Words on a Dress

This post is part of ChicagoNow’s monthly “Blogapalooza” challenge.  Bloggers are provided a writing prompt at 9:00 pm and must post by 10:00 pm.  Here is tonight’s prompt:

“Share your favorite quote (or quotes) — from a philosopher, author, comedian, politician, friend, family member, movie, whoever — and write in detail about why it resonates and has meaning for you.”

I got married in the spring of 2001, just shy of fifteen years ago.  Fifteen years ago, man. That is a long time.  I am proud of us, my husband and I.  We’ve weathered many storms in those years, and somehow, miraculously, have remained solid, together, married.

Back in 2001, it was my husband who was the creative one.  I was the sensible one. The social worker.  The career driven one.  My husband and I met through a classified ad in the Chicago Reader.  It was 1996, so that was pretty much pre-online.  We met through a freaking newspaper, people!  That is how long we’ve been together.

I make note of that, because in all the time we’ve been together, words have factored into our relationship.  In a big way.  It was my words on the classified page of a newspaper that attracted the love of my life to me.

One of the things that I loved about my husband from the get go was that he was a writer.  Not me, mind you.  Him.  He was the writer.  I was the fan, the groupie, the hopelessly straight girl from the suburbs who was attracted to creative types.

Six weeks after we met, my husband, then just barely a boyfriend, moved away to Europe for six months.  Our courtship was virtual, through words, and remains, to this day, the single most romantic period of my life.

The words we shared on a daily basis, me at my keyboard in Chicago, Jeremy at his keyboard in Amsterdam, are the foundation for those fifteen years of marriage.

When he returned, we moved in together.  It took a few years, but, finally, he proposed. I was inches away from popping the question myself, but, gratefully, he was first.  I know that is impossibly anti-feminist, but I’ll own it.

We wrote our own vows, of course, because, well, words.  They have always been important to us.  They are our glue, the adhesive of our understanding.  Words.

I had a complicated relationship with being a bride.  It truly did not appeal to me.  I felt, in many ways, like a prop, a symbol, a pretty girl in a white dress playing a part. One of the ways I marked the day as my own was with words.

My dress was made for me by a homemaker in Dyer, Indiana.  The fittings took place in her kitchen.  She had made my sister’s dress and my sister-in-law’s dress, too.  I was a challenging client, I think, because of that whole ambivalent attitude towards all things bridal.

The dress was plain satin.  No tulle, no train.  It was strapless with sweet scallops along the bodice.  Along the hem of the dress, in periwinkle blue embroidery, was a quote.  It was a line from an e. e. cummings poem.  My sister found the quote for me, she knowing me better than most.  As soon as I read the words, I knew they were the ones. A bit like the man I was marrying.

Always it’s spring, everyone’s in love, and flowers pick themselves.

Fifteen years later, those words encapsulate hope for me.  Hope.  More than anything else, the thing that has gotten me through life.

At the time, I didn’t know from hope. My parents were alive and well.  I hadn’t yet thought about motherhood, let alone burying a child.  Cancer was a bad thing that happened to other people. I was still naive.

Fifteen years ago, as I prepared for marriage to the man I love, the words meant something different to me.  They were about spring and potential and life and all things that are new and joyous and possible.

Wedding Dress

Hope evolves, just like life does.  The ten words that wrapped themselves around the hem of my wedding dress have evolved, too.  I may have lost my naivete to grief, but I still cling to joy, to life, to potential, and to that earnest love for a man who still stands beside me.

 

The Islamic State and Syrian Refugee Crisis for Dummies

It is shameful to admit, but there is so very much I do not understand about what is happening in the world outside my own four walls.  Being a Midwestern mom is no excuse for ignorance, so I found myself trying to learn more this weekend after Friday’s events in Paris, albeit in a Midwestern mom kind of way.

I fully appreciate that the methods I chose to learn are no doubt biased, based primarily on Google searches and some informative articles found peppered in my Facebook feed, but it’s a start.  There is some comfort to be found in learning that the world’s leading experts on the dire situation have no confidence that our political leaders are doing any better than most of the rest of us in understanding or responding to the threat or crisis.

Okay, let’s just jump right in and learn together.

Map from geology.com.  Syria is circled in lower right corner.
Map from geology.com. Syria is circled in lower right corner.

Syria is located in the middle east, sandwiched between Turkey and Iraq.  When the Arab Spring began in late 2010 and other mid-east power systems were toppling (Tunisia, Egypt, Libya among others), the Al-Assad family that has ruled Syria since 1971 dug in its heels against protest and civil war resulted.

With all of the chaos and unrest in neighboring Iraq, the problems in Syria created a prime opportunity for the Islamic State to act and claim territory for itself, expanding its reach.  This is a crucial development to understand about how and why the Islamic State is different than the other well known terrorist threat of Al-Qaeda.

The Islamic State, also referred to as ISIS, Isil, or Daesh (read about the “branding” or name controversy HERE.), has goals and objectives that are significantly different than Al-Qaeda.  For one, the name is very significant.  Al-Qaeda operates primarily as an underground terrorist network whose objectives are often political in nature, including the destruction of western economic structures.

ISIS, on the other hand, has goals and objectives that are more religious.  To be legitimate and recognized by believers, the Islamic State requires a caliph and a caliphate.  A caliph is the chief Muslim civil and religious leader.  A caliphate is a form of Islamic government, including territory, ruled by the caliph.

There are strict rules about just who is qualified to be deemed the caliph.  The last caliph was taken down by the Turks in 1924 and his successor was named in the summer of 2014.  His name is Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi.  Africa, via Boko Haram, declared their own caliph shortly after, but has since sworn allegiance to Baghdadi as the one true caliph.

When Baghdadi publicly declared the Muslim caliphate in June 2014, an influx of true believers descended upon Syria, wanting to be a part of the uprising.  These are people — men, women, and families even, that wish to live under authentic Sharia law.  The coda of Sharia is ancient and based on teachings from the Quran.

Saudi Arabia, perhaps more than any other country, practices Sharia law, though the current caliph believes Saudi Arabia does not follow Sharia thoroughly enough.  If someone is accused of theft, their right hand is amputated under Sharia law.  Death is considered a suitable punishment for many perceived sins, e.g., not believing in Muhammad as the true prophet, leading a Muslim away from their faith, not following the teachings of the Quran, and a host of other trespasses.  Common forms of punishment practiced by ISIS include stoning, beheading, and crucifixion.

Note that the vast majority of Muslims do not advocate for true Sharia law.  HERE is an excellent article from the Council on Foreign Relations about Sharia law and how most Muslim countries live under some modified form of the law.

The Atlantic is providing some excellent commentary for those who wish to better understand the crisis and what is happening and why.  “What ISIS Really Wants” was published in March and, more than anything else I have read, enables the lay person to better understand the difference between the Muslim faith and the fanaticism of the Islamic State.   And “The Confused Person’s Guide to the Syrian Civil War” will help the lay person, or Midwestern mom like myself, untangle the conflict.

With all of the unrest, between civil war and the creation of the Islamic State, native Syrians are fleeing in droves creating the worst refugee crisis in Europe since World War II.  This animated video from In a Nutshell helps explain the proportions of the crisis.

The reality of this refugee crisis might have hit home for many of us mothers with the image of the three year old boy washed up on the shores of the Mediterranean Sea after fleeing Syria with his family.  The boy’s name was Alan Kurdi.  He was three years old and from Syria, with Kurdish ethnicity.  His family was working to reach Canada in hopes of a better life.

This boy has a name.  It is Alan Kurdi.
This boy has a name. It is Alan Kurdi.

The refugee crisis has put immense pressure on much of Europe.  There is growing backlash against the refugees and concerns about what the larger ramifications of absorbing so many people from such a different culture will have on European day-to-day life.  Anger and hatred is on the rise.

I have no idea how to address these concerns, the growing crisis of fundamentalism in our world, the isolationist response to other’s pain and sorrow.  No.  Idea.  At.  All.

I do know that after a weekend of poking around the Internet just a bit, I feel better informed and aware of the hows and the whys.  The hate I see reflected in my own Facebook feed has been defeating to me, friends and acquaintances spreading anti-Muslim sentiment.  More informed friends providing smug updates about how much more of the world than Paris suffers.  Others shaming anyone who dare place a French flag on their profile picture.

We are so very divided.  There is so much we fear that we don’t know about.  The first step, as in everything, is to learn.  I hope these insights have helped just a bit.

The End of a Life in Photos: Saying Goodbye to Da

My 81 year old father, Da, died last spring.  He was a lion, a character, a flawed King Lear, my anchor.  He taught me much and I am grateful for his lessons.  I miss him.

Because I spent twelve years working professionally with older adults in health care, aging was something he and I spoke of frequently.  Sometimes he would allow me to accompany him to the doctor, though usually not. He used to say that his kids should send him out to sea on a raft if he ever got too old to function or exercise his independence.

My father died like many older Americans are dying these days — entwined in a medical system that is not equipped to cope with the needs or wishes of our older adults, many of whom are kept propped up through ill considered medical interventions.

His last five months were heartbreaking — nothing he would have ever wanted for himself and nothing I would have ever imagined for him.  Two of those months he spent hospitalized (in three separate hospitals) and three were spent in a locked assisted living unit for people with dementia.  He called it a “warehouse.”  He was not wrong.

He did not have dementia and it was only confirmed shortly before his death that the acute and quickly evolving cognitive, behavioral, and neurological changes he experienced in those last months were caused by lung cancer. The same lung cancer that had been treated the previous fall, doctors felt successfully.

He knew he was dying long before I did. He told me one day and, in all sincerity, I tried to comfort him and explain that he was simply going through a difficult period. Sometimes I feel I failed him.  I know that our medical system failed him.

I started photographing him in January 2015 when the sunlight on his leg dangling from his hospital bed struck me as poignant.  I snapped a photo.  I kept snapping photos as the months went on.  He and I talked about the photos, he looked at them sometimes. While we never discussed what I would do with them, he knew why I took them.  To remember.

I am fortunate that my father was a great supporter of my work, my writing — specifically how my husband and I documented our daughter’s cancer online.  He read every word and saw its merit.  I see these photos serving a similar purpose — to educate and encourage a dialogue.  I really think my Dad would get a kick out of that — his stubborn version of having the last word.