Have Some Haggis, Yeh Racists

Part of the reason I love living in Austin is the diversity. I wanted my children to be exposed to different cultures and peoples, y'know? And Utah was a lotta the same-same-samey-same.


But y'know what happens when you take your white, Mormon family to the heart of Texas for diversity? For better or worse, your kids get to experience being a minority.
 
Here's the racial breakdown at my kids' school (according to some internet sight that knows these things, I suppose):

African American: 10.1%
American Indian: 0.7%
Asian: 9.6%
Hispanic: 63.2%

Pacific Islander: 0.2% 

Two or more races: 2.4%

White: 13.8%

As compared to his old school:

African American: 2%
American Indian: 0.9% 

Asian: 0.8%
Hispanic: 11.9%

Pacific Islander: 2% 

Two or more races: 4%

White: 78.3%

(is it racist that I made white bold? Geez, now I'm all paranoid.)

So he went from a school in Utah with 645 kids, 505 white,  to a school in Texas with 545 kids, 75 white. It's cool, it's fine; diversity is a very good thing. But here's the thing. He feels his skin color, if that makes sense. Kids call him a "gringo" and tell him, "If you ever want to get a date, you better get a tan." They sometimes exclude him from games and he thinks it is because he is white (whether they said that's why or he just feels that's why, I don't know). What would happen if he called them "beaners" or something? I don't think he would, I don't think he knows any racial slurs except the ones that have been used on him.

They've all been studying American History this year. He says, "Like Martin Luther King Jr. said, my skin color shouldn't matter." But the reality is, humans naturally cling to tribes; we comfortably self-segregate. When left to ourselves, we congregate by race. We have to make a conscious effort to desegregate. Because that is the right thing to do, right?

What do I tell him? There isn't a Danish History Month at school. No one dresses up in kilts for Scottish Independence day (Oh, maybe cuz that's scheduled for Sept. 18, 2014 ... GO SCOTLAND! DOWN WITH KING GEORGE THE TYRANT!).

How do you teach racial tolerance to children (Here's an interesting article)?

By talking about it and valuing all races, filling each child with not JUST pride for their race, but RESPECT for different races. I think the schools do a great job in making the white people feel adequately guilty for the sins of their ancestors and it is important to know the history, to understand the impact racism has had on our country. But I think our schools and society frikken suck at helping all people to treat all people with respect. We love to poke fun at fat people, especially if they are white and male. Will it ever be possible to have a society who truly judges by the content of one's character?

What do I say? "Sorry, my beloved child, this is the way it is now. They will tell you being a white male is the most privileged cross section you could belong to, and statistically speaking, that's true, but realistically, you'll have to work harder to compete because Danish-Scottish-German-Mormon just ain't considered diverse enough." 

I just want people to use derogatory racial slurs with humor and kindness.

I'll have a taco salad for lunch to ease my own white guilt, now. Or some Haggis to revel in it.

I Really Like to Chew on Raw Hot Glue Sticks While I Blog

 Emotions are temporary. That's my motto. I chant it to myself when I'm going crazy. I don't know where emotions come from or why some people get to splash their toes in emotion while some drown in floods of it, but I KNOW, they come and they go.

Some of my favorite bloggers write about depression in a clear way that speaks to a lot of people (Bloggess, Hyperbole, etc.). In high school, I totally loved Sylvia Plath. I felt drawn to troubled, tortured souls, like Edger Allen Poe and Vincent Van Gogh.

I found a suicide note of my father's once while doing laundry; he got very depressed after his first heart attack and I spent many late, late school nights talking to him to make sure he didn't ... leave me. There where whispered rumors that he'd gone to a psychologist in his 20's for multiple personality disorder. Crazy, huh.

Don't Blink.

What makes us this way? I was reading a lovely blog this morning, that mentioned the idea that angels were listening to us, keeping record of all our words. You know who else is listening? Maybe fallen angels. I know we are all too smart to really cotton to the idea of spirits and heaven and hell and demons and any of that. I know. But I also wonder ... y'know ... my life can be going along just jolly like, and then, suddenly, I'm a pile of I-don't-wanna-shower-or-put-on-a-bra-or-take-my-vitamins-and-everybody-needs-to-leave-me-the-hell-a-frikken-lone-I'm-gonna-sleep. There are days in a row when all I do is make my boys go to school and make crap meals for whiny kids, and only after they have whined for quite a significant while. I'm not completely in control of my thoughts all the time, if ever. And then the bad stuff goes away. Nothing changed ... it just moved on.

Sylvia Plath's husband burned her final journal because he didn't want her children to read it. I imagine she wrote terrible things about how she she felt about them, that were totally true at the moment and once written, once exorcised out on paper, were controllable. But it would be impossibly hard to read that your mother hated you and not conclude that she always did.

Love is not an emotion. Love is some kind of energy of it's very own kind. As far as I can tell, it doesn't go away.

Science and Psychology refuse to consider silliness like spirits and souls ... one of my favorite scientists, Nicola Tesla probably knew more about energy than anyone. He was amazingly brilliant. He experienced voices ...

I don't know what causes depression ... I think the chemical imbalances are a symptom, not a cause; like a runny nose doesn't cause your cold, it's the result of having a cold.

What I really believe, down in my soul, is that "creative" people are in tune with unseen forces. That connection inspires beauty, humor, and compassion, but leaves us vulnerable to emotional torture as well. 

So I cling to my motto: Emotions are temporary. 

 (Hmm, that was pretty rambly and all over the place ... maybe it needs some pictures ...)

A Hard Place

Thursdays are traditionally confession days. I confess that I am guilty of eavesdropping. It's possibly one of my favorite things to do. Listen to people talking, expressing themselves openly, saying things they'd never say to your face. My mother has lived with us, off and on for the last 11 yeas (very much on for the last 5). About a month ago, I listened to her talk about her life with us to her sister.

"Brandy is the queen of the house and she lets everyone know it."

Queen of dirty laundry and making food for people to complain about? Queen of broken vacuums and cars with no gas? Queen of Plants vs. Zombies?

When she was staying with this sister, in Idaho, about a two years ago, we sent her $100 a week. When she moved back in last year, we only give her $20 a week. She complained to her sister about the wage cut.

Do you know how expensive it is to pay all the expenses for an adult?
Let's give her a little credit: She washes the dishes; occasionally folds laundry; watches my daughter while I run errands. By "watch my daughter," I mean "plays bejeweled and my daughter doesn't kill herself." But it's still helpfulish.

I recently was getting to the homicidal breaking point and reread Dr. Laura's Bad Childhood, Good Life. It's a decent self-help book, but in it, all the sad adult-children had distance from their "bad" parents. There are no examples where the adult-child had to live with the difficult parent, support her every need, and continue to face the ungracious and unloving parent, in their own home every single day and night. I try to remind myself, she's not evil, just annoying ... but annoying builds up. It builds and builds and builds, until I can't stand being in the same space. And there's no long-term solution except endure it.

The BEST thing I have learned from Dr. Laura is that we have two chances at the parent/child relationship. The first time, as a child, we have very little power or control in how it it goes. The second time, as the parent, we have a lot of power; it is completely possible to have a happy, loving parent/child relationship with your kids, IF you put forth the effort to make it so.

So, with Mother's Day on the way, and the bad taste it leaves in my mouth, is a card enough?

I say, "Yes."

In 30 years, when my kids are in the throes of adulthood, making whatever sacrifices, being busy, and hopefully not putting up with me living in their home, if they were to send me a simple, sentimental card on Mother's Day, that would be enough.

Honor your mother. That's the commandment, right? Honor her.

Do What You Want To Do

My husband is kind of awesome. Yes, he drives me crazy to the brink of homicide, but he always tries to help me be a better person, rather I want to or not. And I need that kind of person in my life. I need it very much.

I am fickle. I like variety and change. I like to try new things. And semi-planned spontaneity. But never surprises. I get super excited about an idea or goal, but when it gets to the not-so-fun-this-feels-like-work part, I kind of ... look for something new and fun. For all my enthusiasm, I lack follow-thru.

I am supposed to be a writer and a teacher. I know it; I feel it in my soul. Those are the activities that make me feel happy and alive. That is how I will make my mark, improve the world, make a difference. But I have to DO stuff.

I guess this post is just me saying, I know which direction I am supposed to go; stop dawdling, me.

*****

Pwned By a Punk

Just over 11 years ago, I became a mother. There was a bit of a learning curve, but so far, I've kept my kids alive. There's so much to teach them; so much to learn from them. It's unfathomably complex and annoying and beautiful.

Then comes the day when your children somehow synthesize all the information they've been absorbing and, suddenly, they know stuff you don't. Weird stuff, like how to make this:

Once they realize that it is possible to know stuff your parents do not know, then, they win.

*****

Yesterday, while watching Mythbusters, Crichton (11) says, "We were studying 20th century history today. Did you know that when Henry Ford designed the Model-T, he actually wanted to produce it with square tires?"

"Umm ... I don't think that's true," I say. 

"No, really. He thought other people would be using the round tire design and he needed to make a design no one was using. First, he tried square tires, then triangular, and ended up with round."

"That doesn't sound right, sweetie."

"Mom, it was in the book. Do textbooks lie?"

"Maybe," I say, as I get my phone out and check his facts on Wikipedia. I quickly scan the Henry Ford article and it doesn't say ANYTHING about square tires. 

"Yeah, sorry, there were no square tires, hon."

"I know," he says, WITH A SMIRK!   

*****

How does that happen? How do I become the one to fall for the old, "Hey, look, someone wrote 'gullible' on the ceiling!!" trick?  

Shame at my own gullibility is canceled out by the pride that my kid pulled it off. 

I Get In Trouble When I Blog

You've written Haiku and sonnets, right? Where you have to chose your words carefully so they fit the rules of structure? And then you get frustrated and switch to free form poems that occasionally rhyme and have no real meter, but you like the way the words go together?

In my house, there are three rules for my blog, as dictated by my spouse, that I struggle to write by:

1. Don't write about sex.

2. Don't write about money.

3. Don't write about him negatively.

These rules have been in place for years. They are why I post pictures of my kids and ramble about gay marriage. When I bump up against these rules, it causes friction like unto a rocket returning from space.

People say, "You need a private anonymous blog." But I'm an attention whore; I would tell people about it, then he would find it. Then ... friction.

I'm not the kind of wife who updates her facebook with, "I'm so grateful I married my best friend. He's an amazing dad. Today he made us the best food ever and cleaned out the garage." It's not because I'm not, he isn't, or he doesn't. I just don't want to jinx everything. I know too many couples who spout disgusting cuteness publicly and are awful to each other in real life. Or who used to be the cute spewers and are now divorced.

It's like having a "I love Jesus" bumper sticker. I love Jesus, I really do. But I do a lot of crap that makes Him probably less than happy with me and I'd rather not have the people I cut off while merging on to the highway think less of me or Him. They can be mad at me for being a jerk, but we don't need to drag Jesus, or my faith, or lack of driving skill, or hypocrisy into it.

I think that's how my husband feels about it. I am Mrs. B. ROTH. As in, the wife of Mr. Roth. So it is practically impossible to disassociate what ever insanity I blog from him. The problem is, he really cares about what people think about us, and him, and our kids. He doesn't want a random post I made on a crazy day to effect his future career. Or my kids'.

But I come at it from a different perspective. Nobody really cares. It's just one of a billion random rambley  blogs on the internet. Not especially good or insightful. It's just my goofy brain writing out loud.

I might get a lecture about this post here.

Sheesh. It's got to pretty much suck to be married to me. I regularly feel sympathy for him: He's stuck with a spastic, erratic, crazy girl, who was raised by wolves, doesn't know her job, her place, doesn't act right. I am just me. Usually, I am happy about it, but when he points out how poorly my behavior reflects on him and the family ... I am crushed. Because he is right. Dancing and singing in public, random, excessive enthusiasm, etc. are embarrassing to the people around me. He is 100% right and I am out of place. But I don't know how to be otherwise and continue to thrive, y'know? And I feel wrong.  Like down in my core ... I'm wrong.

I spent most of my adolescence covering up the truth of my existence. I worked hard to make it seem like I wasn't a poor, weird girl from a stinky house. I didn't confide in my closest friends. I was the happy, silly, crazy one. Nobody knows the troubles I've seen.

It's hard to be that way, to hold all the bad stuff in and exude joy. Some people learn how to talk about themselves, but I carry a lot of shame. I still have an impossibly hard time talking about my feelings. But I can write them. I can think, and edit, and analyze, and reread, and verify: Yes, these are the words that come close to expressing how I feel. And to blog ... to have those words out there, to testify truthfully to the moment; and to have others validate your feelings, saying, "I understand; you are not crazy." It gives me a glimmer of hope: Maybe I'm not wrong. Maybe, I'm just me.

My Little Pony Girl

She talks so much. SO MUCH. My daughter is currently obsessed with My Little Ponies and weddings and cupcakes and rainbows and sprinkles. I'm kind of a feminist and she has two big brothers, but somehow, all things pretty and pink call to her very soul. She also loves killing zombies and minecrafting it up, so I guess there's still hope.

And she found this video on youtube and showed it to me:



But she did say it "creeped her out" and Pinkie Pie has a history of mental disturbance.



Also, Pinkie Pie is my favorite ... Sagan's favorite is Twilight Sparkle. By the way, the new My Little Pony series is awesome and not at all stupid. Just saying. Even my boys like it and are not ashamed to call themselves Bronies.

I'm so glad I have a daughter and I'm gonna miss her when she goes to Kindergarten in the fall.

Suck It UP

Part of me is a big, lazy baby. 

Part of me is a vindictive, spiteful wench. 

I spend a lot of time listening to those two go at it.

Waaaah, I don't have any money and I just wanna plunk on my guitar all day.

Good gravy, shut the flip up and type your stupid, pointless articles.

Uggghhhh. No. I'm gonna blog first.

Fine. One fast (albeit lame) blog, then WORK! Frikken marsupial.

Okay, but after I write an article, I'm gonna try to play Blackbird again. I can almost play one whole measure!

Your Blackbird sounds like a duck being raped.

Yeah, I know. 

The sad part is that my family is stuck dealing with all of me all of the time. 

Tho it might be worst of all for me, stuck in my head like I am. 

Life is not so bad. Life is not so bad. Life is not so bad. 

(Still not quite ready for a good venting post ... I am a coward.)

 

This Is Called Procrastinating

I've been pumping out articles, spewing trash all over the internet for $3.30/article, as fast as I can all day. It's kinda of ... getting ... boring. 

So I thought I'd blog for a while. Maybe I should have showered. I think I won't make my goal of making $100 before time for Taekwondo today (sad face). 

Also, since my children arrived back from school, my focus seems to have waned. Canon keeps saying "Amazom-bonee" over and over. Crichton keeps asking about financial information so he can figure out how many Ethiopians we could feed with 1% of our income. 

It's a little distracting.

I just sent him down to fetch me another caffeine pill.

Sagan blew a whistle at me and said, "GET WORKING!" 

Crichton tells me I can get high from licking money ... I don't think it's worth it. Also, perhaps I should better monitor his internet usage ... and maybe drug testing?

I do not find this to be an ideal work environment. 

My neighbor's maids are cleaning her house ... jealous. 

Ok. Sagan just yelled "GET TO WORK!" again. So I will. Probably.

Just Pretending

My PostSecret secret: Everything, every single part of my life, I feel like I'm pretending. 

My current pretend thing is that I'm a writer. I can make a little money at it. Someone I've never met puts money in a Paypal account for my submissions. So it feels real. But deep down, I know it's not. It's pretty much like a sperm donation center and I'm pretty shocked that someone gives me money for something I've done for years and will continue to do anyway ... it's exactly like that.

$3.30 for 200 words is ridiculously magical to me. It is nice to live a life wherein you are easily impressed and entertained.

I never feel like I own my creative endeavors. My philosophy is more like: unseen daemons (is that the word I want?) possess my body during the time I am creating; time moves quickly and miracles occur. But they are not mine. I'm just pretending.

Lately (since moving to Austin), I've been playing my daddy's guitar a lot. My current favorite song is The Beatles "In My Life".



I had a Beatles poster in my dorm in college, but I think "Yellow Submarine" was their only song I knew by heart at that time (because I was a pretender even then). I mostly just like the slow thoughtful songs (Hey, Jude, Let It Be, Yesterday, Imagine) and the silly ones (Her Majesty, Octopus' Garden).

I'm working myself back into more honest blog posts. It takes a lot of courage; I have hard things to say and I am out of practice in how to write them honestly and tactfully. It's important to me to write things that are true, at least in the moment I write them.

Alright, my fingers and writing brain are nice and warmed up. Off to make some deposits.

Eating Carrots While Slightly Nauseated on a Monday

No lists today. Stream of Consciousness.

I ran out of my usual multi-vitamins. I have a couple of bottles of others I've tried, but they make me throw up.

I hate throwing up and have been advised that eating vitamins on an empty stomach might be the cause of the later retching.

Because I read the Wikipedia page on Bruce Lee yesterday (because, now, as a Green Belt, I should get serious about martial arts?), and it said he ate carrots (among other things) (but not bread, which I gave up years ago), I thought carrots would be a good idea to keep my stomach contents moving with a nice downward momentum.

But it's not really working and I am kind of wishing I had chewed the carrots more thoroughly.

Moral of the ramble: always chew your food thoroughly, you never know when you'll be regurgitating it.

I Never Change

I feel exactly like this. Again. Still. That was FOUR years ago, when I posted more often and had regular readers. Now I spend too much time lurking/stalking Facebook.

It never ends. It never ends. It never ends.

Things That Are Wrong:

1. I sweat too much.
2. I procrastinate too much.
3. Doing stuff takes time and effort (and people only mention the stuff you do wrong).
4. The pressure to censor is stifling.
5. Creativity is time consuming.
6. Time is not a constant.
7. Money makes me crazy.
8. I don't like making the decisions.
9. I don't like compromising.
10. I can't stay warm (and yet, see #1).

Things That Are Fine:
1. Immune systems seem to work.
2. My neck cracks well.
3. Haven't been excommunicated.
4. Haven't been arrested.
5. Have a comfy, cozy bed.
6. I have fuzzy, pink socks.
7. My daughter thinks I'm beautiful and tells me so.
8. My Little Ponies totally doesn't suck.
9. And Adventure Time.
10. After the 80's fashion retro thing passes, maybe grunge will come back.

(It took much longer to write the second list than the first and the only thing that kept me from adding to the first was the influence of #4 on first list.)

I have nothing substantial to say today. Stay tuned for potential upcoming rants on such 

SHOCKING NEW TOPICS as:

1. My daughter cries herself to sleep because she is lonely and it's all my fault.
2. My mother is not leaving my home any time soon and I may lose my mind.
3. My husband works to much and home and family are beyond my capabilities alone.
4. I don't feel like doing anything.
5. I've killed a lot of zombies on Plants vs. Zombies.
6. My religion.
7. I planted some flowers and they seem to be growing.
8. Life is hard.
9. Whining about how I whine too much.
10. I want to go somewhere. Anywhere. That's not here. And probably alone.

A List of Random Thoughts

1. I love typing mrsbroth.com into the internet and visiting myself, looking back on who I was, where I thought I was going. Most of the time, I don't even remember writing my posts, but I like reacquainting my today me with the wacky girl who wrote them.

2. Women getting the Priesthood has been a Mormon hot topic lately. It's quite frightening the negative responses that come from life-long members. The Priesthood was limited to descendants of Aaron for a long time (or Levites? I'm too lazy to research), Jesus came along and offered it to the Jews, later to gentiles. In 1978, it was finally opened to every worthy male, regardless of skin color. Why is it so crazy to suppose it can't/won't be extended to every worthy person at some point? I think that today the Priesthood is kind of a ploy to encourage men, who might otherwise allow worldly endeavors fill their lives, to stay closer to God, and I acknowledge that all people certainly have access to Priesthood blessings, but I HATE those moments in Primary, when I have to teach the little girls that only men hold the Priesthood. I just ... it doesn't sit right in my soul.

3. I want to get rid of all the toys in my house. I am a terrible house cleaner and not a very good getter of children to clean their messes. Maybe they could have ONE toy and have a library like exchange when they get bored with it. That could work, right? TOO MANY TOYS!

4. I should go take a shower, but I need my list to have at least five points ....

5. I am testing for my green belt in Taekwondo later this month. I have memorized a 31 move form. But I still need to work on my Chinese Broadsword form. Taekwondo is totally amazing, by the way. It has, in some ways, activated parts of my brain I thought were forever retarded. Making my arms and legs move in the way I want them to (at least sometimes) almost makes me feel a little less awkward in every way.

Reconciling

Yesterday I changed my facebook picture to show support for gay marriage. I confess: I hesitated at first.

Why? Because in the list of how I describe myself, "Mormon" comes before "civil rights advocate". Being a Mormon, I know my church has a strict definition for marriage right now. A man and a woman.

But, as a Mormon, I am also aware that that strict definition has not always been the same. I come from good old polygamist Mormon stock and my own family once faced persecution, even jail, based on marital choices.

Here's how I reconcile it: a church has the right, under the first amendment to worship God how it sees fit. In my religion, the 11th Article of Faith states: We claim the privilege of worshipping Almighty God according to the dictates of our own conscience, and allow all men the same privilege, let them worship how, where, or what they may.

I believe a church is free to establish marriage qualifications; belonging to a church is a choice. I do not believe the government should be allowed to make laws discriminating which adults are allowed to enter into a loving, committed, contract of marriage.

People must be free to choose. Love is the most beautiful and precious and courageous choice in the universe. I can not, with clear conscience, deny people, who are willing to sacrifice everything they have for another soul, the legal protection we call marriage.

That's where I stand.

Ten Reasons Why I Love Tae Kwon Do

1. Someday, a little self-defense knowledge might come in handy. I'm not sure I could Zumba or Pilates or Yoga my way out of a violent situation.

2. I accidentally round-kicked my husband in the junk. It was a great round kick. (Do not use your martial arts training on family members ... Ahem.)

3. Acceptable release of kicking, yelling, and punching urges.

4. I get to wield a frikken Chinese Broad Sword.

5. Sure, it's expensive and time consuming, but it's time and money well spent when it reinforces self-discipline and integrity.

6. My kids say, "YES MA'AM/SIR." A lot.

7. Balance. Strength. Ninja skills.

8. Crazy-modest work out clothes. And bare feet.

9. Bruises!!! I bruise easily and bruises from kicking bags and breaking boards are like trophies.

10. Confidence in my voice and body. It carries through from class to real life.