Are Bystanders Ever Innocent? Or, WTF Happened at Penn State?

So because I read higher education news and "regular" news today my feed is again doubly full of Jerry Sandusky and Joe Paterno and Penn State, now that the results of the Freeh report have been released.  The whole affair makes me sick: that someone would do that any child, that they covered it up for so long, and that (big surprise! revelation from the Freeh reporrt!) the reason they covered it up was fear of bad publicity that might hurt the university and its precious football program.

I hope no one paid a lot of money for that report.

Having worked at two large institutions of higher education, I can say with some authority that this kind of thing isn't all that uncommon: not the molestation part (because I don't know of anything like this that has happened elsewhere), but the cover-up part, and the willingness to turn a blind eye to some really appalling (in this case, criminal) behavior.  Universities do have reputations to protect, and one spate of bad publicity about one isolated incident--even if it turns out to be false--can do years of damage, to enrollment, to admissions, to programs that had nothing to do with the incident in question.  What concerns me is the culture at work in such situations: the culture that suggests that it's OK to be a bystander when something bad is happening, as long as the means justify the ends, as long as the body count isn't too high.

Then again, aren't there other instances of this just about everywhere?  Think back to the allegations against the Catholic Church.  About how high up the denial and cover-up went.  Or instances of sexism and other kinds of discrimination, in which not just the people in charge but everyone simply turns their backs on bullies and abusers, either by convincing themselves that the behavior isn't really as bad or hurtful as it seems, or by reassuring themselves that help will arrive from somewhere else, or dismissing it as part of the natural order of things, as part of the culture of the organization.  Boys will be boys, after all, right?

No, actually, they don't need to be.

But wait.  Think about this in really small terms.  Consider all of the times maybe you've passed someone by on the road who is stranded because of a flat tire, or engine failure, or who knows what.  How many times you've thought, "oh, that person has a cell phone, he'll be fine."  Or how about this: has there been a time when you've seen teenagers mistreating an animal, or bullying another child, or damaging someone else's property and you didn't step in to say anything, because you didn't think it was your place to do so?  Think this is different than someone in a position of authority covering up appalling behavior?  In some respects, yes, because you aren't formally charged with the responsibility to protect your (property, animal, whatever) ... but in other respects, I would argue, no.  The same bystander logic applies.  And the reason that the behavior exists at the top, the reason we value reputations over responsibility, starts with the way we decide to either turn away and pretend innocence, or do something about injustice.

There's that famous saying attributed to Rabbi Hillel, one of the most famous scholars in Jewish history: “If I am not for myself, then who will be for me? And if I am only for myself, then what am I? And if not now, when?"

In my book, if you're a bystander, you might as well be holding the smoking gun, whether or not you actually fired it.

The problem is not just the Joe Paternos of the world.  Because they didn't start out as leaders.  They started out as nobodies.  And someone taught them that it was acceptable to stand by and watch.  If we want a world that is safe, where people care for us, we can't afford to teach those kinds of lessons.  Not in business, not in higher education, not in schools. 

Not anywhere.

Things I'm Afraid to Tell You: A Food-Free Post

(If you're here for the food porn, you might want to skip this one.  Also: thanks to everyone who has been faithfully commenting!  Though I am no longer using an interface with Blogger that allows me to "reply" to comments inline, I do try to "respond" via email or comment-in-kind when I can, so please do leave comments that help me to identify you, and your blog, if you have one.)

A while back, the lovely Kristin asked if some of us would be willing to join her in a round of Things I Am Afraid To Tell You (TIAATTY), a movement that has been making its way around the blogosphere in an effort to make bloggers more human, and less "perfect."  I agreed to participate, because I think Kristin is a cool human being for putting herself out there, and I didn't think she should have to do so alone.

And then I began to struggle with what I'd say, because I've already revealed a lot about myself on this blog, and I don't think I portray life as especially perfect or beautiful, as some style or fashion or even mommy blogs do.

On the other hand, I'm also not your run-of-the-mill ALI blog.  In fact, many times I don't feel ALI enough.  And I do make choices about what I post here, partly to protect the privacy of my family, and partly because there's some things that simply don't make for interesting reading.  I realized that the TIAATTY movement isn't just about airing dirty laundry, but about asking ourselves what our blogs really do say about us, and that perhaps it was a useful exercise in self-reflection.

So here they are, Things I'm Afraid To Tell You.

On Stay At Home Motherhood
I am a pretty crappy stay at home mom, most likely because I never wanted to be a stay at home mom when I was growing up, and I still don't want to be one now.  I know I lose myself in my own thoughts when I probably ought to be talking to my daughter.  I look at Facebook and check my email too often (that was true even when I wasn't a stay at home mom; I tell myself that at least I'm doing it on my desktop, so there's that limitation ...).  I am not a patient person.  I lose my temper.  I yell at my kids.  Not often, but enough to feel badly about it.  I know it's not a good response.  It's not my first response, but it's there.  I wish I could channel the patience of my son's Montessori teachers.  I wish I knew how to get my daughter, in particular (because I spent all day with her) to do what I ask her to, or more importantly, not do what I ask her not to, in a way that is more calm and constructive, even the thirtieth time I have to ask.  That calm, meditative, yoga persona I sometimes seem to possess?  She does live here, but not all the time.

On Food
I eat the same thing for lunch pretty much every day, that is, when I actually make something one could call lunch.  I drink coffee for breakfast.  And there are plenty of weeks when nothing new appears on our table.  I feed my children frozen fish sticks at least one night on the weeks when my husband is away.  Food around here is not always a beautiful, fresh and fabulous experience, as it might appear in my camera lens.

On My Personality
On a related note, despite what I try to preach about self-acceptance, and despite the mostly healthy foods I prepare here, I am perpetually obsessed with my weight.  I don't actually weigh myself, because we don't own a scale, but I poke and prod and frown disapprovingly in the mirror.  I would secretly love to be stick-skinny, though I confess I do admire my biceps and shoulders when I'm lifting weights at the Y.  Actually, come to think of it, I am probably a mildly obsessive personality.  I alphabetize my spices, stack my Tupperware just so, rearrange things in the grocery store.

I've had to work hard for everything I have, and despite what I say (and really, believe) about compassion, I confess I have a hard time being compassionate to people who have had everything in life just handed to them, whether it's money, or a job, or anything.  I am also jealous of people who are more successful, or more beautiful, or more well dressed, or more whatever, than I am.  I see people who start businesses, or write novels, or whatever, and hate them a little.  I'm envious of bloggers who come up with thoughtful, imaginative, creative things to say every day.  And then I don't feel good enough to say something, and end up not posting at all. 

Actually, I tend to remember more of the negative things people have said to me or about me than the positive ones, and as a result, I never really feel quite good enough in general; I've spent my life trying to overcompensate for that feeling.  I am ashamed of the fact that as an almost forty year old woman, I haven't figured out what I want to be when I grow up, and worried that I'm facing the prospect of starting my career all over again.

For Fun
I don't separate my colors from my whites.  If you did laundry every night, you wouldn't either.  And my son goes to school with socks that look dirty, no matter how clean they are.  Guess what?  Bleach won't help anyway.  And while we're on the subject?  I don't launder my sheets every week.  I throw them in the laundry when I remember, or when one of my kids wets the bed, whichever comes first.  That makes the bedwetting experience a positive one for the whole family, right?  Clean sheets, whooopeee!

I wish I had nicer clothes.  I have a horrible sense of style, and need someone to hold my hand when I go clothes shopping.  I really prefer shapeless dark colored things.  (I worry about going to BlogHer and showing up looking like a complete frump, because I simply don't own anything appropriate.  What do bloggers wear to a blogging conference, anyway?  And what does one wear to a blog party?)  And while we're discussing shopping: I often return things I buy, because I convince myself that I've made a rash and irresponsible purchase.  I also return gifts.  Even when it's something important like, you know, underwear.  (Before I use it, of course.)  I am frugal to a fault.
...

I don't know if any of that helps to deconstruct any sense you might have had of "perfection" around here, but if it has, I'm glad I did.  After all, I started out "Half Baked" for a reason, and while a lot has changed since then, the fact that this is my space, and that I'm still journeying, hasn't.

 Thank goodness.

Potato Humor

I'd read the prompts for NaBloPoMo in advance before we left for vacation, and honestly, some of them had me stumped.  Like the favorite joke, for example.  For all of the pranksters and jokesters in my family, I don't have an arsenal of jokes at my disposal.
 I asked my son, and he told me this one: "What kind of shirt does a golfer wear?  A TEE shirt!"

"Do you know why that's funny?" I asked him.

"No," he admitted.

I explained the joke, and then asked, "so how did you learn that joke?"

He shrugged.  "I read it on a popsicle stick today."

And really, isn't that just the sort of place you learned some of the favorite silly jokes from your elementary school years?

I asked around at the family reunion we went to, and the really funny thing?  Is that most people are still telling the same jokes they told in the third grade.

Potatoes are in season at my CSA.  So here are some seasonal third grade jokes for you ... and a potato salad.
 
How do you describe an angry potato? Boiling Mad.
What do you call a baby potato? A small fry!
What do you say to an angry 300-pound baked potato? Anything, just butter him up.
Why did the potato cross the road? He saw a fork up ahead. Why didn’t the mother potato want her daughter to marry the famous newscaster? Because he was a commentator.
Why wouldn’t the reporter leave the mashed potatoes alone? He desperately wanted a scoop.
Why do potatoes make good detectives?  Because they keep their eyes peeled.

GROAN.

Potato Salad (the bad-for-you old school kind)

A few red potatoes, boiled and sliced attractively
The spring onions (not to be confused with green onions) you didn't use from your CSA share last week
Some parsley that is about to go to seed, chopped finely
Hard cooked eggs, if you like them (I'm against segregated eggs, myself)
Anything else you feel like throwing in there, chopped finely
Stir together:
Mayonnaise, to your liking
Apple cider or red wine vinegar, a splash to thin the mayonnaise
A splash of water
Salt, preferably sea salt, to sprinkle liberally


Taste off the dressing.  If you don't like it, add something.  If you like it, pour it all over the top of your potatoes.  Refrigerate to let the flavors blend.

Time Warp Tuesday: Fear, Zuccanoes, and my CSA

First, some housekeeping.  Yes, I've returned to the Land of the Living, thanks for asking.  No, I don't recommend a four day fever that leaves you lying limp on the couch (101 became 102 and just didn't want to go away) to anyone.  Yes, I've been tested for Lyme.  No, I don't have the results, in case you're worried.  Yes, I will finish out NaBloPoMo, to the best of my ability, and I will be OK with the fact that it's imperfect.

I've never done a Time Warp post before, but since Kathy was the one who prodded me to try NaBloPoMo, I owe it to her to participate, and it's an interesting month, because almost exactly two years ago, I was in a very similar--but also different--place.  I was twelve weeks pregnant, in a state of denial, trying to protect myself from disappointment, and had a moment when I slipped, and allowed myself to let go of the fear, and believe that I might actually have another child.  I was also trying to deal with the abundance of my first CSA--a full share for two adults and a three year old--and feeling like I was drowning in zucchini, after barely surviving treading lettuce.  (Which, by the way, is going to be the name of my CSA cookbook.  I've just decided.  Treading Lettuce.  Has a ring to it, no?  Just kidding.  {AND! Now I've worked Time Warp Tuesday AND Mel's NaBloPoMo post prompts into a single post.  Go, me.})

Now?  Now I have a half share CSA at my local farm.  I love my farmers (who greet me by name) and I enjoy much more reasonable amounts of zucchini, even if I'm not terribly successful this week at coming up with new ways to cook it (and really, my family enjoys some of the old ways, anyway ... check out the Zuccanoes from that previous post if you're trying to deal with yours, too.  Yes, I've just totally cheated and given you an old recipe for a new post.  Be kind, I feel like I just lost four days of my life.).  Now I have a feisty, frustrating, beautiful, vivacious daughter who keeps me on disaster patrol during all of her waking hours.  I was one of the lucky ones.

crappy cell phone camera picture of my CSA field where I picked beans, tomatoes, and flowers for my share today

I always loved that Bene Gesserit Litany Against Fear from the Dune series:

"I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain."

But I think I don't agree with it completely, like I did as a naive high schooler.  Now, I think that we can and should fear, and that it's a normal and healthy defense mechanism.  And sometimes the fears are completely founded.  Not all stories have happy endings.  Prohibiting fear is useless and sometimes dangerous.  Sometimes maybe we should be more afraid than we are.  What's still true for me is this: that when the fear is gone, you're still there.  Most likely, it's changed you.  It's up to us to decide how to use the insight we've gained, and whether we can use that empty space for compassion: for ourselves, and for others.

Ya Give me Fever: Cole Slaw

Last night I came down with a fever of 101.  It was sort of a shock; I don't really get sick like that very often, and I don't know about you, but I'm pretty bad at being sick ... because I'm reluctant to slow down and do what my body needs to do to recuperate.  I went to bed uncharacteristically early, at 8 (and then again at 10, because the first time I fell asleep on the couch), and woke up this morning with chills, which persisted throughout the day, giving way to a cough by evening.

You know those billboards that beg you not to go to work when you're sick, so you don't spread the germs?  Well, I'm here to remind you today that it has much less to do with epidemiology than it does with self-care.

Maybe this was a bad month to commit to NaBloPoMo.  But I'll post this tonight, in the interstices of my sleep and waking, and urge you to consume lots of vitamin C, available right now at your local farmer's market in the form of CABBAGE.

This isn't the cole slaw your mother used to make.  But if you can stomach anything  besides dry toast, it's an excellent way to dress up the traditional picnic dish.

Also: this is not a call for condolences.  ;)

Cole Slaw

1 head of cabbage, grated
2-3 large carrots, grated
1/2 c. golden raisins
1/2 c. thinly sliced green onions
1/4 c. rice vinegar
1 T. honey
1 T. OJ
1 t. sesame oil

Whisk honey together with rice vinegar.  Add sesame oil.

Riding the Sit and Spin

This weekend, I rode a sit and spin.

I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking, J., you're a grown woman.  You have no business riding a sit and spin.

Well, I have a confession to make: I also ride shopping carts as if they were scooters.  (You know, hop on the back with one foot, push off with the other until you get up speed, and then WHOOSH! there you go careening down the aisles, or through the parking lot.)  So relatively speaking, a sit and spin is probably a lot safer for everyone.

There's something to be said for channeling your inner kid.  Your uninhibited joyful self.  The side of you that doesn't care what other people think, that gets dizzy for the fun of it.  As I removed the nail polish from my son's fingers this morning (he had painted them in alternating silver and gold this weekend), I felt a pang of sadness for him; he'd been informed by his fellow campers yesterday that he must be a girl because he was wearing nail polish, and so he had grudgingly asked me to take it off.  I remembered his smile as the polish dried, how he waved his fingers around and watched them sparkle in the sun.  And I wished that kids wouldn't start making judgements about behavior so early, at least, about the kind of behavior that isn't hurtful or destructive.  Because those judgements about harmless expressions of joy turn into the kinds of inhibitions that prevent us from mounting the sit and spin.

What does your inner kid do when no one is looking?  Or even when they are?

Fourth of July Then and Now, and NaBloPoMo (Better Late than Never)

So I'm joining the party a little late, but I figure it's better late than never!  I committed to try NaBloPoMo this month on the encouragement of Kathy from Bereaved and Blessed, and then I went and spent the past five days at family reunions.  Hopefully you'll all forgive me, and I'll do penance at the end!

It was always the same, comfortably predictable.  Early in the morning, my father would put out six folding chairs on the side of the lawn under our large, shady oak tree (four for us, and two for any friends who happened by and wanted to join us), to stake our claim for a view of the parade.  As a kid, I thought that parade was the bees' knees, and I loved the fact that it passed our house, that we didn't even have to truck all of the chairs with us, like everyone else did, even if we did have to tolerate strangers putting holes in our lawn.  Honestly, I don't think we even had a marching band, but it didn't matter: there were police cars and fire trucks and what seemed like a billion boys in baseball uniforms and a guy dressed up as Uncle Sam who walked on stilts  ... and at the end, there were Shriners wearing maroon fez hats, driving tiny carts around in figure 8s.

By 10:30 it was steamy outside, and after the parade we would retreat to the air conditioned comfort of our house until my mother called us for barbecue: chicken, and sausages, tomato salad, potato salad, green salad, and ice cream.  We would lobby to go to the fair, which was held down the street at Memorial Park: my mother never wanted to go, but I loved the veterans selling sausage and pepper sandwiches, vendors with cheap plastic trinkets and balloons, a few games of chance, dancers and karate students doing demonstrations on the small concrete stage.  And best of all, there was a shuttle bus, a yellow school bus that stopped opposite our house that would whisk us away to the fairgrounds.

By 5:30, we'd pile in the car with blankets and picnic sandwiches and leftovers from lunch, and drive to West New York, where we'd stand on the Palisades, shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of Latinos, where my father felt at home, and where, if we were lucky, we'd catch a glimpse of the Macy's fireworks.

Now, the Fourth of July celebrations I love best are the ones at the Cape, where my husband's stepmother's family rents two cottages every year.  I've watched the kids on that side of the family grow up over the past ten years, and I love the fact that they still enjoy the same Fourth of July traditions that they did when they were little, despite the fact that many of them are now in high school and college.  There is a picnic breakfast of bagels and juice surfside by the ocean, sand-castle-building and hermit-crab-finding in tidepools on the bay side, swimming in the ponds at the nearby campground, toenail painting, biking on the rail trail.  There is ice cream at Cobie's, beef barbecue, and great quantities of gorp.  There are remarkable frozen brownies.  There are quiet moments of book-reading, and raucous card games.  There are no parades, or fireworks (except the ones on the beach), or fairs, but there is family.  It's not even really my family, technically, but they've made me feel as welcome as one of their own.  And it feels like the best kind of freedom there is.

Though I'm sorry to be back, I can't help but smile when I look down at my toenails, which, this year, were painted courtesy of my five year old son.  Here's hoping your celebration was as star-spangled as they are.

G.O.R.P. (which is not really gorp at all)

MnMs (preferably dark, preferably some dark with almond)
Honey Roasted Peanuts
Sunflower seeds  (roasted and salted)
Cashews (salted)
Pumpkin seeds
Almonds
Dried cranberries
Raisins

Mix together to your desired taste: sweet, salty, nutty, crunchy, chewy, or all of the above.

What are your favorite Fourth of July memories?