Mom has finally agreed to let go of Mountains O’ Things, and here we are muttering and grumbling as we try to navigate through the books, knick-knacks, sheet music, a Veg-O-Matic, old report cards (we won’t open those), pumps from 1960 and post-war purses from Europe (because American leather is just not the same quality).

Mom!! What are we going to do with all this stuff?!!

A small tapestry still hangs in a living room corner, a pretty little petit-point of a poem, penned by Dr. Dorothy Law Nolte and mounted with love in 1962, entitled  “Children Learn What They Live.” During most of our childhood that little work of art remained in place, unobtrusively at home among a few rotating Masters’ prints, school art projects and family photos.  Charlie and I and our younger sister took it for granted, never seemed to notice it, and went on with our coloring, our hopscotch, our coming of age, our inevitable rebellion, our reconciliation, our college days, and our young adult preoccupation with doing things better than Mom and Dad had done.

Alas, our day of reckoning came.  We suddenly recalled the silent words embroidered on that burlap in the corner.  They’d come back to haunt us and inspire us at every turn in the rearing of Lisa, Marianne, Aaron, Nathaniel, Adrian, Gabrielle, Alexis, Dylan, Estella and Elena.

I thought everyone grew up with one of those corny little samplers hanging somewhere in their homes.  I guess not, because it seems a few too many of our contemporaries have missed out on its inescapable truth:  Children Learn What They Live. How I wish those parents would understand that when a child lives with intolerance of diverse opinions, he learns tyranny; when a child lives in a sheltered cocoon of ideas, she learns NOT to evaluate the world of ideas around her.

Such is the sad case when parents keep their children from listening to the “propagandist” message from our (that means all of us, lest they secede from the union) president.  They don’t want President Obama indoctrinating children with his socialist ideas that an educated society is a stronger society, that individuals and the world will ultimately benefit from greater knowledge about things and about each other.

Since the days of Fallout Shelters, of John F. Kennedy’s Council on Physical Fitness, Lyndon Johnson’s War on Poverty,  Ronald Reagan’s War On Drugs, Barbara Bush’s Literacy Project, and so on, school children from every decade have been indoctrinated by a President’s message. How nice it would have been to opt-out of gym class all those years, but I was told to respect the mission of the administration who assured us that able bodied boys and girls are healthy and eventually make for good soldiers.  Most of us agreed with only half of that, and we grew up evaluating our stance while sweating it out in hideous subordinating uniforms during the 600 yard dash.

I hate to imagine the consequences when children learn from their school principals that contempt for leadership is now acceptable.

Charlie and I know exactly what we will do with this bit of faded fabric that proved to be our most profound indoctrination.  We will copy and frame it for every one of our descendants, and put them in storage.  Then someday, as the kids and grandkids are sorting through our vinyl record albums, college textbooks, suede moccasins from 1970, roach clips, the Veg-O-Matic, frayed denim and real-paper birthday greetings, they can each say they’ve found a little treasure in the midst of all that trash, and pass it on.

Oh, look, kids!  What do you know?!  They have a picture of Mommy and Grandma from a few years ago, sitting at Mrs. Berta’s kitchen table.  Mrs. Berta is our friend and she is getting old now.  The Nazis did some very bad, terrible things to her and to Grandma when they were young.  I remember the very day this picture was taken.  We were at her house to plan the Yom Hashoah program, so that people know they must never ever treat each other that way again.  Mrs. Berta was telling us she used to live in New York for awhile when she first came to America, but she didn’t like it there so she came to Chicago.  She said there were too many schwartzes in New York.

But, let’s see, what’s wrong with this picture, sweetheart?  It’s almost time for bed…

My kids never figured out what was wrong with that picture, because, in fact, I never told them the last part of that story until they were much older.  “Schwartzes” was a word I never used, and one my mother never considered uttering because it is derogatory, perhaps not on the same scale as the hateful “n” word, but about like hearing people complain they were “Jewed” out of their money by an unscrupulous salesman.  It serves only to categorize one ethnic group with all of their stereotypical “flaws,” and only to segregate one culture from another.

Sadly, it must have been in common usage among some circles in the Jewish community.  That day in Mrs. Berta’s kitchen, I was aware of the spirit of author Art Spiegelman’s father, ranting a similar rant, much as he rants in the Pulitzer-prize winning  “Maus.” While we would like to imagine a silver lining was there all along to be discovered by the victims of Nazi persecution, Spiegelman denies us any feelgood opportunity in that comic-book frame.  Horrific events happen for no divine purpose and absolutely no good comes from them.  They are unredeemable, and we are required to make a concerted effort to avoid them.

“My father bleeds history… ”

Perhaps the elder Spiegelman and Mrs. Berta were too old, too long from another time and place to be able to analyze the conflicting ideas they entertained.  But, comedian Jackie Mason’s justification of his recent reference to President Obama as a “schwartze,”  on the grounds that it is a traditional and casually used Yiddish term, should satisfy no one.   At 72, Jackie is too young to indulge in such intractable notions.  Plus, as a born and raised American, his refusal to understand the destructive force of such terms, especially when used repeatedly by highly visible figures, boils down to just plain hostility.  This is not his first assault, and I don’t believe he’s innocently had his head in the sand all these years.

I know you’re tired, honey, but Mommy wants to show you one more thing in this picture.  Here is Mr. Mason yelling something about his freedom. Does that mean he has a right to say what he wants?

Of course, Mommy, everyone knows that!

Does it mean he is a good and thoughtful man when he does?

Zzzzz…..

Sleep tight, my little ones.  We’ll look at more pictures tomorrow.

Today, though, that’s what I’m doing, and every so often I throw in a slap in the face just to make my point to myself.

The reason for my confusion?  President elect Barack Obama has chosen evangelical pastor Rick Warren to deliver the invocation at his inauguration.

What’s the matter, Julie?  I thought you said Rick Warren handled the “debate” questions squarely and fairly?  I thought you liked Rick Warren?

I did, and I do, but I also thought neither candidate should have accepted the request to have their religious views put on the line.   After all, a lot of effort is required to keep church and state separate.  That so called “debate” just blurred the line.

But, Julie, so many people DO vote on that basis.  Isn’t that a fundamental right?  Don’t we all base our vote on profound conviction, religious or not?  Shouldn’t we have the right to ask the candidates if their convictions are similar to ours?

Hey, a televised presidential debate is “official business” in my book.  Does it matter who the host is?

Ok, Julie.  That’s water under the bridge, anyway. Rick Warren is not being chosen to oversee the Human Rights Commission   (Does it even exist anymore)?   He is a pastor, for crying out loud!  Who else should deliver an invocation?   His religious views should not be under this kind of scrutiny.  Suppose Obama were to overlook a Rabbi for this honor on the basis of his non-acceptance of a messianic view?  Wouldn’t you cry “foul!?”

Well, then, suppose he chose a vocal Wiccan. Wouldn’t the response be similar from the evangelical community?   Would we condone or condemn that response?

Think about this, though.  Suppose we discovered that Obama was once affiliated with a church pastor who condemned our American way with hostile language found offensive by many folks?  Then, suppose we declared, “Obama is not the pastor and his views are not necessarily consistent with his mentor. Got that?  Mentor?!”

Oh yeah?!?  Well, suppose we reminded ourselves that his mentor was justified in harshly condemning our history of racism, and suppose we make an effort to recall the feverish protests of the 60s!  What, we were expecting the pastor to keep mum in his own sanctuary for the sake of white pride or something?  He owes us that?  Gimme a break!

Take this!  Suppose Obama wants to remind all of us that unity and acceptance of diverse views, including those of the losing side, is a reciprocal effort if we are to rebuild this dilapidated house of ours.  Now!  Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it, whydoncha?!

Not so fast!  Suppose Obama wanted to assure his supporters that he intends to follow through on his promise to recognize our basic human rights.  Wouldn’t this decision generate some uneasiness among the gay and lesbian community?  Not to mention promote an atmosphere of cohesion among those opposed to gay marriage, inviting fence sitters to fall to the right of this issue?  Sociology 101, plain and simple!  How’d ya like them apples!?

Have a bite of these, beyotch!  Suppose we concede that religion and politics will inevitably mix no matter how hard we try to avoid it? Huh?! Huh?!

Well, tough kitty!  Suppose Obama try just a little harder to keep that demarcation as visible as possible!  Ha!!  Whachagottasay to that?!

Enough already!  Suppose this is a political move for Obama in preparation for the rocky road ahead.  Why not associate himself with a pastor who offers a more congenial countenance?  After all, 2012 looms nearer and nearer.  So there!  I’ve said it!  Go ahead and deny it!  I dare ya!

Shut up!  No more!  I have a headache!

I think they call it brain shear, Julie.

Hand me the Advil!  Thank you!  Now please, just go away!

“It’s darling” she smiled, and I could tell she was beaming as she dropped me off at the local nursing home.

I was known as a Candy Striper, a teenage volunteer who kept company to the elderly and infirm in health care facilities.  That introduction to health care, along with 10cc of Mother’s Pride, allowed me to work as a “nurse’s aide” at the same center through my college days, long before certification was required for a job demanding considerable skill.

That’s why, when my mother came to live with me a few months ago following chemotherapy, I believed with all the naiveté of a 14 year old me that I could tap into that spring of youthful energy and provide a level of care suited to her weakened state.  Instead, she good-naturedly called me The Clumsy Nurse as I frantically watched her condition deteriorate and require another extended hospital stay.

She has stabilized for the time being, but cytotoxins have claimed so much of her strength that her doctors have recommended she be discharged to a nursing facility.

I should be relieved.  After all, who but a caregiver can appreciate the stress and fatigue that accompany the role?  But reading the news today, I am more disheartened than ever.  Two young women from Minnesota have been charged with unspeakable abuse to several residents of the nursing home at which they were employed.

I had never witnessed anything of the kind in my few years of nursing home work, but a quick Google search dispelled my inclination to believe this was an isolated occurrence.  The truth is, nursing home abuse is rampant, and in many cases, victims and their families have little or no legal recourse because they have been unwittingly bound by mandatory pre-dispute arbitrationclauses in their contracts with facilities.

The Fairness In Nursing Home Arbitration Act seeks to render such clauses non-binding, clearing the way for legal action to be initiated by representatives of the victims.  While the Act passed the Senate Judiciary Committee in September and has the support of most organizations involved in protecting the welfare of seniors, it is not without opposition. As usual, the bogus corporate argument offered is that “freedom of choice for the consumer” will be compromised if nursing homes are forced into legal accountability for cases of abuse.

Once and for all, the Act does NOT eliminate the choice for consumers to enter into arbitration for dispute resolution.  It does NOT mandate legal proceedings in disputes; it simply protects our right to choose it.

Until nursing homes are no longer exempt from answering charges of neglect and maltreatment, their reputation as dumping grounds for discarded humans will persist.  I can not imagine why anyone, even facility administrators, would oppose a law that not only restores the right of victims to due process, but also dignity to the field of geriatric care.  That is, unless the profit (or personal) motive overwhelms one’s sense of right and wrong.  I have to wonder if perhaps that same mindset might be responsible for our collective loss of moral compass, evidenced by this latest incident.

I am now resolute in my intention to bring my mother home with me, thankful that I can afford some limited part-time help, and thankful as well for Medicare covered agencies such as Visiting Nurse Association.

The doctors have their doubts, to be sure.  Yet, what choice do I have?  Isn’t this a no-brainer?  Fearful as I am that I might be unable to provide for her needs, I am more fearful of the risks anursing home placement might pose.  Her prognosis is guarded, but if she is to recover, she will only do so in an environment that ensures her physical health and self-esteem.  If she is to succumb to cancer, I am convinced she will only find peace if she feels comfortable and safe in her final days.

Mom, your faith in me has determined most of my direction over the years, and I sense it steadfastly remains where other hope has diminished.  I owe you, at least, apromise that this Clumsy Nurse will stop tripping over her own feet and give you something to smile about once again.  Can anyone but your darling Candy Striper make that guarantee?

Five tender, sweet little words will resound forever in my fondest memories:

Mommy, are we there yet?

Over the years, my children have seen all corners of America the Beautiful.  We did The Disney Thing only once during 12 years of awesome family vacations, with all the rest offering something new (that is, unique to the region and not available in Chicago), at least one day of outdoor adventure (at my insistence), and above all, exposure to something educational, usually with a historical theme.

It is through these wonderful cross-country excursions in our old jalopy that I realized children are inclined to give no more than diddley-squat to behold the rugged beauty of the Badlands, but instead can glean a true appreciation for our sociopolitical and cultural landscape.

Our last full-house vacation was South Dakota in 2003.  I found Mount Rushmore breathtaking for the sheer glory of the rock formations; my husband, the engineer, pondered “How’d they do that?”  The children, however, argued incessantly - about how Teddy and Franklin were related and what it was about Teddy’s presidency that gave him a rank up there with Abraham, Thomas, and George.  Their excitement when visiting the Presidential Wax Museum at the foot of Mount Rushmore prompted us to take a second tour before departing for the Laura Ingalls Wilder Pageant on our way home.

Likewise, every trip south of Illinois, from the National Civil Rights Museum at the former Lorraine Motel in Memphis to the French Quarter in New Orleans, necessitated a diversion from I57 through depressed Cairo, Illinois - after which their innocent reflections on the civil war, poverty, and racism would continue until we finally rolled into our driveway during the wee hours.

It was no wonder to me that my son came home Tuesday determined to have his homework done by 7, that my daughter spent the day volunteering at the polls before attending the Obamapalooza victory celebration in Grant Park.

I am so happy that this week my now adult children, with my younger voting for the first time, helped propel a tremendous step forward for humankind.  President elect Barack Obama will someday take a proud and extremely significant place in the Presidential Wax Museum, and our children lived, and perhaps even helped shape, this powerful event.

But Mom, are we there yet?

No, honey.  Not yet.

On the same  day an African-American was elected to the highest office in the nation, millions of other human beings, in the most progressive of our states, were denied access to the most fundamental and universally recognized institution - that of marriage.  The preliminary success of California’s Proposition 8 should warn us to keep our jubilation guarded.  “Human rights” is a notion that remains just out of the grasp of our collective consciousness.  We seem to have taken two steps forward, one step back.

Aw, come on Mom!  How much longer?

I don’t know, sweetheart, but we are getting there.  I promise.  Just look at all the Wall Drug signs - they’re popping up everywhere!  We must be getting close.  Let’s start counting them!

My Wednesday evening trip to the grocery store should have ended with a pleasant outing my family always looks forward to - an ice cream nightcap at our local sweet treat parlor, Oberweis Dairy.  Alas, as I checked out my groceries, I realized I had absentmindedly locked the car with my keys still in the ignition.

While waiting for help, I had time to reflect upon a few important decisions facing me in the near future.  Would it be chocolate marshmallow or buttered pecan?  Will we have time to make it there before closing?  And the Oberweis name, what has it meant to our community?  For those of you unfamiliar with this Midwest icon, Oberweis Dairy originated in the Chicago suburbs and has offered superior quality ice cream that remains unrivaled by the big chains.

A few years ago, proprietor James Oberweis passed his scoop to his son and decided to make his appearance on the political scene, with little success.  Now, with a turn of luck, and perhaps good business sense, Mr. Oberweis suddenly finds himself in a race for a very high profile position, the vacated seat of former Congressman Dennis Hastert.  Rep. Hastert left his post early, necessitating a special election last March.  Oberweis lost the interim election to Rep. Bill Foster (D), but not before a fierce attempt to influence the non-Hispanic minority in the 14th district to vote for his tough-handed immigration policy.

Immigration has always been the issue Jim Oberweis coddled while running for other local offices, and it is little wonder he has not yet claimed victory in this largely Hispanic district.  However, he sank to a desperate low in January when he issued a flyer one week before the primary, blatantly promoting the notion that lurking among the Hispanic community, at that very moment, might be a terrorist with a bomb!

Oberweis is certainly not the first to exploit the trend of increasing intolerance of Hispanic integration into American society.  It is not his conservative position on this issue that is upsetting as it is elements of his campaigning that promote fear and hostility, asserting the urgency to take immediate and extreme measures to halt illegal immigration, lest America be in imminent danger of another terrorist attack.

Call me naïve, but I don’t think that Hispanic terrorist is hiding out in the home of the neighbor who has shoveled my mother’s driveway and mowed her lawn, faithfully and without expectation of payment, for many years.

Do you think he’s likely to be a member of the family that sheltered my niece (and her cat) for several days during a major flood in 1996?  I don’t.

That sinister character isn’t creeping in the back alley of the street on which one of my bridesmaids grew up, and I doubt if he walked among the fiesta-goers, strangers to us, who enthusiastically invited my children to join theirs and take a swing at the piñata as we happened by in Garfield Park.

I never thought to ask about the resident status of any of our children’s friends, although we spent years exchanging dinnertime visits, overnighters, and trips to the mall.

Has anyone read the national news story of Manuel Jesus Cordova, who entered the U.S. illegally, only to be deported because he chose not to abandon a young boy found wandering in the desert?   The boy’s mother had just been killed in a car accident.  Instead of fleeing, Mr. Cordova attempted to revive the mother, then stayed with the child, keeping him warm and comforting him until police arrived the next morning.  Something tells me this man was not the terrorist.

History has demonstrated for us what can happen when fear and frenzy overtake sound, evidence-based judgment.  Say what you will about the practical concerns of immigration, but when politicians resort to fear-mongering, I am led to question the validity of the issue.  What the evidence has told me is that the entire Hispanic community has offered us an atmosphere of congeniality and vibrant culture that we should feel delighted to embrace.  We are also told that evidence of their economic contribution (including that of undocumented workers) should not be ignored.

As a matter of policy, the U.S. should address illegal immigration and border security as a humanitarian issue rather than as a territorial invasion, and offer a path to legal status as part of the course.   After all, we have a long tradition of programs aimed at integrating undocumented immigrants from all parts of the world - those invited by our promise that everyone is entitled to the pursuit of happiness.

So, as Jim Oberweis continues his hunt into November for that elusive Hispanic terrorist, this family is urging everyone, from every voting district in the U.S., to support liberty and justice for all, and favor a focus on the truly urgent issues facing us this election year.

Oh, yes!  I almost forgot to tell you how the evening ended.  A nice young couple in the parking lot allowed me to use their cell phone to call for help.  When I couldn’t reach anyone, the store owner called the police for me.  They arrived an hour later, but that’s ok, because the owner waited to close his store until I was safely on my way home at 10 p.m.

Did I mention I was shopping at a wonderful Mexican grocery?  Great produce, low prices, very kind people.

Oh my, you don’t suppose…?

Nah.

We never made it for that ice cream stop, and it’s just as well.  Somehow, it seems hypocritical to enjoy Dulce de Leche in a Vanilla-only atmosphere.