APRIL 2005

The RENEWAL Issue:

• Changing the World -- Lizbeth Finn-Arnold
• My Mother & Me -- Regina Walker
• Growing Old With Nagy Mama -- Elizabeth Thompson
• The Someday Dress -- Gerry Di Gesu
• It's a Small World After All -- Jim Turner
• Mairamou -- Stacey Greenberg

Changing the World

Once upon a time, there was a bright-eyed college student who dreamed of growing up and saving --or at least changing -- the world. The future was wide open before her and she knew she could be whatever she wanted. But she still clung to some youthful optimism that somehow she had a duty to leave the world a little better than she had found it.

That girl -- who was me -- now seems like a complete stranger. I glance in the mirror and don't always recognize myself. My face is changing. My body is changing. I look like somebody's mother. I no longer resemble the girl I was.

I realize that in many ways, I am the one who has changed -- not the world. I gave up some dreams, and discovered new ones. I lived a life under the radar, not making the gigantic splash I once imagined. My mind has matured, as much as my body, and I look back on my life not with regrets, but with appreciation and gratitude.

Why the retrospective? Perhaps it's simply because I realize that I have been out of college for fifteen years, and at times I still feel like I haven't quite embarked on my real life yet. But I think it has a lot to do with the fact that I am in the midst of moving, and packing up crates of memories has given me time to pause and reflect on my life.

I have been writing forever. And in sorting and packing, I've come upon much of my past scribblings. I found a pile of the editorials I wrote as Editor-in-Chief for my high school newspaper. Even then, as a kid, I had a burning desire to communicate my opinions and ideas. I was a shy student, yet I could express myself clearly and passionately in print. I smile when I read these articles and columns. Especially because I realize that I haven't changed all that much. I still am shy and subdued in real life, but am somewhat transformed into a more outgoing and passionate persona on my blog and in my essays.

In senior year of college, I was employed as a public relations assistant for the Rutgers Department of Health. And I was then, as now, the editor of a monthly publication. When I read through my writing from that time period, I am immensely proud of my work and of my serious convictions. And I realize now that I have always been driven to write about the things that matter to me. This passion is one of the constants that runs throughout my life. For all of the changes of the outside, I am still somewhat unchanged at my inner core.

Fifteen years ago, in April of 1990, I wrote about Earth Day. This month, as I prepared the April Issue of The Philosophical Mother, I couldn't help but think about the fact that this dated column still resonates with me, now as a mother -- instead of the daughter and student.

And so, I have decided to include that editorial here, today, in a nod to my past, and as a wink towards whatever still lies ahead in my future.

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April 1990 -- The Health Advocate

A Letter From the Editor

On April 22, colleges and universities across the state will celebrate World Earth Day, an environmental awareness movement that began twenty years ago. In keeping with this theme, we thought it appropriate that the April Health Advocate focus on health issues which relate to our environment. While these issues cannot be fully addressed in a four-page newsletter, we decided that we could provide information, resources, and facts as an introduction to the issues and as a catalyst for thought.

As college students, we sometimes get caught up in our own problems that often require immediate solutions. We try not to think about things we cannot see (such as invisible chemicals or rainforests in another continent) or change (such as oil spills and industrial pollution). However, if we don't think about long-term environmental matters, what type of earth are we leaving for our children and grandchildren?

While the problems of the environment can seem immense, we are not powerless. There are small but important steps that each of us can do everyday to work towards change. The first step is becoming informed about environmental issues and gaining awareness about how our daily activities affect the earth. For example, consider throwing trash in proper receptacles, so that recycling becomes the norm. Refuse to buy aerosol sprays or products made of foam that help contribute to the depletion of the ozone. Reduce pollution caused by car emissions by walking, bicycling, carpooling, or using public transportation (whenever possible). Get involved in community activities and actions that promote a health and clean environment. And support laws to prevent businesses from dumping garbage and oil in our oceans or from polluting our atmosphere with dangerous chemicals.

In America, youth has always been a symbol of hope and change. Alone, we cannot change the world. But together, our voices can make a difference. The earth is our home and we cannot constantly take from it without giving something back. By helping to create a safe and healthy environment, we ensure our own future health and survival.

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Copyright 2005 Lizbeth Finn-Arnold

Lizbeth Finn-Arnold is a freelance writer and independent filmmaker who works and lives in suburban New Jersey with her husband, Mike, daughter, Olivia (8), son, Jared (5) and Labrador Retriever, Elvis (3). She is also the editor and publisher of The Philosophical Mother, a regular columnist for Literary Mama, keeps a daily blog, called MOM & Pop Culture.

My Mother & Me

When I was pregnant with my youngest son, my mother had a sudden medical crisis. An ulcer (we did not know she had) perforated and she was profoundly and acutely sick for much of my pregnancy.

My mother required emergency surgery and spent several weeks in ICU. My sisters and I would visit her daily and decompress in the hospital cafeteria attempting to determine what to do next. We were like soldiers planning our strategy; receiving our orders.

My eldest sister is a physician and is the one most versed in medical-speak. We knew she was the most likely to be taken seriously by my mother’s caregivers. That was her role. She would make any important medical decisions. She would filter the medical complexities down to us in language we could understand.

My other sister has been a hospital-based social worker for many years and is both experienced and gifted in managing systems. She expertly took over the arrangements for my mother’s ongoing ancillary care and case-management needs and post-hospitalization care. I was not sure how I fit in or what I was going to do for my mother. I would listen to my sisters and agree with their plans and opinions. They were right as they most often have been. I was unclear what my function was going to be. How was I going to be useful. How was I going to help in this battle?

At these hospital cafeteria sessions I found myself drawn to the hospital food. Soft dinner rolls with pats of butter, soup mostly made of broth, and jello. I found myself entranced by the jello. Especially the jello that trapped the petrified canned fruit within it and would quiver with every motion of the tray. One afternoon in particular I lost myself in methodically digging the fruit out of its jello prison much like digging out a splinter deep beneath the flesh. Digging, digging and making a mess but eventually setting the fruit free. I triumphed on behalf of the canned fruit but still had not determined how I was going to be of use to my mother.

Neither my mother’s illness nor my pregnancy proceeded smoothly. I experienced numerous frights and complications relating to my son’s health and my mother’s illness worsened before it began to improve. During that time I reflected a great deal on my growing up. I had inherited much from my mother -- my ability to worry about just about anything, as well as a certain dogged perseverance that has always defied logic.

My mother was basically alone in raising us. Growing up was like being in the cabin of a boat that sailed often in troubled water with little or no gas and a broken compass. Yet my mother was always at the helm. Some disasters were narrowly averted while some ended in crashes that, at the time, I believed there was no coming back from. And yet, somehow, we did. Something would be missing. The configuration was permanently changed. The boat forever damaged. The course unclear. Yet we would go on. There were no other choices.

My mother grew stronger as I neared the birth of my son. Her frailty though, once seen, could never be erased. She returned to work and Sam entered the world in a dramatic and distinct manner. As is the case after traumatic and life-changing events, nothing and no one is ever the same.
I have learned since then that Sam is a more complicated and complex being than I had envisioned. My plans -- my script -- need to be rewritten. Everyday brings questions and some days hint at answers. But we must keep moving forward.

Now I am at the helm and the water, it seems, has sadly remained often choppy. I look back at the cabin and see Sam and Zach depending not solely on me but on me nonetheless. My dogged persistence remains though it is challenged by episodes of self doubt and fear.

Truly the unexpected is all that we can expect. And the future is written in the sand.

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Copyright 2005 Regina Walker

Since March 2003, Regina Walker has been a monthly contributing writer to The Philosophical Mother magazine (www.philosophicalmother.com). Her work has appeared in Hip Mama, widdershins, The Future Generation, Motherevolution, Motherload, Commie Mommie, Community Mother Magazine, Goin’ Granola, Literary Vision Magazine, Healing Mama, Bio zine, and the online magazine www.stickyourneckout.com . Her work will be featured in an upcoming issue of Lone Star Ma. She is the creator and editor of the zine "Recovering Me". She is the author of the Clinical Viewpoint column in the Substance Abuse Letter published by Pace Publications. She received her B.A. from Bennington College and her MSW from Fordham University. She can be reached at cswcasac@aol.com.

Growing Old With Nagy Mama

By Elizabeth Katkics Thompson

Reflecting on my life as I cross the threshold into my 40’s, I can name more than a few people who have inspired me over the years – various members of my family, mentors and some even strangers. But there’s seldom a day that goes by that I don’t think of my maternal grandmother or draw a great deal of encouragement from her memory, which is often reflected in my writing. Her passing had a profound effect on me and now, almost two years later, I continue to uncover stories about her and am never at a loss to learn something new with each glimpse into the past.

This is my original journal entry on the day that she took her last breath and became my inspiration.

October 10, 2003

Nagy Mama has passed away.

We were preparing for this day. Her health was steadily declining and she was hospitalized for the past three months. Thankfully, I had the opportunity to take the children to visit with their “Mamama” two weeks ago.

Still, the phone call was a shock.

Then came the moment my husband and I have been dreading for a long time -- telling our four children. I tried to compose myself, but I couldn’t help feeling a profound sense of grief and was surprised by my need to share it. Pete and I debated, in the middle of the bathroom hallway, about just exactly how and when to tell them.

“I want to tell them now.”

“Wait, wait, should we?”

“Of course we have to tell them! Besides, they’re bound to figure it out! Who cares when we tell them. It’ll suck no matter what!”

“Okay, but how?”

“We’ll play it by ear.”

True, there were things to be done, plans to be made. Pete was asked to drive down to South Jersey with my Dad (Dad is scheduled to have surgery on his eyes next month) to pick up my mother’s sister. I had to get up to my mother’s house and prepare for a funeral. And, unfortunately, our children were bound to get caught up somewhere among all the chaos.

So, with Hope napping quietly upstairs, we decide to tell the others. I prayed for strength and for the ability to deal with their pain, as well as mine, and their endless questions. This is the first death they’ve had to deal with. We gathered them close in a circle on the living room floor.

Heather, our seven-year-old, was the first to react. She was very close to Mamama. My heart broke to hear her scream, “Why did she have to die?” She collapsed into her father’s arms and had the hardest cry of her little life.

Holly, our nine-year-old, was speechless at first. She stared at me, as if not exactly understanding what we were telling her. She just sat there, shocked out of being able to display any signs of emotion. When Heather’s cries became inconsolable, Holly angrily threw herself onto the living room couch, crossed her arms over her chest and refused to speak to anyone. She wouldn’t allow me to touch her, let alone hug her.

I gently told her that it was okay to be sad. She just shook her head and angrily yelled out, “I knew we should have never left her in that hospital!” and hid her face behind a sea of pillows.

Glen, our four-year-old, frowned and then repeated, “She’s not in the hospital anymore. She’s gone up to heaven.” Then he asked the question that brought fresh tears to my eyes. “Will she be able to come back?”

I was unable to speak from the pain in my throat and slowly shook my head no. He reached for me and began to cry.

We spent a long time on the floor holding them, crying, and answering some their questions . . .

“When did she die?”
“Did her body go up to heaven?”

. . . and avoiding others . . .

“When will I die?"
"Can I go to heaven and see her?”

We kept reassuring them; telling them not to worry about “that” right now. I asked them to remember how sick she was when we last saw her and promised that in heaven, she won’t be sick or sad ever again. I looked to my husband for support, but he was cradling Heather and Glen and I realized that he was also crying.

Once their initial shock subsided, I began to explain what we would be doing in the next few days and that it was okay to feel sad, and it was okay to even cry if they felt the need to. I told them that my mother was very sad too. We had a very important job as her children and grandchildren.

Sniffling and coughing they asked, “What kind of job?”

To go up to Mama’s and Papa’s house and give them a lot our hugs and kisses, because that’s what families do -- help each other through bad times as well as good -- not be so sad and remind ourselves how important we are to each other. I also told them that people would be coming back to our house to remember all the good things about Mamama.

The girls promised to have enough hugs and kisses for everyone, but couldn’t agree to be brave. My son thought he could be brave, but couldn’t promise to give hugs and kisses, because he was afraid that doing so might just make him cry again.

Parenthood is full of surprises, really. I believe that even in the most disturbingly stressful of times, like trying to explain death, I am given a second chance at childhood -- understanding that life is harsh and less than predictable, while eagerly grasping for the smallest fraction of encouragement possible. As a result, I find hope in my children and for our future together -- however long or short it may be.

My intention for this entry was to try and deal with the grief, loss, and anger I feel seeing that Nagy Mama and my mother were robbed of a childhood and how difficult it is for me to make up for the mistakes of the past, without making more than a few of my own.

But all I want to write about now is the serenity.

My wish is that my children will one day appreciate the wonderful years they had with their great-grandmother, be grateful for their childhood, and know that I will continue to be their mother, no matter what. I hope that they will find happiness in her memory.

I know I do.

May you find peace and know that I will always love you very much, my dearest Nagy Mama.

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Copyright 2005 Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson

Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson is a mother to four children and has been married for 13 years to her husband, Pete. Liz also writes a weekly column entitled, Married With A Whole Lot of Children at Just For Mom and has had essays posted at The Imperfect Parent. You can read the ongoing adventures of her life at This Full House, the blog. Liz lives and writes in New Jersey.

The Someday Dress

I bought a dress last spring that I didn’t need for any reason other than I loved it.

That’s not something I usually do. Rather, I tend to wear the same clothes over and over and buy something new only when I really need it.

But this dress called to me. It was red, slightly ruffled and frilly, with an almost indistinct pattern of white leaves running through the delicate material. Best of all it was two pieces: a long skirt which covered droopy thighs and varicose veins and an over-blouse which camouflaged my mid-section bulges. Perfect.

I christened it my “someday” dress and knew I’d wear it for a special occasion one day in the distant future.

Now the future is here. The first week in May my husband and I are going to New Orleans to attend the wedding of his nephew and we’ll have great fun. The best part is that he’s getting married on the same day we’ll celebrate our forty-fifth wedding anniversary. I realize most of you who are reading this probably haven’t even reached the age of forty-five so the thought of being married that long is probably beyond comprehension! But it’s true.

And that’s really the special occasion. The wedding will be wonderful but the fact that we’re still together after forty-five years is the true celebration. It hasn’t been easy and there were many times I wanted to walk away. But when you love you keep on trying; that’s what marriage is – you keep on trying, especially on the bad days, because you want it to work.

We married young, he twenty-three and I twenty-one. We brought our hopes and dreams and insecurities and quirks into a relationship when neither of us had yet had time to mature and find out who we were or what we wanted from life. So off we went on a tumultuous journey of discovery together. And our life evolved. We grew up together, slowly but surely over the years. Compromise emerged as an integral part of our lives.

We had the same problems many couples face: infertility, adoption, job losses, a special needs child, chronic illness and all the demands of raising three children and caring for terminally ill parents. It was a wild ride because these two emotional, stubborn, and often volatile Italians did not usually agree on much of anything. He, the perfectionist who tended toward pessimism and I, the “it’s good enough” optimist were usually at opposite ends of the spectrum. I tease that our relationship is still in the period of adjustment and will remain so until the day we die.

There’s an ease between us now that didn’t exist before. Once our three children were off on their own (although you never stop loving or worrying about them) the tempo in our home became more peaceful in many ways. Leaving the stress of work behind when I retired eight years ago, I was able to relax and finally fill my days with activities I’ve dreamed of pursuing for a lifetime. I’ve stopped nagging and he’s less critical. He laughs more easily and more often and I don’t try to convince him my way is the right way anymore. He’s retired but works full time; I’m retired and love the choice of getting up each morning deciding how to spend my day. He gives me space and I follow along to Home Depot without protest.

The other night I was thinking about all this, wondering how we finally attained this ease and comfort level with each other. Then I remembered his one constant criticism over the years - “stop analyzing everything, especially me” – and I started to laugh. Let it be. I’ll just say a big thank you that our marriage has evolved into something this marvelous without trying to figure it out. With faith and hard work, it comes.

I went shopping today and found the jazziest pair of shoes to wear for the wedding, a perfect match for my “someday” dress. I can’t wait for our anniversary in May, to revel in the festivities of the wedding, and to appreciate again all the hard work we’ve done through the years in order to make it. So – strike up the band and let’s hear that music and start to celebrate. At last it’s time to dance.

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Copyright 2005 Gerry Di Gesu

Gerry is a retired school secretary whose joy is her husband, three children and four grandchildren. Her essays and poems have appeared in a variety of publications, journals and anthologies including The New York Times, Catholic Digest and Cape Women Magazine. Her recently published collection of essays – “Keep Quiet, You’re Only A Girl” – is available on the web from iUniverse.com, amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com E-mail Gerry at digesu7@comcast.net.

It's A Small World After All

I don't want to put the song into everyone's head, but this cliché has become more true to life than it did back when it Disney brought his dream to fruition. Now as a parent, I am struck by the irony of the nearly 300 animated children on that Disney ride all joining together in a chorus.

Technology today has brought us all together, not in a chorus of voices, but in a single voice joined together. It has no ability to distinguish race, gender, sexual orientation, or age. I have often been mistaken as a woman, or as an African-American man. I know that I too have been mistaken on an occasion of thinking I was talking to a father when it turned out I was talking to a mother about the tribulations of breastfeeding.

I have found through the Internet that mothers and fathers across the globe have a single common denominator—parenting. I have met through the use of e-mail, instant messaging, and blogs, an array of parents. I have met single mothers, single dads, parents that have one child, and parents that have many. I have spoken to stay-at-home mothers, stay-at-home dads, and parents that can't find work. They all have the same fears, questions, thoughts, and issues with raising children.

A father in South Africa is having the same problems with sleepless nights that we had our first few weeks with a newborn. A mother in Australia is raising her family with an estranged father, and she struggles to pay her bills and still provide the proper structure of a family unit. A dad that has lost his wife to cancer wonders whether he can handle the adversities of his daughter. A mother that has an absent father, because he represents his family and country in a war in a different part of the world, wonders whether her son has been given enough opportunity to see a how a man handles life.

All of us happen to have the same fears that we cannot provide adequately for our child or we cannot protect them from the evil that may be lurking around the corner. We have the same triumphs when our children reach that milestone of crawling, walking, sitting up, and their first word no matter the language. We know the heartache of a daughter not being asked to the latest dance, and the son that lost the big game. We rejoice in the little things that parents often do, and we take pictures and show them to friends and family, as we chronicle the lives of our offspring.

We experience the same heart-wrenching sorrow as we hear of a loss of a child to disease or other tragedy. As parents, we feel the horror of a missing child, and pray for a child to be returned to a parent and the safety of home. We know when we hear of earthly catastrophes that in every story their lies the tale of a child and a parent and we weep inside hoping for the best. We make fun of that mother dealing with the same thing we dealt with and lived through. We commiserate with that father of a colicky baby that for some reason only knows to cry when Dad's eyelids happen to finally close from exhaustion.

We as a planet of humans, have some common elements to our existence. Happiness, sorrow, pain, and love all have a place in the heart of a parent and a child. Whenever I think that I am alone in this job as a father, I can easily look into the thoughts and ideas of many others. Not only can we lean across the fence and ask for advice of the next door neighbor, but the Internet has given us the ability to hear how a Mother in England has dealt with the croup, how a father in South America feels about changing his 14th diaper in two days, and how each time it seemed worse than the last.

The adage is that "it takes a village", but I say we have more than a just a village -- we have the world. My hope is we are able to have technology lead us all down the path of peace and understanding where my neighbor is merely a touch of a keyboard away. Perhaps we can achieve the world peace we so much long for by simply typing a simple greeting to that parent on the other side of the world.

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Copyright 2005 Jim Turner

Jim Turner is the father to Annika (5) and Jake (4) and newborn, Aidan James. Jim keeps a daily blog called Genuine in which he shares his whimisical musings on fatherhood.

Mairamou

I spent two years in a small, rural village called Lokoti when I was a Peace Corps volunteer in Cameroon, West Africa. I shared a compound with a young, Muslim family. Siddiki was extremely tall, thin, and soft spoken. He kept his distance and was decent, hardworking tailor. His seventeen-year-old wife, Mairamou, pretended to be shy, but she was a force to be reckoned with.

Not long before I arrived, Mairamou gave birth to her first child, a girl named Fiza. When I entered the compound for the first time, I tried to introduce myself to Mairamou, but she just giggled, shook her head to inform me that she didn't speak French, placed her newborn baby in my arms, and ran off to hide. I tried not to panic. I had never held a baby before.

During the two years that we lived together, Mairamou taught me everything from Fulfulde (her language) to how to wash clothes, dishes, and myself, my dog, and her baby in a bucket of water, although not at the same time, of course. With a wardrobe and a location change, Mairamou could be a typical American teenager. She liked to wear my headphones, dance around my living room, ride my bike (with Fiza strapped on back), henna my hands and feet, braid my hair, and unknowingly get me to eat unusual food. A typical conversation: "Do you like cow stomach?" "No I don't eat cow stomach." Her laughing, "You liked cow stomach yesterday!"

It didn't take long for Mairamou and Fiza to become permanent fixtures in my house and in my life. I woke up every morning to Mairamou shouting, "Umu! Umu! Umu!"(Get up! Get up! Gt up!) outside of my window. We spent our days hanging out on the porch, playing with Fiza and Donc (my dog), sometimes visiting neighbors or going to the market, and doing chores. I went to bed every night after having dinner with them. I referred to Mairamou as dada (mother) and she called me her bingel (baby).

When I was in Lokoti, I was quite a spectacle. Not only for my white skin and my nationality, but because I was a woman over the age of eighteen who didn't have a husband or any children. I knew nothing of having or raising babies, despite my title of "Maternal/Child Health Volunteer." Looking back, that was probably a good thing. I didn't have a preconceived notion of how things "should" be. Granted I had seen pictures of babies wearing diapers and sucking on bottles in their cribs. But I quickly adjusted to seeing small girls carrying a sibling on their back, mothers nursing on bush taxis and in the market, and parents sharing a bed with their children as if completely normal and natural.

After a while, it didn't even seem strange to have a Cameroonian woman come up to me, grab my breasts, and tell me how "good" they were. Meaning, I COULD and SHOULD nurse many, many babies.

Now that I am a mother, I realize how much I learned about parenting from Mairamou and other Cameroonians. Had I not spent two years livng in Lokoti, the idea of having my baby at home would never have occurred to me. If I didn't know that Mairamou and millions of women before had done it, I never would have had the courage to even try it.

I may never know if my being in Cameroon had any effect or did any good. People often assume that Peace Corps volunteers are selflessly saving the world, but I got much more than I gave. I hope I can return one day and tell Mairamou that knowing her shaped who I am today. I'd also like to tell her that she and the other women were right about my breasts!

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Copyright 2005 Stacey Greenberg

Stacey Greenberg is an anthropologist, writer, and creator of the zine, Fertile Ground: For People who Dig Parenting. She lives in Memphis, Tennessee, with her husband and two young sons.