Hail, Summer!

On a day which has the most vivid readings in honor of Mary's Queenship, we are frying dandelions and awaiting dinner guests. I'm embracing a new season of motherhood --- one with children who are old enough for conversation,  projects and giggling over secret birthday gifts for their sister. It's like a gift, these girls with ease and independence where once squalling babies resided. As if I've been driving a battered Dodge Dart for years, who needed constant oil changes and anxious maintenance with unknown results --- now my tiring steed has morphed into some sleek new model with automatic windows and shiny paint. They can go to tea! We can paint, and plant flowers, and pluck eyebrows! (Don't ask.)

But the most gripping and beautiful part, which I rightly attribute to the clear teachings of the Catholic faith, is that I have more babies coming up behind them. ("I'd like to take this opportunity to thank you for the fresh supply of two-year-olds", my husband once toasted me during dinner.) I'm frank about my general discomfort with babies, and it will probably never change. It doesn't matter. My 34-year old self is essentially the same as my 26-year old self who greeted her newborn with unwarranted confidence and utter bliss. I fully expected to have two children, no more. I never considered full-time motherhood a choice that appealed to me. I had my own Visitation moment, great with child, as I confessed not wanting to deposit my baby anywhere but home once he or she arrived. My husband, quotable as ever (he never remembers these swoon-worthy moments) answered my fairly sheepish admission with characteristic verve. "That's what makes this nation great." His words surprised me, since I'd heard that sort of platitude about plenty of pursuits, but nothing so common and accessible as raising children.

I can savor my 12-month old son all the more because I can see around the corners. I know what precious milestones are coming. It also minimizes the angst over seeing the older ones grow, since their development aids the family. We bloom together. These children belong to God, who in His infinite wisdom has plopped them down with us. As long as they're entrusted to us, may the wind continue to change direction once in awhile and remind us of the joys surrounding us in the fullness of time. That our Lord and Creator sought a human mother for Himself never cesase to humble me.

My soul shall be filled as with a banquet. Indeed.

Check-in at Karluk Manor

This is Anchorage's newest community effort to help the folks who live, and often die, outside in our city. It's controversial on many fronts. I understand Seattle has a similar project which has a lot of success. Since I recently wrote about the struggle of urban Natives, it might be of interest to others who follow the topic. As Blessed Kateri is being formally canonized this year, and we can join our prayers with hers for real and lasting change in the lives of Alaskans.

Rise and Dream

Dances With Devastation: A Personal Reflection

The police dispatcher was waiting. I was stalling. Her question was simple. "Native," I answered after two or three beats, equally peeved at her for asking as I was at myself for balking at the descriptor. "Maybe in his early fifties, with long grey hair and a ballcap, wearing a backpack. He has a cane. He's teetering in the highway with a half-gallon vodka bottle and the cars are swerving around him."

Inupiat dancer

Driving home from an elegant celebration of Alaska Native culture, our minivan nearly intersected with a man who wasn't taking very good care of himself. "He needs to live indoors and take better care of himself," has long been my go-to simplification when answering my children about some of the Indians they see. As 'urban' Alaskans, my kids know the drumbeat as an ornamental attraction, and it will not likely represent much more to them. Even if we returned to the island of my childhood, the dances and regalia would be an occasional treat -- yet it'd be complemented by a life peppered with plenty of Native Alaskans sharing their daily pursuits and lifestyle. My early life in Petersburg, Alaska was infused by founders Tlingit, Filipino and Norwegian. I've been in the city for exactly ten years --- two or three of those years had passed before I grasped that the landscape of Anchorage contained a hostility to Natives which is foreign to me.

It was subsequent to this, and the birth of our first child that I vowed to seek as many healthy and beautiful examples of Native culture as possible for our kids. I want to foster layers of understanding about our state and her first people; I wasn't necessarily prepared for the emotions that would stir in myself.

My husband had an inverse perspective, coming from Southern California directly to an Interior village of under a thousand people in the mid-1990s. He took a service job where he was literally spit on by Native residents. Vulgarities and racial epithets were hissed at him while he worked for minimum wage. Forging ahead, his Alaskan adventure and American dream were nonplussed. He would later assert that "Natives in Southeast (where I grew up and where he eventually moved) are particularly civilized." I dismissed this commentary as my decidedly un-PC husband trying to roil his NPR-listening wife. How dare anyone describe a wide swath of humanity with such paternalistic kudos? The more he and I have travelled together, the more I see his candor on the topic as simply that. His formative years were spent in a vibrant ethnic tapestry, and he recognizes racial harmony on sight. By no means a social utopia, there is a certain lack of friction in Southeast Alaska, worthy of appreciation and study. His provocative description was probably intentional, but his frank apprisal has often been a gift to me.

A few years later, it was my husband who pointed out the innocence of a scene which I initially absorbed as shocking. Strolling with our daughters, we were caught off guard by a half dozen men bathing in our small neighborhood lake. They were splashing and laughing in the sunshine in their bright white cotton briefs. Soap and shampoo were scattered along the shore, and there were no signs of alcohol or inebriation. It was just some Native guys swimming in their underwear. My response was to quicken my step and shake my head, not quite sure whether to vocalize at all. Anthony recognized their ease in the natural world as an amusing inspiration. Except for the detergent raining into the duckpond, I guess it was hardly different than any group in swimsuits enjoying the sun.

Kids at Culture Camp

That same summer, we briefly met a young grad student who bought a dining table we had advertised on Craigslist. His chiseled Yup'ik features and wire-rimmed eyeglasses matched his understated politeness. He shared his relief over finding enough seats to accommodate an influx of family members visiting from Bush Alaska as he loaded the dining set. As the beefy pickup truck pulled out of our driveway, my husband beamed towards no one in particular, "He's gonna make it, you can just tell." That a lone person doing such an ordinary task was noteworthy, even exhilarating, and is still memorable gives a hint at its uniqueness. Living in Anchorage, we so rarely encounter Natives who are not in crisis.

As spectators to these rarities and my admittedly museum-style field trips on holidays, my children are otherwise growing up with only glossy, low-rise corporate real estate and street drunks as their imagery of modern Natives. I counter it where I can, and I maximize on their oblivion to racial stereotypes. They would not consciously draw the conclusion that most of the wandering alcoholics they see are Native, but it will take root over time. For now, I manipulate discussions to include race ("Your dad has Portuguese blood, mine is Scottish, Irish and German, Grandma Sue's is German, Grandpa Bob's blood is African and Chinese, your cousins' is Mexican," etc.) solely for the purpose of skewing the data their brains might otherwise absorb. I selectively mention some of their favorite adults as having "Indian blood." I habitually say 'their blood is...' rather than 'they are Irish/German/Black/Native," because I want to transmit that our earthly origins describe us, but they don't define us. (I'm not quite this persnickety in adult conversation --- I just want to imprint the literal truth where possible in my children.)

Loretta Marvin, a Petersburg elder
(and unnamed kiddo) both in traditional garb

I feel a pull to share this particular culture as being noble and strong. My defenses rise when people of any stripe condemn rural Alaskans who are floundering in the city. This must be what members of a race feel like when their compatriots are the troublesome immigrants of the moment: "I know my people to be different than you are all seeing." I'm sensitive to the call not to teach that Native ways are antiquated, yet I purposely refer to displays of art, habitats and subsistence as describing "old-fashioned Indians", to subtly re-assert to my children that Indian lineage is shared by people who live and strive just like we do. My casual tone belies the pride and admiration I feel towards my girlfriends --- teachers, nurses, businesswomen and activists, who are also devoted wives and mothers.

Too many of the men are drunk, dead or in jail. I don't have a pat approach to that one. My tears during Native cultural celebrations are for these gentle souls turned violent, predatory and self-destructive. On Mother's Day we again took in the powerful sounds and sights of Native traditions --- the playful, creative spark in the dancers' eyes was as familiar as my first teenage love, youthful partners in crime, and eventually the children in my charge as a tutor and counselor. Those connections have been lost; morphed into hometown graveyard visits in the rain, prison letters exchanged over years, and tender memories of human potential. These are not case studies to me.

I reject the term "privilege awareness" as little more than a polysyllabic version of White Guilt, but living as a visible ethnic minority and having my actions -- for better or worse -- chronicled as a token of my race are not burdens I bear. For this I do wrestle with guilt, however irrationally. My response is to consider my conscience pricked, and see my duty to any suffering soul as one of prayer and action. At times, both seem like a futile wimper compared to the endemic winds of pain which swallow generations.

Alaskan Native men and women continue to be tragically overrepresented in suicide and sexual assault statistics. Independent and harmonious lives in the villages are the exception. Stories like this are not. 

My classmates who have found peace and professional success didn't do it because they are Tlingit or Haida, nor in spite of it. They set goals and worked hard. Bloodline is not an achievement. Ancient tribal dances offer a most stirring, primal beauty, yet they are irrelevant to modern commerce and academia. No one is telling Irish American children that Celtic dance is paramount to their worth --- we're all just invited to enjoy a nostalgic form of entertainment. The wounds have largely healed. I hold the same hope for the epic sadness that dominates the public face of Alaskan Native people in this city. I pray for better days ahead.

Elizabeth Peratrovich, tireless fighter

Our most recent visit to the Heritage Center included the discovery that the concession stand was gone, replaced by a welcoming indoor play area for toddlers. Hanging on the wall above the toys was a banner titled, "Never Forget Who You Are". A grid of six Alaskan tribes was printed neatly, with a cartoonish graphic and a positive trait listed for each tribe. For example, one tribe was "Loving" and another was "Caring". Recognizing this as an attempt to distill complex and storied history of milennia to the Pre-K level, it still strikes me as vapid and erroneous if used as anything more than ancestral storytelling. There is no long-term viability in the formal promotion of cultural stereotypes, and they cannot provide tangible direction for children who might seek it. The communal aspect of tribal life has rendered competition --- at least in its simplest form, that of self-glorification --- useless in their circles. Boasting is anathema to the Natives I know, and yet the systemic approach in "Native Pride" programs seem to foster a swagger in young adults that has no root in their reality.

The risks facing a population may vary, but the solutions are the same no matter our ethnic heritage --- meaningful work and stable relationships. I would add the recognition of our self-worth being placed firmly in a Christian foundation; of course, in this realm, that brings its own history of pain and exploitation.

Some guy in Ketchikan

Should Native kids be unequivocally warned about the toxicity of booze and their DNA? Sure, but so should mine. Should they be relegated to well-intentioned Home Ec classes rather than challenged to develop marketable skills? Not unless we want to add considerable insult to injury. The vigilant mothers and hard-working fathers of my Native friends did more to promulgate their success than self-esteem maxims or public education dollars.

There's a similar grace, and a similar despair, in the indigenous faces of Australia. Their gaze seems fixed on a horizon I cannot see, with an enviable stoicism. Enter alcohol or trauma, usually in tandem, and it gets more complicated. When we visited the Northern Territory a few years ago, I listened to stories of parliament-mandated homes built on tribal land at no or low-cost to Aboriginal families, only to be raided and left vacant. The men dismantled the cupboards, windowsills, and doors of their own brand new kitchens --- to provide fuel for outdoor cooking fires. They wanted to live outside. The irony of my sentiment towards beggars on the corner ("go live inside and take better care of yourself") is that it mirrors the intrusive arrogance of federal governments. The nomadic mystique of indigenous people was obliterated as a matter of course, and the reverberations are all around us. When I approach the guys on the street, I speak only of God's love for them individually. My tone is more urgent and firm than my children are used to hearing, and certainly more familiar than seems proper when addressing a stranger at a traffic intersection.

In that solitary flash during a Sunday drive, I face my own deep-seated conflict. When asked about the physical appearance of a brother in peril, I hesitate. My heart sees a resemblance to countless kindred faces, and my mind clicks through the statistics that damn him. The simple protection of his person from oncoming traffic I hope to provide by sending the cops will probably not do much to interrupt his life's trajectory. I want the guy to get out of the road, but I'm no more sure than he is about where he's supposed to go next.

Shooting Ourselves With Blanks: The Lost Ammunition of Hormonal and Surgical Sterilization

American Catholics long ago lost their rhetorical firepower regarding the sanctity of marriage, an online friend posited recently. It's easy to nod in agreement on this, for both opponents and proponents of gay "marriage". I sense a more superficial assent to pithy, insipid e-posters than a sense of conviction or duty to truth gone wrong. We can all shrug at the mess of this once-esteemed institution, thereby nullifying deeper reflection.

But let's not let ourselves off the hook too easily.

And the woman saw that the tree was good to eat, and fair to the eyes, and delightful to behold:
and she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave to her husband who did eat.   Genesis 3:6, Douay Rheims

Five decades ago, with the wholesale removal of the life-giving power of straight sex, we neutered our own voices against the clamoring din of voices defining gay sex as equal. How can the collective call for honoring marriage vows as unique among all other agreements be audible or even credible, compared to those who insist on a legal mandate to follow their particular emotional star?

Political games abound in recent domestic events, and they serve as a robust distraction. Our President was compelled to announce his fairly dithering support of same-sex "marriage" hours after North Carolina became the 31st state to confidently come out otherwise. This came on the heels of Vice President Joe Biden's more passioned assertion against the teachings of his professed faith, and in favor of follow-your-star morality. Cynical reasoning offered synchronization with a Hollywood fundraiser, flat reports from the labor market, and the Democratic tradition of reliable voter blocs secured according to 'gimmes' from DC as the impetus for his flash of clarity. All are plausible, but the background is more compelling and has little to do with Barack Obama himself. Should he retire today, or perhaps on November 7, the matter of sterility as a sexual freedom remains.

It's an open-ended post, as much for your voice as mine. I'm in full agreement with Catholics who allege that our masses led the way, and that these events are both the culmination and a symptom of our long-wounded culture. I'm eager for practical and evangelical solutions for Christians of all vocations. Not everyone is called to marriage or parenthood, but I know there are endless sources of inspiration for restoring the dignified treatment of life in its inception. Share yours in the comments, if you're so inclined. How can we illustrate the true beauty of marriage in a way that re-shapes the social ideal?

On Playing Well With Others

As a predictable outgrowth of the Self-Esteem Movement, this is the new normal. I notice a trend in conversations to allow for the fallacies of the masses to go unchecked, or to be blindly lauded because it's 'their choice'. True enough, God is pro-choice as evidenced by the existence of free will. We're called to make the right choice. And among our duties outlined in the Spiritual Works of Mercy are to 'instruct the ignorant'. Lest this sound haughty or self-glorifying, I refer to our collective Mea Culpa (have I gushed on the addition of the breast striking in the new translation of the mass?) It's a most gripping moment of unity for this Catholic, to stand together and proclaim our sinfulness and failure to live the glory which is possible as a Christian. We don't believe or proclaim that truth is distilled to a select few. The message of hope found in the Gospels is a tangible gift to humanity, and we're called to use the gifts bestowed upon us in time, talent and treasure to foster this hope among everyone around us.

The approach one takes in guiding other souls towards truth will likely match inborn temperament and the opportunities around them. God sends us the people we're supposed to learn from, as well as a few to teach, if we seek them. This seeking can come in the form of being open to new life within marriage, active ministry or outreach.

Humility is the key, and this comes at the price of pride. I pray to surround myself with people much wiser and more charitable than myself, in the hopes of being challenged.

Many would seem to disagree, and are increasingly demanding adulation and support for the most mundane acts while discounting any divergent views as 'ignorant'. If our double speak doesn't finally land somewhere meaningful, we send children into the world with nothing more than unmet emotional neediness. Erikson's position that our first psychological need is that of basic trust vs. mistrust is left hanging if we hear only applause. No one trusts a flatterer, and children are especially attuned to counterfit in personal exchanges.

Being hassled by the man begins too early.

Nowhere is this more evident than in conversations with power grabs disguised as compassion, equality or science. So you want to fund every speedbump of our brethren's lifespan with the confiscated earnings of successful earners, redefine the cornerstone of civilization (marriage), and take away all the good light bulbs? Feel free to plead your case, but do a favor and call it what it is: fascism. We're seeing the children of yore --- who not only received a trophy for signing up, they were never taught to examine their form on the court --- grow up and enter the public sphere with a hostile sense of entitlement. Challenge them to give you logic in place of huffing disdain, and may we always extend the grace and peace possible in civil discourse. America needs the tension between the hipsters and the nerds as much as it needs Christian morality, and we cannot relent in our preservation of individual liberty.

Rosen's Chosen: Rage Against Men in America

"I disagree with her politics" is all that needed to be said. But then logic would have had to be employed. Only a feeble debater dresses up their opponent in disguises and pokes at these faux outer layers, rather than address the core argument. CNN hired someone who said something foolish, and that the ensuing soap opera is still clattering on says volumes about our interests as a collective. Many issues beg the attention of the electorate, but variations on the Mommy Wars are too superficially gratifying for too many people, I suppose.


Or maybe it's over and I haven't noticed. Dirty diapers can be riveting, you know.


Since I write from home, being predictably a day late and dollar short has worked out fine in my endeavors. And I don't have much to say regarding the choice to raise my own children, nor do I find it terribly grueling. There's no need to defend my daily duties to anyone. I think Hilary Rosen's words were clumsy and mean, but her point that Ann Romney would find the struggles of many Americans foreign is taken in stride. And I'd reply, "So what?" "Does anyone have every single experience?" Let's stop dismissing people for being successful after decades of hard work. Let's stop automatically ascribing nobility to losers, as dear comedian Dennis Miller said just this morning on his radio show. And let's stop stratifying human existence into tidy voting blocs for the advancement of our party's political power. It's tiresome.

The real issue here is that Rosen and her fellows consider motherhood an accessory and a right, not a vocation worthy of exclusive attention. They find it aberrant, or possibly just unintelligent, that anyone would sacrifice material wealth or personal freedom for the greater good of their children. A woman who gives her days in the service of her own family is making a mighty contribution to the village, and even the resident Idiot should simply thank her, where indicated, and move on. We can infer that weakness is the hallmark of full-time mothers, when listening to many modern talkers. Such a view blooms from a curious mix of arrogance and cultural indoctrination. It's one thing to desire children, but to surrender to that sacrifice, and make it your legacy, why would a cogent being do such a thing? In truth, all mothers ---- professional or immersed full-time --- sacrifice for their children. It is narcissism defined to view the world through a prism of self-seeking and ego. Unfortunately, haven't these comments and their aftermath largely driven our citizens further into their own foxholes?

This was illustrated by Terry O'Neill (current president of National Organization for Women)'s choice of words within days of Rosen's. Something about lacking "imagination and life experience", these ladies who lunch with toddlers, as if punching a time clock imparts the wisdom of the ages. I run my household at a pace similar to every job I've held, which varied in fields from mental health to graphic design. Bursts of efficiency, dottering over details, flirting with the mailman, occasionally getting flustered and resolving to hunker down, being distracted by sunshine, and loathing the driving. But this job is different in one regard, a single detail which makes the choice impenetrable to criticism. This job I do with an eye on the prize --- the formation and salvation of our souls. I work for God Almighty, and I consider women who do the same mentors, muses and friends. I hold the man who makes it possible in high regard. Muchas gracias, Anthony.

Lost in this debate (usually on both sides), which has become almost entirely about women and their coveted choices, is what's empirically advantageous to children and therefore society. It's the apex of relativism, this idea that simply choosing something makes it righteous and worthwhile. Can we assert with a straight face that it's best for children to spend ten hours a day without their families, beginning at six weeks of age? It's a most benign, progressive source of destruction of this nation, the cultural norm of institutionalized childcare. Is Hilary Rosen really saying that if Ann Romney had worked in a daycare for minimum wage, she'd be a worthy consultant on matters of national import? I'll submit that these elitists in residence hold that only a certain kind of work experience gets you in the door to their cocktail parties and roundtables --- the other kind just makes you eligible to vote for their guy.


On that note, that O'Neill would come out with such a petty, stark insult towards women shows that she and her assembled advisors have clearly written off a wide swath of the voting population: women who love their husbands and rely on them for financial support. The source of their disdain isn't really Ann Romney's tasks (or lack of them, in certain views), it's that she was bankrolled by a boy. For this, Mrs. Romney can never achieve esteem, and nearly owes the thinking world an apology. There is no mention of the validity of this undertaking, marriage and family --- which reduced to its simplest terms is guiding children into being virtuous  and self-sufficient adults. How is that meaningless, again? The pill the American public has been unwilling to swallow for nearly sixty years is that the government complex wants to be your sugar daddy. If you resolve to press through the seasons of life without their aid, well, you're probably a moron. From unending student loan debt to incentives for certain car purchases, you need guidance that a narrow set of properly educated minds are ready to proffer. Hilary Rosen chose Ann Romney to malign in this instance, since her vast wealth and her faith produce contempt. Would the brain trusts at CNN and NOW be as comfortable if she had pierced workaday Mrs. Obama for being unaware of what it takes to pack a healthy school lunch? (Oh, wait.)

Has it become our ideal that every private milestone, from embryonic obesity to sack lunch contents now need government oversight, with people at its helm who have witnessed each possible alternative? Do we realize this beauracratic utopia is not possible? We need the allowance for thriving and failing, as well as visionary success and competition. I remember vividly, in my former work as a substance abuse counselor, feeling a little too smug about relating to specific points of our clients' travails since I personally have a history of addiction. My clinical director wisely pointed out that such self-disclosure, even interiorly, was unnecessary and unwise. To put a fine point on the matter, he kvetched, "So, if you had schizophrenia, you'd require that your treating psychiatrist was also schizo?"

Rosen and her ilk are constitutionally incapable of addressing the politics of our economy with honesty, because they can't see past their hatred of principled men who carry the financial burdens of their families. And yes, these men are necessarily stronger and more masculine than those who share this stress with a partner. The work of family money management can be shared, but ask any a guy who alone provides for his family's needs if it has both toughened and softened him in unexpected places. They're a rareified bunch.

I'm usually quick to sneer at lousy demagoguery, but this installment has stirred mostly sadness. I'm sorry for the women who've been so well-trained to hate men, either through encounters with bad ones or social and academic conditioning. It has embittered them towards other women, and that's a significant loss. May the presidential campaign continue without Ms. Rosen's nasty voice, and may we offer prayers for focus on solutions to restoring our national pride. Start by hugging your man, if you've got one. And if we disagree with someone politically, we owe it to our children and grandchildren to study enough to figure out why, rather than attack them as being uncredentialed hacks. Commit to this study for the long haul, whether our reading is esconced in great halls or lounging in the bubble bath while our husband brings us a cup of tea after a long day's work. U-S-A.

No Title.