course they didn’t take me seriously, and that drove me further toward the ministry group.  I chose them over my family, and broke financial ties.  I took out a loan to finish my education.  I had found my new path.

So here is where Trump is becoming leader of a cult.  His appeal originated with charm, charisma and celebrity, his tell-it-like-it-is rudeness.  He made us chuckle and say “attaboy!”.  It snowballed into something no one could stop.  He made it okay to be outspokenly vulgar and mean, and that permission spread like a virus.  Now he is in the most powerful position in the world, and he is attempting to squash the free press, to say “don’t listen to them, that isn’t true.  The only truth is what I say” – and half of what he says is provably, obviously, false.  This is dangerous.  His disturbed view of the world is permeating and solidifying his supporters, to the point where they will only get their information and beliefs from his mouth and his tweets. The rest of us are like my parents were when I tried to convince them they were Satan trying to keep me from God:  they must have been horrified, asking themselves, how do we stop this?

In my story, it was stopped by what I believe was an act of God.  I was living in off-campus housing after divorcing from my parents and suddenly, one morning, my house burned down.  My roommates and my cat survived, but now I had no place to live, no clothes, no school supplies, no coat for the winter.  The ministry insisted that this was clearly the work of Satan, and that I must immediately move into their group house, to be with them and be safe.  What a dilemma!  My parents said, “Come home.”  I chose home.

 That decision took me away from the constant brainwashing of the Bible group, and within weeks, I was myself again, back in the real world.  They called me repeatedly, begging me to return, telling me Satan had me in his grip.  It scared me.  I wasn’t at all sure they were wrong.  Of course my parents welcomed me back, showed me love, replaced all my things, and eventually paid off my school loan.  I graduated, got a job, and settled into a normal kind of life, returning to Catholocism, which is still my church today.

Years later, the ministry went belly-up, the leader revealed to be a sexual abuser, and it all faded away.  I’ve often wondered about the thousands of kids who had been pulled into its influence.  Five years ago I reconnected with that friend who had brought me into the ministry.  She had left decades before as well, and returned to the church of her childhood.  We talked for hours about how stupid we were.  How mistaken.  We laughed about it, and thanked God we had escaped.

Will Americans feel the same way when the Trump era ends?

Man's Best Friend

Man’s Best Friend

I had a dream last night that we decided to get a dog.  A new dog.  We looked at each other and said, “Yes, we are ready.  Let’s go ahead and do it.” 

Here’s the problem:  last summer we had to watch the suffering and passing of another canine.  She was beloved; that kind, brilliant brindle half-lab-half-boxer Anastasia, who was originally (in 2002) our son Brendan’s rescue puppy.  Now Brendan and Anastasia are both gone, and the fresh grief of this is almost unbearable. 

When we fall in love with a dog, we know we will not have him forever; dog’s lives are short.  But that knowledge only reminds us that human lives are short as well.  Philosophical types may say that is good for us; to be reminded of that fact which we all try not to think about most of the time.  “Oh, very young, what will you leave us this time?  You’re only dancing on this earth for a short while.” (to lift poetry from Cat Stevens, now a Muslim with a different name).  Yes, I prefer to not think on this as well, especially since my son died just after his 30^th birthday….so very young.  Can I possibly live through the short life of another dog? 

My heart is not that strong, and here is how I know:  In my dream, we got a big fluffy golden retriever.  And then that animal began to suffer, dying.  The pain was fresh.  I awakened before the end.

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It's Celebrity Worship.  That explains it.

It has taken me a year of slapping my forehead, trying to understand why Donald Trump could possibly be getting so much attention, so much adulation, so many votes by such a wide variety of average Americans.  Finally, I figured it out.   An acquaintance told me that Hillary thought having Beyonce and other celebrities appearing with her would help, and all it did was disgust him (a Trump voter).  Suddenly I knew.  Why didn't I think of it before?

Knowing that name recognition is the first rule of running for office; knowing that Oprah has often been mentioned as somehow who could run for office; knowing that Jesse Ventura was once elected a governor, Trump was bound to happen.  Those of us who are appalled should have seen it coming.
Celebrities are worshipped.

Millions of people leading ordinary, boring lives want to be friends with a celebrity.  Millions wants to be one.  And apparently, millions wanted one in the White House.  Why?  Because he was entertaining.  Because he was hilarious.  Because he was vulgar, like many of us.  Because, well, he was on TV.

Appalling.

John Glenn

Sad to lose this American hero, though he had a long and so accomplished life.  Personal memories:  Attending the New Jersey Democratic State Convention in Atlantic City in September 1983, meeting and straw-polling for Candidate John Glenn for the 1984 nomination.  One of the highlights of my life. 

And of course, since everything is all about me, I left NJ and had to fly directly to Houston, where my mother was undergoing emergency heart surgery.  When I returned to NJ, appreciation for family meant so much I was ready to expand ours.  Nine months later I was waddling door to door campaigning for Gary Hart, about to deliver the biggest baby that was ever born.....

HIGH SCHOOL REUNION


Why does Donald Trump remind me of a high school reunion?

A high school reunion is a metaphor for life.  The rat race.  It represents the "before" and "after" pictures in a makeover commercial.  Of course, mostly the ones who go to reunions are the ones with a good "after" story, because the ones who take the risk and go without a good "after" are the ones people talk about for years after.  "What a loser!"  "Did you see how fat she got?" "I think that was a toupe."

So that brings me to our (gulp) President elect.  

He's like the guy that can't wait to go to is 20th reunion to show off.  He's the guy who in high school had acne; he was scrawny and no good at sports.  Never got a girl to say yes to sitting with him at lunch.  So he goes to the reunion expecting to blow their minds with his clear skin, toned body with the fake tan, laser corrected vision, expensive suit, hot date with the huge fake boobs, and the Porsche.  When he leaves the reunion he can't shake the sadness, the anger.  Because the classmates he wanted to impress are now still talking about him.  "He's still obnoxious!"  "See that Porsche he bragged about?  Purple! What a loser!" "Those boobs are fake."  "Bet she's never read a book."  "Read a book?  Bet she can't spell 'book'"!....

Trump can't get the respect he wants, no matter how many times he brags about his money.  His women.  His numbers of red hats at rallies.  His votes.  He has never been able to be accepted by the "elites" he wants so desperately to impress, and he never will.  Because underneath the loaded wallet in his back pocket is, you guessed it, an ass.

That makes him so mad it makes him, well, mad.  And his madness is spreading to some very dangerous elements.  All the rest of us can do it pray that his madness doesn't destroy our country.

I was introducing my 7th graders to the idea of writing a persuasive essay.  I gave them a graphic organizer to help them plan.  We brainstormed and they wrote on the board ideas for topics.  I tried to keep them from going down the election, abortion, racism highway (yes, even in 7th grade!) and encouraged them to pick a silly topic, like.....off the top of my head I said, "We should paint all school parking lots pink!"  They guffawed and demanded, could I possibly write a persuasive essay on such a silly topic?  I said, "Ok, challenge accepted. I will write one this weekend."

  And here it is.  I will read it to my class on Monday morning!

PERSUASIVE ESSAY

By Mary McKay

            Pink?  Hot pink?  Yes!  Every school parking lot in the United States should be painted a bright hot pink. There are good reasons for this, and here are just a few:

            As a teacher, I believe that bright colors, especially hot pink, stimulate the brain to accept new information and apply it to new situations and knowledge, sort of like sticking something to Velcro.  I have seen with my own eyes how bright colors in the classroom can do this. It seems logical to have a bright color under the car, bus and feet of students as they enter the school building.

            Dr. McStuffins of Disney University has done extensive research into the effects of colors on drivers and students.  Her findings prove that this is a very good idea and she recommends that it should be made law.  And as we know, Disney has the answer to everything.

            In addition, we can see by the popularity of Kim Kardashian, Lady Gaga, Donald Trump and other colorful characters that outrageous, bright, eye-catching statements and colors are appealing to a wide swath of Americans, especially, school age Americans.  I personally, have gotten a recent manicure of hot pink fingernails and I can tell you, it has made me feel so much better about life.

            And so, in conclusion, there is scientific evidence as well as cultural and celebrity  reasons that support my recommendation, no demand, that to improve our world and to help students learn, every school parking lot should be painted immediately.  If there is any question about what shade, I recommend you look for something like Revlon Top Speed Fast Dry Pink Lava #520.