Too Much to Swallow

This is a reprint of Innocent Perspective: A Mother's Reflections on September 11, 2001, an essay I wrote for Child-Friendly Initiative.

On Tuesday, September 11th, my four-year old vehicle expert told people very importantly that "an airplane had crashed into a building." The next day he wanted to "watch New York" on TV - all the rescue and construction equipment was much more interesting than nap time. I took a deep comfort in his innocent perspective.

By the time the weekend rolled around, though, a loneliness hung around our small family, perhaps exacerbated by the fact that mom and dad were on the phone all the time, and friendly visitors also seemed to carry a cloud of debris in their hearts. On Sunday my son grew warm and listless, and that night began crying out every hour in a fever.

For the next few days the fever clung, and he clung to me. This time I took comfort in the small scale of a bad virus and willingly sat under him for a few days. I was grateful for the moments he was asleep, for then I could turn on the television and try to absorb it all, sort it all out. He was desperately afraid of being alone, and I would run to him each time he woke.

He complained of a sore throat and stopped eating. The doctor blamed a virus that had caused blisters in his mouth and prescribed tylenol, liquids and rest. After a few days I was exhausted. I didn't know what was worse - battling with him to get him to take medicine, or hearing him cry out in pain each time he swallowed. His mouth and throat were covered with white, oozing sores. Eventually we discovered a strep infection raging behind the blisters.

Today he is on the mend, thanks to an army of antibiotics and a new construction set to play “can we fix it” with. But he hasn't seemed himself. Every interaction is demanding and tense. I figure it's because he's cranky because he hasn't eaten in three days.

But finally, he opens up his feelings. “Mom, dad, I'm worried,” he tells us on the cranky edge of sleep, beginning to weep. He is worried about Oakland. About the buildings falling down. About car crashes. Suddenly I realized he has been there with us in our confusion and grief. He is not a baby anymore. Although it seemed important at the time, I wonder now if letting my vehicle-loving son (who wants to see every jack-knifed big-rig and derailed train) see those bulldozers was the right thing to do. Did he feel something was being forced down his throat? Was it too much for him to swallow? A part of him must have welcomed that virus and that bacteria. It gave him a time-out. He gave me the gift of a time-out, too.

Tonight after we fought about toothpaste (I let him win), we talked a long time. About bad guys. About sadness. About safety. I told him we were all sad but we were glad to be together. I told him our house wouldn't fall down. I told him this terrible thing that happened had never happened before. I told him all the presidents of every country in the world were going to work together to try to make sure this would never happen again. Because they all want to protect and take care of children. “And you'll take care of me, right?” he asked. Yes little one, I will, no matter what.

He went to sleep peacefully for the first time in days. He just grew up a lot, and as a mom, I did, too. I really want my words to be true. We will all work together to protect and take care of children.

Joe Climbed Up On The Roof..

Okay, so Joe died. We knew he would. Everyone does, right? But we’re sad, we’re disappointed, since we really didn’t want him to die of ALS. We wanted him to be the one (or one of the few) who figured out how to turn this disease around on its path, show it the door, pull himself back together cell by cell, get up out of that wheelchair, and start walking again. Up to podiums to talk about his journey, inspiring others to follow him. Onto stages to accept the acclamations he deserved. Down the aisle with Julie when she got married. Through the woods with Diane when he was old. No, we wanted him to die instead with dignity, say, clutching his chest in the middle of a joke and keeling over into his cream pie at age ninety-nine.

We sure didn’t want ALS to win. Joe was the underdog from the beginning, by all rights. I want to say he kicked its ass, gave it a whuppin, showed it who was boss, etc... but idioms of might are not appropriate in describing Joe's fight, since his muscles were slowly deactivated by the disease. Joe's many triumphs came from curiosity, from skepticism, from communication, from investigation, from thoughtfulness, from introspection, from prayer and from humility. That being said, Joe was just like Rocky: he went fifteen epic rounds with inspiring courage and faith, (and we all got to take the journey with him,) so it’s not like he lost, really. Even at age 61, he still lived longer than your average NFL player. To use a word the kids like these days, Joe pwnd (poned) that lame-ass disease.

Look: the truth is, death isn’t so bad. It’s part of life, it happens to everyone, and reports keep coming in that it provides some relief to this problem of living. The worst thing to me about Joe dying is not getting one last email, one last blog post. Joe so faithfully shared his adventures in healing that I want to know what it was like at the end. I want to know what he thought about, what he decided, if he decided anything. I want to know what it felt like and what he said and who was there. I want to know what he understood, and if indeed he got a final flash of insight that wrapped up his research somehow. I want to know what it felt like for him to suddenly and finally be released of his body.

ALS, ALS, ALS. Joe’s life was defined by a greater drama when that gene activated, but ALS is not who he was. Joe was a strong and positive person who saw life in his own way, managing this and that with humor and with love, magnetically drawing good people to himself. In our living room, Joe once laughed hard at my husband’s favorite joke. It’s about a guy who was traveling through Europe when his brother called with the news that his cat had died. “That was so cold and cruel, to tell me the news like that,” he cried. “What else could I have said?” asked his brother. “You could have broken it to me slowly,” the guy sobbed. “You could have said, ‘the cat climbed up on the roof.’ And then called the next day to say ‘the cat finally came down, but caught a cold.’ And then a few days later, you could have said, ‘The cat’s cold got worse, and we took her to the vet.’ And then you could have said, ‘there were complications.’ And then a few days later, ‘The infection couldn’t be stopped, and we had to put her down.’” “Oh, I see,” said the brother. “Yes, that was very insensitive of me.” The guy in Europe sighed, wiped his tears, and said, “Well, as long as we’re on the phone, is there any other news?” There was a long silence, then the brother said, “Um… well, mom climbed up on the roof.”

Today, when I got Dan’s email, I cried. Then my husband asked me if Joe had climbed up on the roof. Oh my. There's a thought. The racket he must have made in that wheelchair…!

But seriously. Diane, you are my hero, for partnering gorgeously with Joe and his troublesome gene. Julie, and Dan, your lives have gotten off to an interesting start and you are both magnificent people. I look forward to seeing you enjoy every adventure life brings you, with your dad’s wonderful spirit watching over you. And Joe, you're not gone, you're with us all. I can't wait to read your book.

Killing Osama

In the weeks following 9/11, I wished death to Osama bin Laden. But I am against death penalties and war as much as I am against murder, so I struggled with my feelings. I lay awake at night pondering capital punishment. How can victims express their hurt and anger without becoming killers themselves? Having a government do the dirty work seems like a good solution until you realize governments are made of individuals, and when it comes down to it, someone has to pull a trigger, push a button. I thought about firing squads and public stonings, hangings and guillotines — all efficient but imperfect — and at last the poetic part of me came up with a theatrical solution. I imagined a pageant for mass-murderers that could be used all over the world in events that provide emotional closure for victims and a reckoning for those who have brought evil. Without making murder anyone's professional calling.

That night, here is how I imagined Osama's final moments:

At Ground Zero, a chair is prepared where he will sit. Above the chair a canopy is stretched, a simple tarpaulin suspended by poles. Outside the poles there is a walkway that goes around the perimeter of the canopy, with stairs leading up and down on either side. Nearby, bulldozers have delivered a pile of rubble saved from the dark mess he made.


The crowd gathers around, and anyone who has been hurt by his actions may take a piece of rubble in their hand. Children, parents, widows, friends, firefighters, rescuers, targeted Muslims, air travelers file past Osama and tell him what he did. They walk up the stairs and toss their object onto the tarp in the name of the Lost, perhaps with a shout, a silent prayer, or the words they've been dying to say. As the day goes on, each small stone adds to the next and the canopy begins to sag. At some point it will break, crushing him under the rubble and pain he created. But the pageant does not end until all the rubble is gone and every harm is spoken.

Have a Good (Valen)time.

I used to be so tormented by this holiday and all its expectations. Valentine's Day seemed engineered to point out the fact that I was the only one who did not have one. Except I wasn't the only one. My best VDs were days that I hung out with other 'losers'. My friend Dave and I would go out in search of Mr. and Mrs. Right...so we could introduce them to each other. Read more...

Why I Deserve a Nissan Leaf

We didn't answer this question properly when we made our 30-second video after the test-drive, so here it is...

From right to left:

1. Donald deserves one because, even though he really loves Lamborghinis, he's put a Tesla Roadster higher on his wish list because he knows how important it is to create a new fast-car universe that doesn't rely on fossil fuels.
2. Felix deserves one because he is a trend-setting hipster and could get all his friends to buy one. Besides, Felix has figured out how to make any car make less emissions.
3. Griffin deserves one because he would probably take it apart and put it back together again and then design an even better engine (and let Donald design the body). (And by the way, doesn't he look like a mini-Felix?)
4. Ben deserves one because he is awesome and needs to keep his braces shiny. His mom deserves one, too; she's raising two kids on her own and commutes a lot.
5. I deserve one because I already do a great job living a low-impact life and think it would be amazing to have something new. My car is 17 years old and is starting to burn oil, and I've been pretending it's a hybrid for the last four years. Even so, 80% of our carbon footprint comes from driving it, and I'm dying to start living in our fossil-fuel-free future. (I'm even trying to start an idle-free campaign in my city.) As a writer/volunteer/mom/homemaker/bohemian creative, I could never afford to buy a new one, but I am truly obsessed with and enamoured with the Leaf. I even gushed about it on Chinese TV last year... "It doesn't even have tailpipes! How awesome is THAT?"
6. Steven deserves one because his Honda has a quarter of a million miles on it. We all know it is greener to drive an old car than buy a new one (the materials and parts make quite a dent), especially when you're getting 35 miles a gallon already. However, I'd be afraid to let Steven have a Leaf since he's already so tall.

The problem is, who gets the Leaf if we win it? We all live within a few miles of each other, so it's not unlikely that we'd share. But we're a loving family and don't like to fight over anything, so we'd probably give it to my mom, who is awesome and deserves a new car for all she's done for all of us!

PLEASE VOTE FOR US! We'll give you a ride if we win! Thank you!

Note: Nissan only uses your email to count votes (you have to click a confirmation link), so there's no risk in voting.

Completion Satisfaction!

Sold! Twenty-one books! Gave some away, signed them all too....

Put that to the tune of 21 Guns and you'll get an idea of how I feel right now. Rockin' Out! Open heart! White light! Camp high!

The final book sales count was the icing on the cake. The cake, and the nourishing meal that preceded it, was the completion of a year of dreaming and scheming. Tonight I launched my book to the audience I wrote it for, and by for I mean to read it and in their honor. Tonight I sat behind my table and listened to stories about an amazing moment in history, by the people who made it. Tonight it was not about me.

President Jan stood up and talked about how she came to put Mills back together after it had been torn by the drama of the strike. She led the SPAM chant—"Strong Women, Proud Women, All Women, Mills Women"—a joke I made twenty years ago when I saw the "Strong Women, Proud Women, Mills Women, All Women" slogan (but took a stand against it in my book). We watched the old documentary and everyone told stories that filled in some of the mysteries. Did you know Mills College is the ONLY women's college that decided to go co-ed and then reversed the decision? One woman told about her school back east, Wells, that decided to go co-ed. The students went on a six week strike, including a 30-day hunger strike and a fundraising campaign, all to no avail. They let men in, and three quarters of the students left. Mills is the only women's college that mustered all its forces to make and keep its commitment.

I stood up and spoke a little, about how when I arrived at the strike there was nothing I could do to help, just observe. I was too stunned to speak, but I found my voice through drawing. Tonight I finally made my contribution. By helping the alumnae and the student activities office organize this emotion-filled evening of conversation and memory—a book launch party about something much greater than my book.

All night long some guy from the LA Times -- yes, THAT L.A. Times -- kept taking my picture. (I'm sure everyone felt the same way.) I was too surprised to protest. I was just grateful all the stress had subsided, and my cold sore had healed just in time. But the part my heart loved best was seeing old friends who have grown twenty years older, and who have become more of who they are. Kind of like I have.

At the end of the event, the Director of Student Life took the mike and sang "We are gentle, angry people, who are singing, singing for our lives." I hummed along. Then she sang, "We are perfectly revolting people..." And then the rowdy war-heroines of 1990 started chanting: "Woman energy! Woman energy! Women in a jeep!"

I really didn't want the night to end. I ended up sitting in the parking lot under the stars, talking to an old pal and listening to the stories of a recent grad with a bitchin' mohawk who is just getting into Roller Derby. (Ah, that old familiar would-that-I-were-queer longing...). I thanked myself for coming out to California to finish my college career at Mills. You meet the most interesting people here. And maybe, if you're lucky, you become one.

Mad about the Hatter

(caution: contains spoilers)

Love Tim Burton. Love Johnny Depp. Love Helena Bonham Carter and Anne Hathaway. LOVE Disney!

But as it turns out, I love Lewis Carroll even more.

I couldn’t have been more excited to see Burton’s interpretation of Alice in Wonderland. I couldn’t wait to see what sense he would make of the caucus race, the caterpillar, the enigmatic oysters, the meandering logic of Alice’s dream.

But it was no dream he re-created. It was an adventure! It was a re-invention of this favorite tale through his own ego. Imaginitve, yes. Insulting to any English student who studied Jabberwocky or, god forbid, loved the book enough to read the annotated version. Burton admits to reading the book—once, as a child—and not liking it. All of his influences came from pop culture interpretations. (And he must have read the screenplay for 2009’s clever sci-fi tv miniseries, ALICE.)

There are a few repeated lines that work as story themes. One of them is, “Why, my father always said he could imagine six impossible things before breakfast.” (Originally from the stupid White Queen’s mouth in Looking Glass.) Here are six impossible things about his version of the movie
1) Alice did not shun the Bandersnatch. (She tamed it.)
2) The Mad Hatter wasn’t mad, just weird… and political.
3) It is a hero movie with a magic sword and a dragon; not a trial, not a chess game. It is a movie about finding the power to kill when one doesn’t want to. (Huh?)
4) Why no caucus race, kings, or Mock Turtle? Why no sneezing, running to stay in one place, drowning in tears?
5) Why no Bill the Lizard? Why no Lobster Quadrille?
6) And the unforgivable sin: They all called the Jabberwock a Jabberwocky.

Another one of the oft-repeated sentences is, “How is a raven like a writing desk?” The question is not posed as poetic madness, but as a taunt: “are you clever enough to guess?” A yellow-eyed Johnny Depp asks this question over and over, pretending not to know the raven, duh, in this metaphor, is powerful, soaring filmmaker Tim Burton, Poe-loving master of underworlds. The writing desk represents earthbound and ancient Lewis Carroll. Poor crazy pedophiliac mathematician Dodgson. He can’t touch the power of a successful Hollywood career, in which you can do whatever the hell you want. The raven is the writing desk’s manxome foe.

But in spite of the madness (as in, anger) raging in my head as I watched, my eyes were enchanted. In Burton’s fully-realized version, I found much to love:

1) The air-swimming, smoke-like Cheshire Cat, a fully-developed character who turns the tide.
2) Alice’s growing and shrinking dress – a character in itself.
3) Depp’s theatrical delivery of “Jabberwocky” in the golden light of a wet forest to a tiny Alice on his brim.
4) A framing story that brings us a grown-up Alice who has been to Wonderland before.
5) The third repeated sentiment: “You’re bonkers. Gone around the bend. You’re utterly mad…. But all the best people are.”
6) Futterwhacking.

Screenwriter Linda Woolverton admitted, “It will infuriate the purists, but this was never meant to be a remake. This is Alice as a young woman.” Yes, Linda, it infuriated me. BUT you created a marvelous re-invention, and there’s nothing wrong with that, especially where this beloved story is concerned. I blame the Disney exec who okayed, or insisted on, selling it as a remake. He or she should be stuffed into a treacle well.

The Hatter and other characters call the place “Underland,” not Wonderland, which makes perfect sense since it lies, somehow, under this world, accessible by falling a long, long way. Had Disney released the movie as Tim Burton’s Alice in Underland, all departures from the source would be forgiven, even by purists; all creative licenses celebrated. Under a different name I would consider this would be Burton’s best, not his worst. Audiences would have felt the love, not the disdain.

And I would be mad for it, not mad about it.

its a world of hopes, its a world of fear

Today we got a chance to ride "it’s a small world" in Disneyland, and experience the results of the long awaited—and debated—remodel. I am sorry to report they didn’t update it my way, adding lasers á la Buzz Lightyear’s AstroBlasters. The lasers could be in the shapes of wands, conductor’s batons, whatever—they wouldn’t have to be guns. And every time you hit a singing doll, it would fall silent.

No such luck. The ride is pretty much the same as before. The creepy but oddly comforting sound of doll eyes clicking open and shut can still be heard under the waves of joyful singing that crest and swell from room to room. Adorable multicultural scenes still keep your head turning from right to left like a puppet on a stick. The goat still stands on a hill, the African kewpies still shake their little round booties, the psychedelic hippo still yawns (was that bizarro-jungle always there?) and yes, the can-can dancers are still wearing bloomers.

Other than the new all-plastic boats (sans lasers, alas), specially designed not to sink under the weight of today’s king-sized American families, the only really noticeable difference to riders who haven’t memorized the whole thing, is the addition of familiar faces. Now children can associate the proper cultural or geographical context with their favorite Disney characters, who are all, I am happy to report, crafted in the proper round-headed style of each display. For example, Simba and Pumbaa now pose in the African Veldt. Ariel and Nemo can both be found swimming in the undersea room. Even Lilo and Stitch the alien surf in the island nations.

Oh, and it was probably the simple labor of dusting all 300 of those twisting little heads, but there also seems to be a fresh new coating of magic that ramps up your senses and makes your heart burst with love for all the world’s children. I left the ride unable (and unwilling) to stop singing. I just could have leapt out of the boat and hugged a topiary. Instead I sang, out loud, all the way to Adventureland, with no fear of getting shot.

There's so much that we share/that its time we’re aware/its a small world after all!

Earth Day Confessions

Eighteen years ago I wished Earth Day could actually be a holiday for the Earth. Today I felt both sad and satisfied that April 22nd now verges on that reality, and has at least become a mainstream day of awareness and reflection.

I started the day with the best intentions. I remembered to take a cup to fill with fair-trade coffee. I walked my son to school, rode my bike to pick him up (felt like a third-world family on the way home, with on the back rack trying not to get his shoelaces caught in the derailleur). I started dinner in the solar oven at 2pm.

A day without the TV gives a person lots of extra time to wonder about stuff. I wondered what Earth Day might be like in 20 more years. Or 200. Or 2000. Will organic become the kosher of the future? Will our descendants consider it an actual sin to flush the toilet for pee? Will wearing clothes made in other countries be a mitzvah of connection, or require atonement? Will a Blade Runner future come true, where it’s illegal to have a wallet made of real leather?

Forgive me Mother, for I have failed. I threw four plastic bags away today. I ran the electric vacuum for a long time (it’s also spring cleaning), and put two dustpans of dirt in the trash, not compost or outside. I had to use the car to drive Donald to piano lessons when we got halfway there on bikes and realized he’d forgotten his music. I let shade creep over the solar cooker and had to run the microwave for two minutes to finish cooking the cauliflower. I killed a few bugs.

It’s nice to know people care more now, and more people have the vocabulary to discuss the whims and plans of nature. It’s nice to have a conversation about conservation without revealing I'm way beyond granola (prefer müesli). But it’s scary that we are way beyond 350. It’s sad to see dead honeybees, more every week, on my stairs when I sweep. I wish people had taken Earth Day seriously 18 years ago. I hope it’s not too late. I have to believe every little bit helps.

Scenes far from D.C.

It was impossible to watch the inauguration aftermath alone. I called my mother-in-law Barbara for a gush-and-elate session. It just made me miss Dave. After watching so many Daily Shows, sharing so many tears, buying our first O'Bama t-shirts and then becoming progressivly involved, impressed, and excited, how could we not share this moment? On impulse I drove down to his school with the burning desire to give him a hug.

I spotted him on the playground as I drove up. It was business as usual for a Tuesday; he was surrounded by kindergartners. He was as far away from the front office as a teacher could be, and with this world-bursting hug building up inside of me, I didn't want to make the trek. I pulled on my parking brake and clambered up the hill to the patched chain link fence. "It's Mrs. Caven," he said in disbelief, and his Simon Says game went to pieces. Twenty little heads turned in my direction; forty little feet drifted away from his sphere of control. Little warm bodies flowed across a small expanse of asphalt towards me, then lined up at the fence, like jetsam caught at a log in a river. Little faces pressed up against the fence, staring into mine, twenty shades of brown and tan. "When I get home from school," says one with bead-bangled braids, "my mama says there's going to be a new president." Dozens and dozens of wide and eyes, innocent of the day's significance behind long, babylike lashes, and open, trusting smiles. "Surprise," I smile, "he's here already." They are not as sliced open with emotion as all the adults I have seen or talked to today. They are just happy to have someone new to look at. Pretty. Shiny. New. But Dave does not seem to mind the awkward distraction.

You can't hug through a chain link fence. Dave and I had to stretch our lips through the metal to touch. Half a dozen little voices went "Eeew."

"Simon Says, back to your spots," Dave calls, a good teacher who understands the tenderness of his tinies. One lingers behind, one with the DNA of Mayan mathematicians showing in the bones of his face. He links his small, warm fingers with mine through the fence, mouth open, gawping happily. "Maybe you'll be president someday," I say, thinking how he will never know a world where color lines are drawn just below the top. His face pulls to one side as he considers what I just said. He clearly thinks I'm insane. "I can't be president! I'm just a little kid," he says. As if the thought of being a grownup had not yet occurred to him.

As I turn away, Dave (Mr. Caven) opens a parachute as colorful as the children around him. What a great metaphor. For what schools should do for kids; for what society should do for its sick, poor, frail and unfortunate; for what we all should do for each other. I wish the world a safe landing from the past eight — and eight hundred years.

(Also read: Ding, Dong, the Witch is Dead)

Ding, Dong, the Witch is Dead

At 9:01 PST, I was sitting in a crowded auditorium full of enthusiastic urban middle-schoolers. The teachers and students had managed to project live feed of the day's events onto a large screen, but all the traffic had crashed the school district's servers, so everyone had to squint to focus on the two old-fashioned (rabbit-ears) televisions that flanked the stage. A giant boom-box broadcasted the NPR feed into the room, but there was a seven-second delay so the sound never matched the pictures. The stage was piled with red, white, and blue balloons, and streamers decorated the giant screen, which showed a slideshow of the Obamas some teacher had thoughtfully created as "plan B."

A voice on the radio, interrupting the lovely musical tribute, mentioned that President Bush's term was officially over, even though inauguration proceedings were behind schedule. The adults near the TV burst into cheers, which soon took over the whole room. Moments before, Joe Biden had been sworn in, and I had naughtily cupped my hands and shouted "No More Cheney!" Moments later, Obama takes the oath of office, and the custodian is out of her chair, dancing like we all feel like dancing. When he says, "pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off..." I am thinking about Fred Astaire and Ginger Rodgers. Before the day is over I will have started a booster club to manage all the volunteers that will soon pour into this school (hopefully).

The principal (scary lady) gets up to tell the students what a significant day this is, and invites them to write a note to send to the president. She tells them about their special history-class assignment to write down all their impressions of the day, which will be collected, copied, laminated, and sent home for them to stick under their mattresses for the rest of their lives. When she announces that second period has been cancelled, the crowd really goes wild. That's even better news, for them, than a new clear-headed, idealistic, and--did anyone notice?--African American president. When she tells them they still have to go to third period, the boos and hand gestures of the mini-mob scene are even louder.

We've come a long way, America... but we've still got a long way to go.

If I were on a desert island...

...I'd want to be stuck with Madame DeStael.

Madame de Stael by Maria Fairweather

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars
I'm rating this book (that Leah loaned me last year -- thank you!) so highly because of the subject matter: a politically influential genius of France's troubled revolutionary times, thought by all to be one of the time's most brilliant minds, but maligned by history as inconsequential. Every so often I encounter such historical women of genius and it angers me that I've never heard of them. Wikipedia quotes a 1911 encyclopedia that dismisses her ideas as unoriginal, but in reading her biography I understand this perception: when women are barred from politics, they must find other ways to influence history. This one was constantly surrounded by intellectuals and men of power; who is to say their ideas were not shaped by her? This woman was equal to Napoleon and his greatest social enemy. (A scene between them: she had prepared many arguments to counter his famous misogyny at a meeting—he short-circuits her by staring at her decolletage and asking if she'd nursed all her children.)



Girlfriends, I encourage you to find inspiration in Madame de Stael! I feel I have found a friend who shares my values and passions, and am eager to dig up her works and get to know her mind first hand.


View all my reviews.

Yes, We Will

It's Wednesday, November 5th, 2008. For months now, I've been wondering how I'd feel today.

I've had hope. I've worked hard. But I haven't had anything like confidence. No, I felt pre-election confidence for the last time in 2000, and feeling dead inside served me well on November 5th, 2004. This year, I really did believe that things were different. This Obama guy was a nobody, like that Clinton guy 16 years ago. Clinton charmed my generation by playing saxophone on tv. Obama charmed today's youth by keeping his MySpace page updated. (And Facebook. And Linkedin. And Twitter. And YouTube. And many more social networking sites you've never heard of.) And sending daily email to anyone who'd ever bought so much as a bumper sticker from his website. Yes, he invited us into his loop. From the very beginning, we were all asked—politely, I might add—to buy into the idea of Barack, the message of Obama.

Still, as activated as I was, as hopeful as I was, I still could not dare believe. Just two weeks ago, John McCain "guaranteed" that he would win. I guarded myself against feeling, again, the horror of waking up to a world where my values were so deeply de-valued. The shock I felt eight years ago—hearing on the radio from deep inside my dreams, that Bush had somehow won the election that had belonged to Al Gore at bedtime—that shock was still snapping in my emotional neurons. The first thing I said that morning was, "it's the end of the world." And indeed, it was. The first thing he did was alienate the people around him who could have helped avoid 9/11. And you know the story from there. The country I have lived in starting eight years ago today has had nothing to do with the future I had always imagined, the America of possibility I had been raised to believe in.

So, I was prepared for the worst, which disappoints me personally (I am the biggest and most annoying optimist I know), and instead I got a different kind of shock. The speed with which Ohio, Pennsylvania, Virginia turned blue filled our house with a rare giddiness. We poured our drinks from plastic tumblers into fancy stemware and toasted each state as it was listed for Obama. And suddenly, at eight o'clock, the decision was made. A second after the polls closed in California, the future I'd always dreamed of arrived.

In this future, there is a focus on what works. There are people in the white house who are smarter than me. People who listen to each other, treat others respectfully, and embrace possibility. People who have not made up their minds already.

And this morning, hallelujah, that grey feeling in the pit of my stomach is finally gone.

Finally gone.

There are, instead, butterflies of excitement. Indeed, I have been overcome with emotion, every time I have a thought like "They said he was unelectable," or "If this Lincoln thing bears out, there may be an Obama Monument someday."

I always knew I would feel relief today, relief that Bush is really done. Since long before someone gave us the countdown clock to his departure. But up until 8:00 last night there was a possibility that we all would have waken up this morning with the mission to endure four more years of trademark McCain/Palin condescension. There was also a possibility, in the face of widespread voter fraud, that we would have to storm the white house. But the revolution is happening without the bloodshed and violence of the 1960s, when Barack and I were born.

I keep walking around today, bursting into tears. Here is how I am feeling: relieved, triumphant, recognized. There is going to be someone in the white house who I understand and can identify with. And sometimes, between fits of random sobbing, I burst into song. "This is the dawning of the age of Aquarius..." Today, I'd like to teach the world to sing... in perfect harmony!

But the relief is the biggest feeling. Relief at not having to endure McCain. I know he is not George Bush, and would have been an improvment. In fact, I even had great respect for him before he started the "straight talk" machine. But as I've gotten to know John, I've noticed endurance is a core theme for him. As is the military. His family, his wife's family, his running mate's family, were all shaped by military life. Not to criticize the military—I do appreciate the role it plays in our society, and deeply respect those who have fought for us and are fighting now. But there is more to this country than war. As much as Mr. McCain has overcome in his life, I have come to see his battle scars as a sad symbol of failure. His reach has been brutally shortened by the ritual abuse of war. As my president, I would have judged him, harshly, for a failure to see beyond a life of war. I would have felt my familiar, gut-level conflict as he "froze" the nation's spending. I would have felt outrage as he encouraged abstinence-only education, cut funding for pre-natal care, and appointed conservative supreme court judges. I would have felt like a neglected child of divorce as he struggled to keep the Religious Right happy and continued to feed the public with dumbed-down talking points. As school budgets were cut even further, I would have continued to put my own goals aside to fight for a child's right to health care and education. I would have felt despair at the lies and twisted truths that would continue to come out of his administration and party. I would have started calling him "Stubby." Publicly. Derisively. I would have equated him, fairly or not, with Bush.

Instead, I feel a huge, overwhelming relief that McCain's "guarantee" was just another lie—the Republican Party had not actually re-activated Diebold. I feel sad for the Americans who bought into it, and those who believed it when they were scared into believing Obama was a terrorist, a socialist, a communist, a voo-doo wizard. I pray that they may see him for who he is, a man who played it straight all the way to the top (without ever calling himself "straight-talk"), a man who pledged last night, "I will always be honest with you about the challenges we face." A man who appeals to our higher natures, and connects them with the depths of understanding. I suspect McCainanites might be feeling, in their own way, like I might have felt if John had been right about winning. I am hoping they won't feel gray in their stomachs for very long.

I am hoping that they will feel as inspired as I feel today. I am hoping they will feel called by "a new spirit of patriotism, of responsibility, where each of us resolves to pitch in and work harder and look after not only ourselves but each other."

This year, I've noticed a lot of people feeling challenged to move beyond their comfort zones, and I'm no exception. I have surprised myself in the past week as I've called voters, struck up conversations with neighbors, and argued, articulately, even, for what is right. Is this Obama's influence, or are we all being kicked by the stars to all reach beyond ourselves? "Focusing your life solely on making a buck shows a certain poverty of ambition. It asks too little of yourself. Because it's only when you hitch your wagon to something larger than yourself that you realize your true potential." President Obama asks us all to step into our power.

Will we?

All we needed was an invitation.

Celebration Frappuccino

Donald, establishing his pre-teen lifestyle, has begun frequenting Starbucks. No, he's not drinking coffee, thank goodness; Starbucks has invented a modern milkshake for the next generation. A Double Chocolaty Chip Frappuccino® Blended Crème is basically a bunch of ice blended up with milk and a bar of dark chocolate, served with whipped cream on top.

Yesterday when we heard Starbucks was giving away drinks if you could prove you voted, Donald asked if he could come vote with me and then get a treat afterward. Turned out that was illegal, so they took it back. Nonetheless, I told Donald I'd buy him a Frappuccino if Obama won. He followed me right to my polling booth and watched me complete the little arrows. He wore his "I Voted" sticker proudly all day long.

Today his friend Willie magically showed up at Starbucks. In the past, Willie's dad had popped for treats, so I got one for Willie, too. I told him, "you know, this is a victory Frappuccino... we're celebrating Barack Obama today."

I've been giddy all day, and suddenly it struck me funny: "He's our first chocolate president," I said.

Willie cocked his blonde head, his overgrown mohawk flopping to one side, and asked me, "Is that racist?"

I appreciated his sensitivity. But I wondered: do little words like this still matter? What would Will.i.am, the world's first holographic pop star, say?

Is it hot in here? Or is it just me?

This spring, I became a fashion writer when the editor of The Sophisticate invited me to do the feature piece on local Deco designers and vintage stores. It was fun to write. Every dress tells a story, and if you can't wear them all, at least you can read about them. Click here to read the article...

The huz was very enouraging, sending me the "Lady in Red" Bouquet for Valentine's day, and patiently sitting through endless repetitions of the Busby Berkeley version of the song.

The article was intended to promote this year's Art Deco Preservation Ball, which had a Spanish theme, "La Fiesta Grande." I got to attend wearing a gown I borrowed from Barbara Grigg of Vintage Vogue, a fa-habulous vintage store in Calistoga. It was this amazing gown that could only be worn to something called "La Fiesta Grande." It should have made it into the article. This the sales copy I would have written:

"Vesuvius" by Kristen Caven

In the 1980s, Diane Freis designed this volcano of a dress that embraces the classic Spanish styles of the past, makes a statement of style that will never look dated, and will stand out at any future fiesta.

The fabric, a sumptuous flame-red satin, is appliquéd with black velvet fretwork in a wide cracquelure, and painted with metallic gold to evoke glowing hot lava. Three layers of flounce flow from the shoulders, and a gathered elastic bodice flatters any waist from 8 to 18. A long, red-reversed sash creates a generous bow at the bustle and holds the dress firmly in place, while layers of sensuous black silk and netting swish and rustle about the legs. The petticoats give an abundant flare to the double-tiered skirt, which swirls six feet wide when dancing in the moonlight.

"Vesuvius," for all its designer detail, is well-constructed and unfussy, and the stretchy rows of elastic that form the bodice make it easy to wear. Plus, the molten mamacita who models it will whisper to the buyer her steamy secret: this gown is also easy to get off!

Super-Orphans

In retelling the story of "Batman Begins" to my son (couldn't let him SEE it fer gawdsake!), he stopped me at the part where young Bruce's parents get killed. "If I were him, I woulda..." and described a valiant fight and triumphant defeat of Joe Chill. "Nope," I stopped him, "In every Batman story this happens to him. The pearls go flying. It wouldn't be Batman otherwise."

Then I realized all your main superheroes are orphans. Clark's parents rocketed him off Krypton before the planet blew up. Poor Peter Parker had to suffer yet another level of torture when his Uncle Ben got kilt. Just like fairy-tale princesses, which are heroes as well; they all have fathers but no mothers. What's that all about? And what does it mean for those of us who are lucky enough to have parents around?

Think of what Bruce's life would have been like if he'd -"wham!"- defeated Joe Chill and saved his parents. He would have had to live up to that bit of heroism his whole life, never developing the chops to go out and actually do anything further with his life, drinking himself to an early playboy grave. Peter Parker would never have been freaked out enough to go nuts on his first bad guy if ONLY Uncle Ben got it and his parents put up a reward. Clark Kent would have simply lived a life of quiet desperation as a mild-mannered Kryptonic reporter. It's like what researchers say about genetic diseases: you don't automatically get them, but have the potential to get them if they're triggered by enough stress. And it's pretty stressful being on your own so early in life. The superhero with the split-personality is the mythic version of all those poor split non-super souls wandering about missing their parents, wishing they could have saved them.

Then again there are all of us split non-super souls wandering about between our parents. Another way to look at the orphan thing is to imagine the potential energy that is set free when your parents are no longer hanging around telling you what you should do with your life. Those of us lucky enough to know our parents into adulthood get to spend so much energy struggling against or processing the parts of ourselves that remind us of them. Or if you prefer to see that glass as half full, you could say that those of us lucky enough to know our parents into adulthood are busy being connected with the family we want to live up to, follow in the footsteps of, and whose values we want to press into the next generation.

It's kind of sad. Superman, Batman, and Spiderman will probably never have kids; they'll either stay stuck fighting bad guys forever, or flare out at the end of their stories someday (wouldn't put it past Stan Lee to take Spidey with him when he goes) with a bright light. At least we know princesses will grow up after the story ends, and their fathers will dandle another generation of princesses (and imagine their dead wives are smiling on them) on their happily-ever-after old knees. And then there's Mr. and Mrs. Incredible to wonder about....