Saturday, March 12, 2011

NYTimes Issues Half-arse Apology

Response letter from change.org:

Change.org

Dear Jennifer,

Big news! After a massive outcry from more than 40,000 Change.org members -- which led to news coverage in the Huffington Post, Village Voice, and even London’s Daily Mail -- New York Times public editor Arthur S. Brisbane has issued a strong rebuke of the victim-blaming in a recent article by reporter James McKinley about the gang-rape of an 11-year-old girl and her community's response.

Brisbane wrote said that the outrage was "understandable" and that the piece conveyed "an impression of concern for the perpetrators and an impression of a provocative victim" that "led many readers to interpret the subtext of the story to be: she had it coming."

The apology isn’t perfect -- it decries the lack of "balance," as if the paper should be providing equal voice to the concerns of the victims and her alleged attackers. And unfortunately, while the story ran in section "A" of the Times, Brisbane’s commentary showed up only online, not in his weekly column.

But because the Times is so high-profile, this condemnation still sends an important message to reporters all around the U.S. that readers will hold them accountable for insinuating that victims are somehow responsible for playing a role in their own sexual assaults. And you made this happen.

We have much more to do together as we fight for the rights and security of women everywhere, but we’re proving we can make real progress. If there’s a campaign you’d like to start, click here to create your own petition:

http://www.change.org/start-a-petition?alert_id=IWSUxNFEGk_ASyPcpxGbg&me=aa

Thanks for taking action,

Shelby and the Change.org team

Monday, February 21, 2011

Deep Canyons

I swallowed my worries in syrupy spoonfuls

Serving no purpose, I gave them power

Baffled, I punished my thoughts…

…until they were raised and red

I breathed and waited for a sign from the godless sky

You were dissolving in the water

Shame runs fast in deep canyons

You sacrificed me; risked my last bits of peace

I watched you decide…

…my pain was a fine trade for borrowed time

I breathed and waited for a sign from the godless sky

Moved on

Dragged my broken armor behind me…

…it is my hope

I am a ghost waved away like smoke

I am a ghost that you haunt from time to time

I breathed and waited for a sign from the godless sky

A quiet passage opened and I moved on

I have embraced the silence…

…despite the blisters and the blindness

This hope is deep

I have still a long way to go

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Margaret

Dear my public-diary:

Last August when school started, I set my phone alarm to the ungodly hour of 5:30am as I am not a morning person and need to be yanked out of REM well before being gently coaxed from my bed. This gave me enough time to have a cup of coffee before helping the banshees get ready for school and make the bus each morning. A few months ago we were running late and I decided to drive the girls to school instead of frantically panicking trying to run out in the dark, forgetting things that get forgotten under such circumstances and setting an all around wrong mood in which to start the day. Since the school is just five minutes away, we didn’t need to leave until 7:30am, which gave us about 40 extra minutes in the morning and lowered the stress level for the entire lot of us. Of course, from that day forward I have been driving the kids to school and enjoying the less stressful mornings and sleeping just a little longer than I was before.

Unfortunately, due to technical difficulties, I have been unable to change the alarm on my phone, which I have since named Margaret (the alarm, not the phone – who would name a phone?). Margaret was set on a ring/vibrate mode that was utterly obnoxious and served the purpose of waking me with a jolt of fear, lasting just long enough to find the STOP button and for Husband to grunt and sigh many times before his alarm was set to go off 30 minutes later at 6am (this is the time that we should be waking up now that we are car-riders). Each day we go through this shocking awakening at 5:30, me feeling around desperately for my phone then trying to focus my eyes enough to turn Margaret off and finally, both Husband and me yanking the blankets back up over our heads to capture a few more precious moments of sleep.

This is a good time for me to mention that Husband despises Margaret. In fact, he hates her so much he refuses to acknowledge her by name. Can you imagine?

At this point, you must be wondering (like Husband) why I have not made a greater effort to silence Margaret, or change her settings to wake me at a later time, to just find my phone manual and look up the steps necessary to do the job. The truth is that I feel that Margaret has become a part of our lives. I could never just silence her completely without feeling that something is missing - and who am I to change her? Would it even still be Margaret? I just don’t think I can do that to her. I know I know it is a real pain in the head to be punched out of a sweet dream by her incessant screeching-buzzing, or worse, to hear such noises inside my dreams and be shaken awake by Husband telling me to kill that racket. But Margaret has made a place in this world. She knows just who she is and what she is here for. That’s more than most can say and I respect that about her. Margaret is so stable and so reliable with her Monday through Friday duties – she even wakes us when my phone is powered off, if you can believe that. I admit I am a little inspired by Margaret. She sets a good example for me in her little energizer-bunny-sort of way. I want that.

Another sweet thing about Margaret is that she never asks for anything in return. Her love is unconditional and consistent. Something we could all take a lesson in from time to time. Come to mention it, I’d bet that Margaret would be willing to teach others how it’s done. Of course you’d have to sleep on the floor at the foot of my bed, next to Pup-pup in order to get a good view of Margaret’s magic. If you’re awake to see her go off, you can almost see the pride in which she does her job. The brightness of her flashing screen and the intensity with which she pulsates nearly moves her off of the nightstand. It is a truly magnificent talent.

So now you must understand my reasons for leaving Margaret just as she is; my little dancing, singing, slap-in-my-morning-face. How rarely we encounter such amazing characters in life. I am blessed.

O, Margaret, I love you! Don’t ever change!

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Love After Love by Derek Walcott

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

Sunday, November 28, 2010

A Desert Tent by Mike Ferguson

Isaac
Blind
He waits for me in a desert tent
The wind with sand needles my face
I squint crows feet
I am the son
My mother wraps me in deception
My father waits in a desert tent
I smell the lie that is on me

He is old, like the womb that grew him
He is blind
He is my father
His name means laughter
I am still a clinging thing, without a wound

I carry the lie in a bowl
I feed it to my blind father
His name means laughter
The lie is heavy with spice
It is a strong lie
That my mother has prepared

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Hump Day Haiku #3

Basement cold and dark

Full of fragile memories

A real treasure hunt

Saturday, November 20, 2010

Cinderella's Diary by Ron Koertge

(featured in Writing the Life Poetic by Sage Cohen)

I miss my stepmother. What a thing to say
but it's true. The prince is so boring: four
hours to dress and then the cheering throngs.
Again. The page who holds the door is cute
enough to eat. Where is he once Mr. Charming
kisses my forehead goodnight?

Every morning I gaze out a casement window
at the hunters, dark men with blood on their
boots who joke and mount, their black trousers
straining, rough beards, callused hands, selfish,
abrupt...

Oh dear diary -- I am lost in ever after:
Those insufferable birds, someone in every
room with a lute, the queen calling me to look
at another painting of her son, this time
holding the transparent slipper I wish
I'd never seen.