the growing obesity epidemic

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power

I found this commencement speech by Samantha Power to be inspiring in so many ways. It made me admire her work. It reminded me of my responsibility to the country. It bolstered my confidence in Barack Obama.

That's not the most important part, though. As I sat alone in the Lost Dog Cafe, gnawing on pizza, I was moved to tears by her fourth lesson. In the context of all of the larger truths, Power muses on the importance of friendship. Her words reminded me of how blessed I am to know so many honorable people who are doing their teeny-weeny part to make the world a better place--and who pass the "morbid but telling test" she describes:

"During the Bosnia war, none of us could have predicted where we would end up. Nor that, twelve years later, we would still be drinking together, laughing our heads off together and nursing one another through personal disappointment and loss. Each of us in our own small way is trying to make the world a teeny-weeny bit better, but I can't think of the last time any of us has discussed war, justice or politics with one another. We discuss books, baseball and boys. We cry together when it is warranted, but mainly we laugh. My, how we laugh...

I'm not sure who among us developed what will sound like a pretty warped standard for love. But one among us asked of a man she was seeing, "If I had to become a refugee, could I do it with him?" In my friend's case, the guy flunked and was given the boot. But that question, that standard, has remained with me. If you lost your creature comforts, if Katrina struck your neighborhood, who could make you laugh, care for you, remain curious about you and retain your curiosity? Each of my family members and my closest friends passes this morbid but telling test with a resounding yes. Lesson Number Four, then, is that when it comes to fighting the good fight, there is no fuel like friendship."

R.I.P. Tim Spicer

This week's front page news in Washington D.C. has been all about a black man who was murdered. Over the years that I have lived here, I would venture to say that hundreds of black men have been senselessly murdered within the city limits, but I don't recall a single instance where those murders were announced by a huge banner headline. The man mourned in these headlines wasn't even killed in D.C.; he was killed in Florida. Why does his tragic death matter so much more than the others?

Because he was paid a lot of money to play football.

At least one article seemed to pay attention to the sad truth that some deaths receive more attention. City leaders call on the Redskins to use their media power to draw attention to the epidemic of violence: "Celebrities have the potential to help us reach these kids," said Rhozier Brown of the Alliance for Concerned Men. "We're the nation's capital. This might be a rallying cry to get the Redskins to the table, because we need everybody's help. The Redskins need to help. Please, Mr. [Daniel] Snyder and Mr. [Joe] Gibbs. It's halftime. We need you."

I hope the Redskins use their power to speak for all of these anonymous victims. I doubt they will.

Laugh so loud everybody in the world frowns and says, "Shhhh."

It's such a nice thing to find the just right poem. I did it today.

bridget's secret

I am not a regular customer at Victoria's Secret, but they have recently undertaken some novel marketing techniques that seem to indicate we are a better fit for one another than I thought. Not only are the pants named for me, I even like them!

the politics of baseball

I sat in a sports bar waiting for the volunteer meeting of Arlingtonians for Barack Obama to begin. The press had just reported that Rodham Clinton is significantly ahead in fundraising, and the mood of the gathering was a little shaky.

A huge projection of a Red Sox-Indians game loomed over us as we discussed strategies to get Obama elected. I found myself thinking that the juxtaposition of the ever hopeful, rarely successful Sox against the ever hopeful and struggling Obama, might not bode well. But now I'm starting to wonder . . .

I'm not much for baseball lore, but if Democratic nominee Obama's Cubs are in the Series in '08, I'll sabotage the game myself to keep them from winning. Underdogs are great and everything, but last time a baseball curse was broken in a Democratic hopeful's hometown in October, November was a disastrous month.

political hair

I walked into the doctor's office this week, and the receptionist looked at my hair, which is currently blonde on top with a streak of pink right in the front, and inquired, "Is that for breast cancer awareness?"

I smiled, paused, considered. "Yes. And even I wasn't aware."

"I didn't know you were a Red Sox fan."

My status as a fan is debatable. I own a hat. If there is a game around and I am near it, I will watch it. The rules change in mid-October, though. If the Sox are still in the playoffs at that point, it's a whole new ball game.

For me, rooting for the Red Sox to win it all is a kind of ancestor worship. I have to sit still for numbing hours and consider the generations of people related to me who didn't live to see the miracle of October 2004. I think of their long years of suffering, knowing the Sox would lose, continuing to hope that they would win. My mother is from Massachusetts. I grew up learning about Salem witches, loving Hobbes's popcorn at Salem Willows, and hearing about how "next year" the Red Sox would take it all.

It's really unfortunate that the Boston franchise isn't called "Yankees" because the attitude of the team's fans reflects the true definition of the word--toiling, hopeful, New Englanders. Red Sox fans just aren't like other people. They're zealots. I watched half of this commercial before realizing it was fictional.

I sit. I watch. Admittedly, my devotion is a bit questionable. Where was I in the long hours of June (walking in Spain)? In the boring days of August (Loudoun County)? In the tense early days of October (Haiti--which is right near the Dominican Republic, which means I was pretty much attending a Red Sox game)?

Since 2004, have we become the behemoth overtalented enterprise that we despised? Are we just a big money franchise with overblown personalities? People try to pick fights with these claims. I shrug. Probably. Who cares? We're in the Series.

A friend who is a Yankees fan physically assaulted me last night and tried to confiscate my baseball cap. She's small and has a hurt knee. I wrestled her to the ground, ignoring her fake cries of pain. Others came to her aid, but I took my hat and left her lying there, whimpering. I forgot to ask what she and the other New Yorkers were doing tonight.

Yesterday someone asked me, "Do you think they're going to sweep it?"
I stared back blankly. "My Red Sox? No way."

I don't watch because I need to see them win; I watch because I feel like it's my responsibility to watch them screw it up. When it’s 11:30 at night and I have to get up at 5 and the Red Sox are up by 10 runs in the 7th inning, I can’t go to sleep. Please. That game is not over. Ten runs? Any Red Sox fan would understand how profoundly our team can implode in a mere 2.5 innings. Twenty runs is not a sufficient lead for them. Forty might be okay.

We might have won once, but we haven't lost our defining spirit of inevitable doom laced with hope. Red Sox fans know that we are not winners; it's part of our identity. We aren't exactly losers, though, not anymore. I'm not sure what the word is for us, though I'm sure the Germans have one.

Red Sox fans believe through clenched teeth, shaking our heads woefully. We believe right up until the moment when we bite it. But we doubt with the same vehemence. I think it will take generations before Red Sox fans start acting like winners. Perhaps I’ll sit a child on my knee and explain one day, “In 2004, when I was 30 years old, Nana and I sat together and cried when the Red Sox won it all . . .”

For now, it doesn't matter how much money or talent we have, we know that we'll probably crash and burn. Losing that pessimistic optimism would be like taking away a little of my childhood, like killing off Santa Claus. The Red Sox are never one out away from winning. They are one out away from fucking it all up.

As for 2007, we're bound to screw it up soon and begin breathing through our beery breath the muttered chant of New England: "Next year. Next year."

I'll be watching for you, Papa, just in case it's this year.

liberty of the seapools

On the final night of our seven day, 22 person family cruise, I turned to my teenaged nephew Rob. "Nana said she was worried that you were the one who wouldn't have a good time." He looked at me with utter incredulity. He had the same look on his face as though I had just told him that I was unsure whether he would like it if I bought him a new Camaro for his 16th birthday. He was right; it was that good.

We surfed, boogie boarded, Scrabbled, snorkeled, air hockeyed, danced, ice skated, attended shows, swam with stingrays, drank, hot tubbed, jet skiied, rock climbed, golfed, played basketball, gambled, and ate and ate and ate and ate. It was phenomenal.

We laughed. We laughed a lot.

When my parents were making plans for the trip, they told me that they were spending our inheritance. It was a great investment.

heroes

I find it troubling that in our culture, dead soldiers are automatically, unquestionably lauded as heroes. While I don't agree that dying in a war is necessarily brave or valiant, Washington Post reporter Salih Saif Aldin, who died in the line of duty while serving as a journalist in Iraq, sounds like a hero to me. I honor him and thank him for his service.