I Need a Goddess

I Need a Goddess.

Or something like that.

There are times (today) when I’m in the valley.
Alone. I want to look up and feel watched over.
I want to look around and feel the love.

Instead, I feel like I’ve had a triple shot caramel macchiato with extra sugar.
Shakey, jittery, anxious.

This is not my happy place. Where is God? Where is He?

OK, so maybe I could look for Him in church.
But I don’t really feel right with the formal expression of Christianity in church.

I know the story. And I know the trinity. Father, Son, Holy Spirit.

Male, male, male.

Does God, creator of life and universe, scorn women?
Women who, like He, create life?

According to the first book in the Bible (the creation fable on which many gender “truths” in Western Civilization teeter) God created man first.

In his image.
Gave him power, words.

Then when man got bored (horny?) God pulled a rib out and created woman.
It is she, the first woman, who disobeyed God AND convinced the first man to join her.
Wasn’t she created in God’s image?
Or was Eve (and all women -) burdened with a nature unlike God’s?
Anyway, in our creation fable, pretty much everything was paradise until a woman came along and messed it up.
Then God got mad, put humanity in a big TIME OUT, flooded the earth, and cursed women to suffer the pains of childbirth.

Other creation fables include humans evolving from corn. And spiders.I kinda like that better.

But anyway, after putting humanity in a huge “time out” God decided to redeem humanity for all time.
To do this (as the story goes) He chose this poor young, simple, virgin girl, made her pregnant without even a kiss, broke her heart, and became the most famous absent father in history.

If I understand the story right, God got Mary (who, by the way, was born “without sin”) pregnant as part of a cosmic struggle between good and evil.
She submitted to His will. And suffered.

This is not an inspiring, empowering message.

It makes me think that God likes simple kind and pure people BEST.

The subservient mother-wife who washes her husband’s feet in a pan of warm water every evening, then dries them with her hair right before serving the entire well-groomed and impeccably mannered family a three-course vegan meal while wearing size 0 jeans and funky stilettos.

This doesn't help me today, when I need a strong hand to pull me up, when I need unconditional love and acceptance.
I need Our Lady of Guadalupe, Pancha Mama, Santa Barbara.

A woman-diety who can get things done. Who doesn't hold grudges or blame.

She is plumper than me, softer, more nurturing, and definitely wiser. Her voice has a bit of an accent I can't place.

Oh, and it would help if this Goddess didn't gamble, because I think that's where God started to go wrong. Gambling with Lucifer for redeeming mankind. A woman would never do that. She would've convinced Lucifer to give her what she wanted, and made him happy to do it.
If God created me (and I still think God did ~), is a coincidence that he didn’t make me simple, pure, submissive?
He gave me other talents and qualities, ones that aren’t celebrated in the Bible.

Does God even LIKE smart women?
Probably.

We make him laugh. Maybe if I jump around and wave for awhile, He'll show up.

I'll let you know if my rosebushes start burning.

Belated Birthday = OK!

There's no good reason for me to wish for a single present. I have all that I've ever wanted and even a bit more.

A job I love, a home I love, an iPod filled with music, friends to laugh with, and a happy healthy family (did I write that in the wrong order? ask me later).

Well, I know some of you might feel guilty for not giving me a birthday present. Or a Christmas Present.


Now, Christmas? Just one thing. Encouragement.

All year I do my best to push and shove other people toward their goals, but sometimes I get a little stalled, maybe a tiny bit distracted.

Then I stop reworking my novel, kinda let it go, and feel more guilt than creativity.

No gift certificates for pedicures, no silky red tops, no to-die-for-Bobbi Brown gift sets, none of that good stuff.

I Have a Wild Friend

I have a wild friend.

Her first husband was a gun runner. In South America, of course.

Or maybe that was her boyfriend, maybe her husband was some sort of banker. I tend only listen carefully when she tells me the juicy stuff. The woman is a treasure trove of stories.

If we had grown up together I would've feared her. Imagine it's 1984 and we're both in high school. I would've hid my madonna-wannabe-self in my locker while she pranced by in the hallway, holding hands with the hottest guy in school. And then she would've been valedictorian, too. She would've beaten me to that prize, giving me an evil glare during the crucial final exam in calculus 2.

What a b*tch.

Since I have known her - and I know her well - she has been single.
Completely, completely, in the desert no hope for a man and not even wanting one any day soon single.

No one had caught her eye or her imagination.

Not an ex-boyfriend, not a surgeon on Gray's Anatomy, not that hot German Veterinarian that has captured so many women's attention in this small southern town.

Then today?

Oh, dear readers!!!

You should've seen her.

Wild eyed.
Bright.
Red cheeked.
Hair slightly ruffled, smile slightly crooked.

I dare say she is gearing up for a romp.

This should get very very interesting.

A Bit Distracted -

Dear Students from Today's classes (everyone else, don't read this, OK?),

I was distracted today during your final exams.

You know that I can't sit still for 2 hours without something to engage me, so I worked on a writing project. It went well, I think it's funny, and I had a fantastic time writing it.

Because I was working so hard on writing, I did not rsay goodbye to so many of you.

I didn't say thank you, that I had a fantastic semester, and that it was a pleasure & priveledge seeing how hard some of you were willing to push yourselves.

I'm sitting here at home in front of stacks of exams that are amazingly good and I am ridiculously sad that Iwon't get the pleasure of handing them back to you and continuing our stories together.

Oh, and I found that whole stack of portfolios - sorry for scaring the cr*p out of some of you.

Merry Happy Finals Week,
*M

Today We Became a Generation

(I just found what I wrote on 9/11/01)

Today we became a generation. Born during or after the Vietnam Conflict, a few of us might faintly remember a quick scuttle in Grenada, the swift action in the Persian Gulf, a drawn out presence in the Balkans, a paralyzing hostage crisis. Some of us, children of the 1960s and 1970s, remember the moment we heard about the Challenger, about Oklahoma City, about an attack on US embassies so far away.

Most of us kept a pragmatic distance, believing the history that was unfolding didn't really affect us.

Now we stand in collective shock.

A generation that fearlessly challenged patriotism and questioned nationalism suddenly feels less divided by race, economics, and football teams.

We were millions, each seeing our own version of what the United States was, is, and can be.

But not anyore. Today, September 11, 2001, we look to the country to unify. In a move that is entirely out of character for most of us, we might actually turn toward the government for an answer, for direction, for leadership.

Today, we watch television not to be entertained, but to see our world change. The world has a different texture now, and we collectively know that. For many of us, being an American means something fundamentally different after today. something we will have to begin to define at any minute.

Years from now my daughter will ask me where I was when I heard about "it." I can't tell you yet what history will call this event, but I already know my answer.

We were on the way home from your the pediatrician for your 9-month check up. You weighed 20 and one-quarter pounds; they pricked your finger, you cried. We sang the itsy-bitsy-spider song on the way tot he appointment, but after talking to your father on the way home, we were silent. You sensed something in the air. You were quiet. When we got home, you had cracker. For once, you didn't get mad when I sat in front of the computer.

Our parents remember the day Kennedy was shot; their parents remember Pearl Harbor. September 11 will become the day that we will remember, the day we called everyone we knew, the day our future became a little fuzzier, and the past seemed more confusing.

Today, we became a generation.

Potty Soldiers with Tails

I don't know when or why it started, but we definitely have a pattern in our house.

I make the lists, Chuck does the shopping AND takes a kid or two with him.

As much as I love shopping, I need quiet time.

Everyone wins.

So yesterday I made a very short list.
Three items, one of which I needed immediately.

After dinner Chuck & Zack went off to Publix, Zoe and I lolled around.

When the boys came back I was engrossed in a magazine.

Zack tried to hand me a box from the Publix bag, but I didn't want to get up.

"Honey, do you know where these go?"

"Yes. They go in the potty."

He marched away. I went back to my article.

"Mommy, the soldier's jackets come off!"

"Mmm? oh?" Back to reading.

Our house is full of naked Barbies, naked dolls, naked build-a-bears.

A naked soldier would be a welcome addition to the mix.

Maybe save Santa a few bucks...

I keep reading. Zoe's watching TV. Chuck's on the internet.

"Mommy? Why do the soldiers have tails?"

"Tails?"

"Yes. The Potty Soldiers have tails."

"The potty soldiers?"

"From the box. From Publix."

Now I get up. Because the box from Publix didn't have soldiers.

And on the coffee table, neatly lined up in straight lines were a bunch of tampon soldiers who had originally been intended to fight a different war. On a different front.

Tonight I'm going to the store by myself.

Climbing, Jumping, Diving

On Monday I was asked to fill out a survey.Among the questions was one asking us to quantify the relationship between the intrinsic and financial benefits we get from teaching.

I responded that 90% of what I get out of being a professor is intrinsic rewards.

Yes, I was in a very very good mood that day.
But even after a bumpy and -- god it's hard to write this word, but it's the right word - painful week, I would still answer the question the same way. Sure, I wish I was earning more money so I could just fix my car, get my kids a swingset, and have some money in savings.

But I never never think about leaving my hard-earned position in academia.

All I've ever wanted to be in my life is a professor and writer.

OK, when I was like six I wanted to be a cheerleader-nurse when I grew up.
I've recovered. Except for the skirts and pom-poms.

During that three year hiatus when I worked in South Florida doing anti-bias and leadership trainings, I utilized this really cool organizal-cohesion exercise where all the participants write down their response to a simple question: If you were part of a house (the structure, not the furniture!) what part would you be?

Many women answered that they would be the kitchen.
Hospitable, generous, but often overworked and a bit messy.

One person said she was the toilet.

Lots of people said they were the family room or entertainment room.

Me? I would be the stairs. Yes, the stairs.
They're an optional part of a house that chooses to have two stories, to grow tall.

I get great pleasure moving people up and along in their lives.
Some people run up and down stairs to get stronger.
Some students come to office hours to discuss real challenges, law school, juggling, bold futures.

I don't mind that at all.

Like stairs, I can sometimes seem inhospitable, a bit unforgiving, and narrow. That's fine.
There's only room for one or two people on the stairs at a time anyway.

Stairs, by the way, are not mean. There's always handrail to keep you from tripping and smashing your face.

Sometimes instead of envisioning myself as stairs, I think of myself as a diving board.

The springy bouncing ones, about 3m high.

Some students bravely walk to the edge, get their footing, take a deep breathe, and jump off. The diving board, if you've ever noticed, keeps bouncing after the diver takes off.

It's a bit of a celebration dance.

That's our secret, OK?

As the semester draws to a close, I wish all my students --current & past -- the very very best as they challenge and dare themselves to take risks, be excellent, take their educations to the next level!

Where History Ends

It's a cold and hazy December Sunday morning, and I'm in my office before dawn to work on lectures.

Yes, lectures.

See, I'm stuck. I've some stuff to learn. Mostly, I have to really deeply understand a chain of events that unfolded during my adulthood, much of which I followed.

I did! But I was distracted.

Weight Watchers switched from exchanges to points.

I fell in love or at least tripped over it a few times.

I got married.
Had a few kids.

Taught college at seven different places.

And every semester I've considered myself successful if I could get the class up to Jimmy Carter. 1980. Iran Hostage Crisis, Mariel Boatlift, electing Reagan.

And to be completely honest, I haven't felt guilty about it.

In 1992 while I was preparing for my Comprehensive Exams to finish my Master's Degree, a wise old (yes, old, he forgot to come to class, and thought typewriters were very modern) professor chastized me to remember that "everything after 1976 is just journalism."

As I work on connecting the stream of world events that has created the world we live in, I can't help but live in my own little world.

Yes, Melissa Land.

And Melissa Land has it's own history - real and fiction. I have at least 30 journals from 1986 to the present, and more than 50 notebooks of the first draft of a story that is becoming three novels.

I never never read my old journals.

I have some general notion of the pain, optimism, frustration and loneliness inside most of them, and maybe one day I'll be ready to sit down with who I was and laugh.

Today, just for the sake of this article, I forced myself to find the journal I was writing during 1990-1991. It was a blue, lined, leather journal that covered December 1990-January 1991, the end of my first semester of graduate school in Boulder Colorado.

The journal ended January 15, 1991, right before Desert Storm.

These are the last two entries in the journal, written the night I returned from home (Ft. Lauderdale) to my tiny little dorm room.

8:25am Central Time (somewhere over Gulf of Mexico) Flight 1387

There doesn't seem to be a war, yet.

I talked to Mike last night. He's right. I need to find something between indifference and "forever."

I'm still waiting for my coffee to kick in so that the scratchy feeling in my eyes will go away.
I think I'll pour coffee right into my eyes.

But if I do, my mind will wake up too much, and I'll be stuck with thoughts that lead me to question everything and give me no answers at all.

So it's January 15.

15 hours until the midnight deadline.

Three PLO officials have been assassinated in the past day, but Israel doesn't deny responsibility.

Being in Israel or Bagghdad is unfathomable.

War.

That means death, poisoning, pain, shortges, hate.

I can't imagine what it's like to be in Israel right now wondering if they will be attacked by Iraq today? Tomorrow?

And the war fervor here! Everyone is tuned into several newscasts.

Most of the pictures are of servicemen, we see their faces, it's like humanization of war.

Faces instead of planes in the sky.

People will die. Sons, daughters, brothers, parents, husbands, wives, friends.

Doesn't anyone GET IT?

Did I give George Bush permission to do this?

I'm worried about Kyle (who graduated from NROTC 12/90) - I don't know his ship. Or what he does.

But he'd better not die.



9:42pm (later that evening, in dorm room)

Here I am in bed exhausted.

I have my new computer but no clue on how to access files or anything and no desire to deal with it at all.... I'm on an emotional rollercoaster, and to top it all off I'm welcomed home with snow.

So much for wearing my new clothes, huh?

Right now it's 11:42pm Eastern time. Real time.

It's seventeen minutes until war?

It's already tomorrow in Iraq.

I feel really good ending this book with a new year, a new semester, a new beginnings, even if it doesn't include him.

I have nada mas to say.
-M