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Hammering the Church … they started it …

Posted in Children, History, My Chinese Checkered Past, Religion, World politics on May 4, 2010| 4 Comments »

There are some who might accuse me of Pope-bashing or, at least, hammering the Catholics … shall we say? … mercilessly.

Well … yeah. But they started it.

All those centuries of burnings and beatings and such rather set a precedent for showing no mercy, and, gee, all I do is give a tongue lashing, and like Blacks can use the “N” word, girls who grew up in the bat-like shadow of Sister Mary Stanislaus and her ilk have license to lash.

Yes, I was a Catholic girl, although I didn’t start that much too late, and had my share of rotten treatment at the hands of black-clad despots, so bear with me.

This story raises a host of ghosts, and we ain’t talking little white bread dots.

… current research and expert opinion suggest that men within the Catholic Church may be no more likely than others to abuse, and that the prevalence of abuse by priests has fallen sharply in the last 20-30 years.

How’s that for missing more than one point in one go?

First, let’s look at the “research” … and feel free to note my bolding of type and call it hammering if you like:

The best-known study on sex abuse by Catholic priests was published in the US, by the John Jay College of Criminal Justice. Commissioned by the US Conference of Catholic Bishops …

Well, grab my head and stick it down a baptismal font! That attribution drips.

Moving right along to more on the point-missing, how’s this?

“The real problem is an abuse of authority, the duty of care that pastors have to their flocks,” says the British historian, and former member of the Jesuit Catholic order, Michael Walsh.

“This has been abused and that is the greatest scandal – that’s what is systemic, rather than sex abuse.”

No, Father Michael … the real problem is that kids have been getting fucked by priests, and the fact that church dudes in big hats and dresses did everything in their vast powers to make sure nobody ever did a thing about it, and that tactics that guaranteed this were engrained into the fabric more clearly than the face on the Turin shroud, just made it more fun.

Trotting out stats is often a dodge, and here’s a classic case of the trots used to suggest that: “There is a big gap between the reality and the public debate … ”

Overall, from 2001-2010 the Vatican has considered sex abuse allegations concerning about 3,000 priests dating back up to 50 years, according to figures given last month by Monsignor Charles J Scicluna, who as the Vatican’s Promoter of Justice heads the office that investigates such cases.

Though the cases were spreading geographically, “the phenomenon itself is much reduced,” he said, noting that there are 400,000 priests worldwide.

Sorry, but the cases the Vatican “has considered about sex abuse allegations” hardly qualifies these numbers as hard data.

My favorite bit of gospel though is this line:

“Celibacy can indeed be a challenge but the vast majority of sexual abuse is not committed by celibates … “

I’ll be charitable and assume this means theoretical celibates …

There’s more, but I have kids to bathe, and if anyone tries to sprinkle them bashing and hammering will happen.

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RWP: “Forty predators of press freedom” … and what’s really dangerous (hint: ends with Palin)

Posted in History, Island life, My Chinese Checkered Past, Seychelles, Smarten up, The USA from the outside in, World politics, tagged , , on May 3, 2010| 7 Comments »

Confession: I was a junkie.

No, I’m not talking drugs here … although given the decades I was misspending my youth I was far from circumspect, but that’s not what this post is about.

This is about news. I was hooked on it.

Starting in high school, I have written for newspapers, worked in TV newsrooms, yapped away on radio and made money keeping track of media coverage for companies, lawyers and folks whose babies won beauty contests. I’ve followed murder cases and exploding Fords, sticking 45-second clips onto reels that run for days … in the process stamping permanent images of mayhem to the inside of my eyelids.

For much of my adult life, mornings didn’t begin until the radio clicked on at about the same time the newspaper hit the doorstep, and my coffee always came with opinions.

Rehab for me was a small island in a big ocean a long way from everywhere else where there was one TV station that aired 5 minutes of news in English … didn’t matter, since I had no TV … and a newspaper that consisted of 8 pages. And … there’s no news on Sunday.

Cold turkey is ugly, and I suffered, right up to the time I shook the yoke of the constant flow of information on world happenings and it dawned on me that horrible shit can happen without me having to know about it.

I have learned to be a social imbiber of news, taking in what interests, educates or elucidates and allows me to participate in dialog with others likewise motivated to keep up with some of what is going on beyond the inside of our own front doors.

This being the case, this year’s Reporters Without Borders report listing “Forty predators of press freedom” has me tipsy enough to actually put a blog post together.

It’s a disturbing read:

There are 40 names on this year’s list of Predators of Press Freedom – 40 politicians, government officials, religious leaders, militias and criminal organisations that cannot stand the press, treat it as an enemy and directly attack journalists. They are powerful, dangerous, violent and above the law.

There are few surprises, as it doesn’t take an article addict to have the dope on regimes like those in North Korea and Burma and know that journalistic freedom doesn’t even blip on the radar of rights denied. Zimbabwe, Russia, China, Saudi Arabia, Cuba … ditto. Spain was a bit of a surprise, but that’s an ETA thing, apparently, like Italy’s issues with organized crime taking a toll on truth-telling in print or broadcast.

Personally, I’m not at all happy to see Mexico named as among the most dangerous countries for journalists, having had 62 killed in the last decade, and I’m happy Ernesto is a musician, not a reporter.

But back to my recovering news junkie status and how I’m dealing with this infusion of inclusion in the goings-on.

Strong arm tactics, murder, intimidation … yeah, yeah, yeah. Reporters will balls have dealt with this since Grag covered Yurk’s attempt to take over the cave by hiding the mammoth meat.

Quite frankly, all the predators described by RWB don’t scare me half as much as Fox News.

It’s not vicious attacks on reporters that will crumble the fourth estate to dust, but pretty people passing palatable pap to the people … the vapid to the vacuous.

Far more insidious and likely to put an end to journalism as we once knew it … Sarah Palin clothed as credible.

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Jaren’s birthday, and a story …

Posted in Children, Family, Loss, love, My Chinese Checkered Past, tagged on February 17, 2010| 18 Comments »

Jaren kissing me goodbye on his way to a party

Another year has passed and today would have been Jaren’s 45th birthday. That is almost as hard for me to grasp as the fact that he’s not here for it. It is the day to repost this …

February 17, 1971 … 7:41 am … welcome to the world, Jaren Eli Combes!

I’ve written a lot about Jaren, but one story worth repeating comes from the day of his birth and is one he liked to hear, so I’ll repeat it:

Once upon a time, in a decade and hemisphere far, far away …

Delivery of my second bio child was pretty easy. Only seven hours of labor, then a straightforward delivery (Yes, I suppose there’s a pun in there somewhere.) was a welcome relief after the twenty-four-plus hours I’d put in bringing his older sister into the world. It had been only eighteen months since I’d done all this before, so I was much more relaxed and quite happy to hand off my new son for his after-birth cleanup having conducted nothing more than a quick count of fingers, toes and other appendages, assuring myself that everything was in the right number and the right place.

A couple of hours later, I was resting comfortably and chatting with the new first-time mom in the bed next to mine. Feeling quite the old hand … at all of nineteen … I was experiencing little of the anxiety my roommate suffered as she waited for the first post-birth contact with her newborn. With a toddler at home, I was happy enough to have some peace and quite for the very short time I’d be allowed.

Soon enough though, a nurse entered the room with an armful of bundled baby that she carefully placed in my arms. Once again using the skills I’d mastered over the past year and a half, I easily unwrapped the little tyke for his first thorough inspection.

Sure enough, the fingers and toes were fine and he looked the picture of health. That was, as it always is, such a wonderful relief after nine months of involuntarily conjuring some worst-possible scenarios in a hormone-overloaded mind.

What he was not, however, was pretty. In fact, he was pretty ugly. His face resembled a road-squashed potato as much as anything else, and straggles of black hair wove around a veiny, lumpy, scaly head. He was very long and ropey, with scrawny arms and legs and a distended abdomen that sported a red and puffy umbilicus anyone could see would end up being a very prominent outie.

“Oh, my,” I’m sure I sighed loudly while I examined my homely little bundle of joy. “And his sister was so pretty when she was born…”

My roommate took serious issue with my evaluation, insisting that all babies are beautiful. I explained that his unfortunate appearance did not in any way hinder my deep and abiding motherly love, nor did it mean he’d not eventually become less of a gnome, but he was certainly NOT beautiful in any classic sense of the word.

“Just look at him,” I said, holding the tiny guy up so she could get a good look from her bed. “Really now, all love aside, he is an ugly baby.”

She was on the verge of agreeing when, right about then, the nurse came back with another bundle.

“Sorry,” she announced, “but I’ve made a mistake.”

Uh oh.

“This baby,” she said, indicating the one she held, “is yours, Sandra.”

Please, no. Please, no. Please, no!

“So, this one?” I barely could bring myself to ask …

“Is hers,” the nurse said sweetly as she reached to swaddle the naked little baby I held.

My roommate had the nurse pull the curtain between our beds and never spoke to me again. Her husband shot me furious glances when he visited over the next couple of days, but never said a word, either.

I often wonder if they tell this story.

By the way, my son was beautiful! He still is.

Jaren lived only thirty-eight and a bit years … today would have been his 39th birthday … and I can so easily pull up those moments of the first meeting between us … his huge blue, blue eyes that just got bluer as he grew … sugar bowl ears he eventually grew into … baby boy all pink and new and smelling sweet … tiny hands and feet that gave no clue of the 6’5″+ frame he filled out … the smile that never stopped lighting up any room …

I miss him.

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Longing for the days when you could long for the days …

Posted in My Chinese Checkered Past on January 28, 2010| 2 Comments »

My dear friend, Grasshopper, posted this cartoon on his facebook page this morning and kick-started a mental process that’s been lingering through a frustrating day of hoop-jumping, so I’m grateful.

Being a big fan of experiencing deja vu all over again, sentimental longings attached to wistful recall are some of my fav paths to wander, and since I’ve been either blessed or cursed … pick one … with a frighteningly prodigious capacity for reconstituting memories in accurate detail and proportion, those trips down the M Lane are frequently called for.

Those who know me well used me often in the recent past as a depository … repository? … suppository? … of shared memories, keeping their own brains free of the flotsam and jetsam and thereby roomier for present-day experiences, realizing how much easier it would be to phone me when needing to reconjure anything from our childhood phone number to the name of the dog who played the dog on “Topper” and all the words to the theme song from “Mr. Ed”.

As the comic strip suggests, however, there’s now some social media online for everything but the phone number … and maybe even that, soon. It’s a huge leap in consciousness for our species when decades past are clickable and common experiences of one generation leak into the next.

Although my puny human brain can almost grasp the concept of non-linear time, such easy access to pivotal past moments is a bit disconcerting, and I do rather long for the days when I could long for the days …

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Another year ends … Head ’em up! Mooooove ’em out!

Posted in Family, Health, Loss, love, My Chinese Checkered Past on December 31, 2009| 10 Comments »

This time last year, I was digesting the news that my ex-husband had killed himself and foolishly thinking that 2009 would HAVE to be a better year.

Well … I’m done with those sorts of thoughts.

“Things can’t get any worse” is a phrase that will never again cross my lips or enter into my mind, and this year has provided proof absolute that worse happens, as I thought I had stressed sans equivocation in my last post.

Just when I thought it was safe to go back into the summing up pool … after a year fraught with uncertainty, fights and fear, disappointment, betrayal, and hitting an all time low with the sudden death of my son … hoping against hope that the last few days of this horrid year would slither by without creating one more drop of misery, my mother was taken into hospital. THEN, after surgery to correct the issue that was making her miserable, she had a heart attack. Yesterday.

So … another year ends, and although I am very glad to see the back of it, hoping for better in the next one feels too much like tempting the fates to fuck things up even worse. I still have a lot to lose.

Wish me no Happy New Year. Keep all Hallmark admonishments to put on a smiley face, party like a rock star, make the most of it … blah, blah, blah.

I’m tired, my friends.

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Herding hyenas and other attempts at sorting out a new year …

Posted in Hopeful thoughts, I wanna, Loss, love, My Chinese Checkered Past on December 26, 2009| 2 Comments »

For last year’s words belong to last year’s language And next year’s words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning. ~T.S. Eliot

If there’s one thing the past couple of years have taught me, it would be to never assume things can’t get worse. They can. They do. And 2009 stands as an example of just how faulty my thinking was at the dawning of this year.

To say that I approach the closing of this admittedly arbitrary bunching of days with some sense of relief would be accurate, although no little trepidation accompanies the heralding of 2010.

Much like an attempt at herding hyenas, I formulate plans, well aware that so few factors lie within my control … or even influence … and try to prepare for contingencies that range beyond the boundaries of the comfortably conceivable all the way into OMG!-if-that-happens-I-won’t-make-it-this-time territory.

At the same time, I take onboard frequent admonitions to think positively, to take the bull-of-the-future by the horns and wrestle it into submission, in the hope that thoughts are things and we can create our own reality.

With that in mind, I’m dwelling at length on options I do have and taking T.S. Eliot’s words to heart. The whole “to make an end is to make a beginning” resonates and puts a spin on endings I can warm to.

With this holiday season being about as dreary and miserable as I can take, a determination to form a 2010 that will close to a more upbeat finale has formed, and it’s very likely that to begin that ending I may have to stamp “DONE” to quite a few aspects of my present, stop listening to “last year’s words” and await another voice.

Life is, however, a process and 365 days of the coming year will toss a lot of flotsam into whatever pool I manage to dam up. Some will float and some will sink and some may even be fun to play with for a while. My job now is to clear the debris and find somewhere to stand that won’t have me constantly treading water.

Now if I can just stop with the metaphors …

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If walls could talk …

Posted in History, My Chinese Checkered Past, science, Smarten up, Women's rights, World politics, tagged , , , on September 3, 2009| 2 Comments »

Photo Credit: AFP

Photo Credit: AFP

Archeology has long been an interest of mine, and if my life had gone according to plans made when I was about nine I would have spent a good deal of time digging around places like the Olduvai Gorge, doing my utmost to follow Mary Leakey’s immense footsteps, or looking for the roots of Quetzalcoatl at Tenochtitlan.

Of course, it turns out that John Lennon was right … life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans … but the physical evidence of history continues to fascinate me.

This story demanded my attention today, and set me toward a mental meander I’ve been wandering for hours.

A 3,700-year-old wall has been discovered in east Jerusalem, Israeli archaeologists say.

The structure was built to protect the city’s water supply as part of what dig director Ronny Reich described as the region’s earliest fortifications.

The 26-ft (8-m) high wall showed the Canaanite people who built it were a sophisticated civilisation, he said.

I’ll completely ignore the mention of the fact that the guy in charge of the dig has the surname “Reich” and move along to the more salient points, one being the stunningly naive statement attributed to him about the wall showing “… the Canaanite people who built it were a sophisticated civilization” that I’m hoping was an under-educated reporter’s version and not words actually uttered by an archeologist.

Considering that the Canaanites came up with the alphabet … their city of Byblos was the inspiration for the Greek word for book and hence Bible … figured out how to navigate and set up major ports and trading posts from Britain to Africa shipping and selling everything from salt to wine to ebony, started the first lending institutions, and had a system of government that included legal rights for women that allowed them to sue, invest and even adopt children, a wall that managed to stick around for almost 4,000 years seems superfluous to need when it comes to defining “sophisticated civilization”.

Even slaves … and everyone had slaves in those days … got a fair shake:

As was commonplace in the ancient days, there were slaves, but laws protected them from mistreatment and authorized payment to them in redress of grievances. They could earn their own money, purchasing property and eventually their own freedom. A freed slave could reach high office.

Let’s also not forget that the Canaanites were named for the color purple …Kinakhu: the purple people .. since they were the only source for the die that indicates royalty to this day.

Jump ahead 3,700 years … Shall we? … and take a gander at our modern world and the progress humankind has made in almost 4 millennia. We could start with the fact that the method of making purple from sea snails is a long-lost art, then move along to the mess the Middle East is so well known for these days, as witnessed by reaction to the discovery of this old wall:

Critics say Israel uses such projects as a political tool to bolster Jewish claims to occupied Palestinian land.

Perhaps if ancient walls could talk we’d learn a lesson or two. If nothing else, maybe we’d rethink our arrogance, our perpetual self-congratulatory back patting over our advancements, our short-sighted claims of enlightenment, and realize that we’ve not come a long way, Baby, at all.

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Pulling on the “big girl panties” …

Posted in England, Entitled to opinions, Hopeful thoughts, My Chinese Checkered Past, Sex, Smarten up, Women's rights, tagged , , on August 21, 2009| 26 Comments »

I wrote the other day about a ghastly new law that allows Afghan husbands to starve wives that refuse sex … a story that garnered outrage and inspired an onslaught of “united condemning”, as utterly useless as that may be, from many corners of the world.

Fine.

Dandy.

Aren’t we in the developed world just oh-so-smug in our condemnation of those who trample on women? Or are we?

A couple of stories in today’s news slap back that idea a tad.

First, from the UK … and Gordon Brown was amongst the loud singers in the anti-Afghan choir … this little ditty on domestic abuse in that country and how they are just getting around to, and falling short of, protecting women from beatings.

The Home Office says conviction rates among those cases which make it to court have risen from 60% to 72% over four years. However, some charities have previously noted a rise in reports of domestic violence as a result of the economic downturn.

Refuge, a charity which helps victims of domestic violence, has welcomed the changes to the rules on restraining orders. But it says it is essential the government provides the courts and the police with the resources and training to implement the orders effectively.

Well, there’s a thought …

And from a society that considers itself very well behaved, this out of Japan:

… the world’s second-biggest economy ranked 54th in the world in terms of gender equality.

It was concerned over the low legal penalty for rape and the widespread availability in Japan of violent pornography …

Add this to a 6-month waiting period between marriages that applies only to women, “unequal laws on marriage, the treatment of women in the labour market and the low representation of women on elected bodies”, and other facts of life faced by women in Japan daily, and that modern culture can stop thumbing its nose.

I am in no way condoning what’s going on in Afghanistan, but shaking my head over … and my finger at … a gender gap that exists in 2009. And what is with that?

Come on, ladies … we outnumber them, so why do we still put up with this shit in huge numbers?

I’m as guilty as the next broad, I know, when it comes to buying into the “less-than” bullshit, and that pisses me off with me.

It dawned only recently that, contrary to what my ex rammed down my throat, I actually CAN speak Creole and drive at night … even at the same time when required. Go figure! Yes, he had me convinced that both were beyond my tiny capabilities and that I needed him to talk and drive for me.

BOLLOCKS … on a plate, chopped and salted …

Why did I buy this sack full of bogus and limiting shit? Ya got me, but I did, and for a long time.

So, slap me sideways and call me a pussy … and while you’re at it, wake the power within and help the world’s women to put on their big girl panties. We’ve been wimps for way too long.

And, you know what? Those men in charge? They’re nothing special …

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Growing up lessons

Posted in Family, Health, Hopeful thoughts, My Chinese Checkered Past, Older women, On getting older on August 9, 2009| 8 Comments »

KeaneI’ve been spending a lot of time in contemplation of much these days, gazing at every inch of the elephant of sorrow and each cell that makes up the blue whale of regrets, trying to make this puny human learn where the process leads.

Contrary to popular opinion in some circles, this old shell has not hardened beyond the capacity to grow, and I’m finding out that I can, indeed, fit a lot more under the hood.

Although it will come, this is not to be a post about deep stirrings of my psychic soup, but rather a few shallow observations of what has risen to the surface as I attempt to suss out the makings of me. I will, eventually, I’m sure, ride the remorse leviathan and live to blog about lessons learned from the journey, but today I want to talk about eyes. Mine, to be specific, my relationship with both of them and a surprising new vision.

I have come to hear quite recently that my eyes are one of my better features. I write these words with trepidation and disbelief, having spent the better part of fifty years wishing I had a different set. Having formed much of my self-image at the time Keane art was plastered all over the place and Twiggy’s was the face to aspire to, my Hanks eyes seemed inadequate, and since that message was underscored often enough by my wide-eyed mother, I accepted what seemed fact that beauty was to evade me because I was so unowl-like.

It’s only been recently that I’ve stopped doing all I could to minimize my boobs, too, after years of being embarrassed by the copious chestage I developed early in life, and I do wonder what an early comfort with … perhaps even some appreciation for … my physical form might have produced in the way of positive outcomes.

Would I have made better choices in life if I’d felt more worthy? I’m fairly sure that would have been the case, since I am aware of the impact of unworthiness and where it led.

I understand well that standard beauty is a product aggressively marketed, and I also feel that no harm was meant as the underlying theme of “not quite pretty” was repeated throughout my formative years, but I am pissed off that it’s taken me this long to start feeling comfortable in my skin, especially since it’s heading south.

Lessons?

Well …

I love the fact that Sam and Cj know to their bones that they are beautiful and understand that it is my job to continue to arm them with the confidence they will need when the world hints that they are in some way falling short.

I’m also rather pleased that I can manage to feel pretty … when I take the time to fix myself up … finally.

I still have a long way to go on the “worthy” business, but realizing this does make it easier to relax the reflex judgment muscle that’s been honed over the years, and that’s an energy saver.

And although it’s neither easy, nor comfortable, I’m pleased I’m still climbing the learning curve, as resting on laurels would just give me a fat ass.

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Jaren Eli Combes 17 Feb. 1971 – 2 June 2009 … R.I.P. my son …

Posted in Children, Family, love, My Chinese Checkered Past on June 4, 2009| 63 Comments »

My son, Jaren, just a couple of months ago

My son, Jaren, just a couple of months ago

My son, Jaren, died suddenly in Los Angeles on Tuesday. He was 38-years-old, having been born on the 17th of February in 1971. (I remember that day like it was yesterday … )

Jaren was, hands down, the smartest human being I have ever known, and the funniest by a long shot. His heart was bigger than his talent, and that’s saying something.

He was a song writer, a guitarist, a singer, a writer, a comic, a bartender, kind, loving, forgiving … a gentle giant of a man who cuddled kittens as often as he tossed obnoxious assholes out of the path of nice people.

Not a simple man, nor always easy, his depth was sometimes missed as his wit took the lead, but no one could know him for long without experiencing a touch of his brilliance.

My life was blessed by him, and losing this son of mine has broken my heart.

I am leaving for California tomorrow night. While there I hope to meet with all his friends, hear all their stories, and feel all the love.

If you are on facebook, please see the group site dedicated to him for details and to read comments from so many who loved him:

Please visit his band’s MySpace page to listen to his voice, his music, his lyrics and his guitar, and his personal page to read a bit of his humor.

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