Bunnies

My mom emailed from Sweden that she needs a bunny. This clearly doesn't mean anything to you, but it is code in my family for being homesick. It all started when I spent the summer I was 17 living in Tokyo. I desperately missed my friends and was homesick for my family. I made an unfortunate choice of literature to take with me: On the Road and Walden. Two books that made America appear to be the promised land and I was still uncynical enough to believe it was just that. On the Road made me feel cramped on a tiny island where I couldn't drive, and Walden emphasized the enormity of the city that spread out around me, bigger than anything I have ever imagined.

Of course, it isn't as though I was miserable the whole time; I loved learning to ride the subway by matching Japanese characters on maps and those on the subway lines. I loved crossing the Shibuya intersection and imagining someone looking down from above and seeing my blond head in a sea of black. I loved the new flavors, customs, smells, sights, language. The culture shock was intense- it had all the force of a physical electric shock and would hit me continually throughout the day and night. I longed for that level of shock when I was in Israel and in Europe, but nothing compared. I don't know if anything ever will compare to that first time abroad without my family in one of the world's biggest cities.

Most of the time, I was fine, but whenever I would talk to my mom, I would sob into the phone line, "I am having a really great time. I love it here...". I'd hang up the phone and be ok again, until the next call. The day after one of these calls, I received an airmail package. I couldn't imagine what was important enough to rate the most expensive express mail price. I opened the box and in it was my mom's stuffed bunny. There was a note that said, "I wish I could be there to hug you in person, but since I can't be, I am sending Bradley instead. Love, Mom. PS. This is only a loan." Bradley helped immensely. He was a tie between my home and Tokyo and during those lonely mornings when I would awaken to the sound of crows at 4 am, he was my best and only companion.

The next summer, I backpacked in Europe by myself. For part of the time, I met my friend, Laurel, her family, and lovely friends of the family who lived in Orleans. I started learning French, we ate incredible food including a home cooked meal for July 4th that they tried to make as American as possible; complete with what was supposed to be egg salad (quail eggs on a stick) and pasta salad that was drowning in so much white wine I felt guilty giving it a polite taste. We went to a nearby farm and picked fresh berries, and explained to an uncomprehending farmer why I couldn't drink his homemade currant wine. Fortunately, the postman pedaled down the dirt road in time to drink my share.

When I was getting ready to leave this near paradise, Laurel's mom told me she had something for me. She returned from her room with a stuffed bunny half the size of Bradley and about the size of my forearm. "Your mom asked me to give you this," she said. "She wanted something small enough to fit in your backpack. I felt silly, since 18 seemed too old for stuffed animals. I worried someone would see it at one of the hostels and realize that I was what I feared: a little girl in disguise. At the same time, there were plenty of nights when I smuggled the bunny into my sheets with me and held him close.

The next year, I went to Sweden and right before I left, my mom and step-dad presented me with yet another bunny. This one fit comfortably in the palm of my hand. "The bunnies get smaller every time, because you are becoming more and more independent, but we still didn't want you to get lonely," said my step-dad. "Your step-dad picked it out himself," my mom said.

When my friends were homesick in Sweden, I'd loan them the bunny. We all knew it was silly, and yet, somehow it worked. One day, my friend was extra sad, so I handed her my bunny, her bunny, and a stuffed moose someone had given my while living in Sweden. After that, we'd rate a hard day by how many bunnies it took to make us feel better. "It's been a two bunny day," I'd report to her after the end of a challenging day. When she left Sweden, she made me a book called "Chicken Soup for the Soul in Sweden: For those two-bunny-and-a-moose days".

It's been 10 years. I've lived in multiple cities and countries since then and that bunny has been to every one with me. He keeps watch over my bedroom these days. If my mom had an address, I'd send him to her and share the comfort. I just don't think that a package labeled:

Mom
A ship
Somewhere in the Baltic
Close to Sweden

is going to make it there.

Clothing Swap

"Who the hell does that?" my friend's husband asked his friend. "These crazy girls."

What was he so upset about? Our friendly clothing swap. Apparently this is an unknown concept here in SLC, but I participated in a few while I was in Boston. They are an ingenious way proving the old adage about one woman's trash being another woman's treasure. I think most women at one time or another, have gone to a store, either alone or with a friend and found something that was just such a good deal that we HAD to have it, or a friend told us we looked AMAZING in a shirt and even though it was fluorescent green with a hot pink leopard print, we felt we simply HAD to own it. Or, for whatever reason, a piece of clothing became no longer desirable; it shrunk in the wash, you lost or gained a few pounds, the length went out of style. And suddenly you find that in spite of the fact there is no room in your closet, you look in it everyday and find that there is NOTHING to wear. So, when this happens, it's time to pile up all the old clothes on the bed (in my case, it was an entire break-up wardrobe of size 0 and 2 that I had originally inherited from multiple friends).

My sister and I invited our girlfriends, each with their own huge garbage bags of clothes, baked some fresh blueberry muffins, cut up some cantaloupe, brewed some ice tea, and opened up shop for a Saturday afternoon. Some of the people who originally gave me the skinny clothes, took them back, happy to have another go around with them. The two poor graduate students ended up with several new outfits each, I ended up with two funky pieces I never would have bought for myself (one with the tags still on) and one tank top that was so expensive, I never did learn how much it cost. Shoes that no one wanted were donated to Africa; the clothes that no one wanted were donated to the Deseret Industries (think Mormon Salvation Army store). And in short, everyone ended up happy and satisfied. Except my friend's husband, who thought the whole thing sounded ridiculous.

"Whatever," I responded. "You would have loved it. Seven sexy women came over to my house, dumped an enormous pile of clothes in the center of my living room, closed the curtains, stripped down to our skivvies, and started throwing clothes at each other to try on. You're just mad you weren't there."

"You did not do that," he said in his most skeptical, as-if voice.

"Actually, we did," said his wife.

"Really? Wow. Hmm." He looked stunned.

After that, not another word was spoken against the clothing swap.

Okie's blog...

This is last week's post from my step-sister's blog:

I served an LDS mission between 2005-2007. Although I served within the bounds of the US of A it felt more like a foreign mission. I spent the majority of my time working and living with people of Latin decent; mostly Mexican. In my short 18 months I made lifelong friends, second families, and connections that I will forever be grateful for and proud to have. Truth be told, my heart bleeds Latin now, and hopefully always will.

For this reason I have returned to my mission stomping grounds on several occasions. It's a chance to reconnect with people I love, and who in turn love me. The most recent visit was this past May when I returned with two of my companions (read: very dear friends Shay and Moffy) to the land that gives me my screen name. We had an amazing time. We were treated to wonderful food, great music, and a lot of dancing lessons! It was 4 days that passed altogether too quickly, but it was time very well spent. Two weeks following our visit I received this call from Shay:

"Kath?" She was calling me in the middle of the day; usually we chat via Internet since we work for the same company.

"Yeah, what's up? What's wrong?'

"Did you hear from Evelyn yet?" It's always like Shay to need to know the background first.

"No, what's going on?" Evelyn is a dear friend in OKC who keeps us posted on all of the happenings.

"Liliana and her mom were pulled over yesterday while driving in the city. They are being detained over night in a jail and are being deported first thing in the morning."

What shocked me most about this sentence was the mere fact that I had seen Liliana and her sweet mom, Hermana Lopez, only two weeks previous during our visit. Liliana caught me up on how things were going at the University of Oklahoma. She was accepted there on full scholarship; a natural occurrence for the valedictorian of her high school. She had brought her friends to the church party and I laughed as I watched them all participate in the dance contests. I had some long talks with Liliana that evening about what her plans were for the future and what she was enjoying and/or struggling with in the present. With Shay's call none of this mattered any more.

"What can we do? How much will it cost for bail? Can we bail them out? Who do we need to talk to? Tell me what to do?!!!!" I shot questions at Shay as if she would know the answers, but neither of us did. I felt as if I had been kicked hard in the stomach: my air was gone, I was dizzy. I pulled over while driving; I was overcome with anger and panic. This couldn't be happening.

Later that afternoon I called OU: couldn't someone override this decision? Liliana doesn't even speak with an accent, she's lived here almost her whole life! How could this be happening? Nothing. Liliana and Hermana Lopez were put on a bus the next morning and driven across the border. They were dropped off in Ciudad Juarez which is thousands of miles from their place of origin in Mexico. They were given chance to collect things from their home of several years, nor visit their loved ones. Dropped off with the clothes on their backs. No money, American or Mexican. No food. No address book to telephone once in Mexico. Just kicked out. Hermano Lopez and Juan (son) were left behind in OKC with no way to contact their family. Split apart and separated like criminals. What was their crime?

Driving while Hispanic.

Love/hate

I love Law and Order. Yes, you read right. I watch it at the gym and it motivates me to get off my butt and go right after work, when it is on for two straight hours. There is one elliptical immediately in front of the TV with the Law and Order channel on it. I work out there and read the subtitles, to spare my ears the earphones. About a month ago, they removed the subtitles off that television. Not all the televisions, just MY television. So, I complained. I was told someone would "put in a request". Nothing happened. I complained again the next week and nothing happened. I complained again and the girl behind the counter told me I would need to call the corporate office to request that. "Ah, yah, no. I think YOU should call the corporate office and find a way to fix this," I said. She looked over at the manager in desperation. He walked over, I explained that I needed my subtitles in order to watch Law and Order. He opened a drawer, pulled out a remote to go take care of it. I walked off to another part of the gym (it was a Saturday so there was no L and O).

Come Monday, no subtitles. So, this time I sent Lesha to complain. I wanted them to know there was an army of people dying to watch L and O with subtitles. She came back a few minutes later and said, "They won't turn them on, because some people don't like them and complain."

So I did what was suggested, I contacted the corporate office with a rather nasty complaint letter about both the lack of subtitles for the hearing impaired (or those of us who don't want to become hearing impaired by using earphones) and about the need for some customer service retraining at their gym. The next day I received an email, there would be subtitles on all the televisions (even though I gave rather specific directions: television #9 on row #2. Hey- I don't want to force my subtitles on other people's TVs.)

Today, I walked in and it was like the promised land. Subtitles on every TV and not only that- an extra hour of Law and Order. I couldn't believe my luck. Or lack of it. There are two catches to my love affair. One- I can't stop working out while it is on. Which is great- that's why I started watching it in the first place. It means an hour workout flies by. But it also means that I worked out for two straight hours today- unable to stop because I don't have a TV at home and I had to see the end! Every time the show started to get a little boring, some new twist would be thrown into the plot followed by- bam- 10 minutes of commercials. The agony!

The other other catch is: I can't stand the show half the time. Sometimes I love it for it's public health messages, like the one today about how important insurance is and how hard it is for the working poor to get. And not only the importance of physical health insurance, but mental health insurance. The plot followed someone who ends up in jail for a crime that might not have been committed if he had received the help he needed. The attorney for the defense agrees that the defendant should go to jail, but hypothesizes that perhaps if more money were spent on mental health care and quality drug treatment, we wouldn't need to spend so much on jails. And I always feel like a pro when they refer to legal cases or concepts that I covered in my health law classes. I get so excited, I sometimes slip on the elliptical.

So, why can't I stand the show half the time? I HATE their racial stereotypes. I know they try to break some stereotypes. There are good and bad black and white men and women in a variety of roles, but everyone else: forget about it. This really hit home when the detectives haul up a kid in the Bronx: Hector Ramirez.

"Hey Hec, Guess what?" I asked my friend. "I was watching Law and Order yesterday, and the kid had your two names- he was just missing the last one."

"Let me guess: he was the criminal."

"Um, yeah."

"Surprise! Where are the decent Latin male role models?" he siged.

I've been looking for two months now and I still haven't seen one. And so far, every episode I have seen with Muslims and Arabs leaves me foaming at the mouth over their portrayal. I worry about the messages the show sends when the Patriot Act is used to get a warrant on less evidence than would otherwise be required. Do viewers see this as a problem, that their rights to privacy and security are hurt by their own government, or, is it just a convenient way for the infallible court system to bring justice to the right people?

Maybe a better question for me to ponder is, why can't I just watch a television show without wondering about its impact on society?

The Drowsy Chaperone

"Are you ready to see the next big thing to come to Utah? There is a traveling Tony-award-winning Broadway production of The Drowsy Chaperone. There is sure to be singing, dancing, comedy, and acting far above the quality you are used to getting on these local stages. And as if that weren't enough, I'll even buy your ticket for you."

"Don't be crazy, Uncle Marc. You don't have to buy my ticket for me, but I would love to go."

"Alright. Well, I am taking Grandpa out to see the Saturday matinee this week, and we would love to have you join us."

Since I couldn't imagine spending the money required to get tickets near my grandfather and uncle, I ended up in the nose bleed seats, somewhere far, far above them. Knowing that I wouldn't see them at all during the show, I called Uncle Marc in advance and asked, "I'd like to at least see you both. What do Mormons do that is the equivalent of getting coffee or a drink after a show? I think it's getting dessert, right? Maybe we could meet somewhere afterwards to get dessert."

We settled on Lamb's Cafe. It's an old cafe downtown, leftover from the days when even greasy spoons had dark wood, mirrors, and tablecloths. It's been around since 1919 and my grandparents used to go on dates there when they were young.



I sat through the show with the facial expression that I wear for theatrical performances: wide eyed with a slack-mouth grin. I have to admit, the show was silly, but one thing I loved: the narrator, Man in Chair. Man in Chair has no other name. He appears to live a lonely life, cut off from the world in his shabby old apartment in what appears to be New York in the present. The one thing that brings him joy is listening to old Broadway musicals. And as he puts on a record of the musical from the 1920's (i.e. the Drowsy Chaperone), the musical seems to actually take place in his apartment. The musical is filled with all sorts of stock characters, racial stereotypes, and bizarre lyrics, which Man in Chair points out to the audience, but then pleads with us to look past that to the thrill of the show itself, to the ability that it has to take us away from the present, to a world filled with song and drama.

At one point he accidentally puts on the wrong record, and a spoof on The King and I comes on. The scenery, the costumes, everything switches from Prohibition Era America to Victorian Era China, with a white woman in a white Victorian dress and white actors dressed as Chinese people, with terrible accents. The lyrics go something like this:

VICTORIAN LADY
What is it about the Asians
That fascinates Caucasians
What is it about the Asians
That's so nice
Is it the won tons? The egg rolls? The rice?
Perhaps it's Buddha or Confucius and their excellent advice

THE EMPEROR
What is it about Caucasians
That mystifies we Asians?

And so forth, but I'll spare you. I leaned over to Vince and whispered, "Well, I guess we found our song." It made me think about all the jokes over the years that I had made about shiksa-appeal.

I loved the conceit of Man in Chair. I loved the way the set of this fabulous, over-the-top musical was a cramped New York apartment with a fold-out bed. Elements of the apartment would change, creating the different scenes, but you never forgot where you were. The play constantly reminded you of what it is that theater does, create an illusion, one that may seem very real for a moment, until the person next to you coughs, or your leg falls asleep, or the curtain falls, and you find yourself abruptly back in your own reality.

Later at Lamb's, over chocolate cake and raspberries, I asked Uncle Marc how he found out about this show; I'd never even heard of it.

"Well, it was one of about 260 musicals that I made illegal copies of from the library," he responded. "They are part of what brought me back from the edge. When I was first starting to recover and was not really able to think clearly yet, or was too depressed to get out of bed, I'd put on a musical. Nothing gets the blood pumping in the morning like a Broadway show! I'd read along with the lyrics, get to know the characters, learn the song. I found dozens of forgotten musicals that I had never heard of before. But this was one of my favorites and I kept coming back to it because I was Man in Chair. I was all alone in my apartment, clinging to musicals to get me through the day."

And with that, what was already a lovely, rare afternoon with three gentlemen, became much more. It was my uncle's way of sharing with people he loved just a little of what he had been through. I was honored to be there to share it.