Missing (Jacob)

My oldest daughter wore this coat. She was a year and a half when Jacob Wetterling was murdered. Of course, we didn't know it yet. He was simply missing. His parents were forced to imagine places much more painful than death.

Now the family knows. The world knows. It has been suggested that this knowing is good. We can stop imagining horror around every corner. We know where it lives. It is contained. The family should feel better just knowing.

I don't know what Jacob's parents imagined all those sleepless nights. Twenty-seven years worth. I don't know if the truth they learned last week is any better. Now they can think about exactly what happened to their child. The sight and smell and sound of his killer telling the story is seared into their souls. He has become what they imagine when they close their eyes at night and nightmares come instead of sleep.

Other parents lie awake, too, fighting demons in the dark because their children have been taken by predators as loathsome as Danny Heinrich. Children who disappeared into addiction, and never returned. Who became commodities for sale in the sex trade. Who were taken by mental illness.

Some parents don't know why they lost their children. They just know that they walked away. Separated themselves from their family, refusing to look back.

But all those nighttime hours—full of hideous images, which wash over prone forms like ocean waves upon a tiny atoll—accomplish nothing. In time, there is no awake. No asleep. Only a longing for something that will never come. Peace.

The Wetterlings must have had these nights. Over and over again. Yet somehow, when the light came to stab their eyes in the morning, they got up. They did everything they could for their lost son, and then went on to help other lost children.

The thing is, we can all open our eyes. We can all get up, and maybe some of us can help the lost children.

Free Range

Along with throngs of Minnesotans, I went to the State Fair last weekend. It's advertised as The Great State Get Together—when outstate and urban Minnesota join forces to consume as many calories as possible in ten days. They may squabble about legislative priorities, light rail vs. agriculture, but they agree on cheese curds and smiling dairy princesses sculpted from enormous blocks of butter.

Except the Minnesota State Fair looks like a picture of the past. Those halcyon days when fair-skinned Europeans populated every corner and the word immigrant meant someone from Scandinavia or Germany. It's still fun to people-watch. They come in all shapes and sizes, munching on spam sushi or deep-fried cheeseburgers. But not too many colors.

When I'm teaching my adult ESL class, I sometimes describe myself as European. But other times I just say pink. It's a better descriptor. "I'm not white like this paper," I say. "I was only white when I was very sick in the hospital." The fair seems more pink, less brown than I would expect if the entire state came to eat together.

I still love it, though, and wouldn't miss it. Like many fair-going families, we have a routine. We used to park across the street and come in near the animal barns. The sheep, horses, pigs and cows were first, followed by the all-you-can-drink milk booth and a Pronto Pup.  Now we take a shuttle bus and come in a new entrance. Near new food. So now we start with a walleye taco.

Before we head off to the French fries, ice cream, and points beyond, we go to the Miracle of Birth barn, where urban Minnesotans get to see farm animals being born right in front of them.  "Eew! Gross!" say my kids. They like to see the newborns, but not their births.

It was the brilliant idea of a veterinarian who happens to be a member of my husband's extended family.  This year, we spotted her at work. Two sows were giving birth, and the crowd around was cheering the arrival of the first piglet, but she was kind enough to come and chat with us.

"Have you been to the hen house?" she asked. We shook our heads.

"You have to go check it out. You can learn where your eggs come from."

If you're thinking that the correct answer is "chickens", then you, like me, have something to learn.

I like to feel good when I spend my money. I'm not in a very lucrative profession, and I work very hard for what I earn. There are two ways I can feel good about parting with it. First, I can get a good deal. Find the best product at the lowest price and I feel smarter than everyone who paid regular price. I feel like I'm good with money. Second, I can pay more for something worthwhile. Something that will last. Something that will make a difference. Free range. Cage free. It makes me feel good to spend more on eggs if I know the chickens led better lives.

But here is what I learned: chickens aren't people. They don't languish in their cages, beaks pressed against the bars, longing to roam free in the barnyard.
It turns out that what is most important to chickens is pecking order. Their very small brains can only remember seven or eight other chickens. Keep the group small enough and they don't care how much space they have. They are content.

But what about free range? I had assumed that I was paying more for eggs from free range chickens because they were pampered. Not so. Free range chickens are more vulnerable to predators, disease and injury. I'm paying more for the higher mortality rate.

Cage free? A large flock of chickens in unrestricted space makes them miserable. They are stressed and fight more. Chickens need to know their place in the pecking order to be content.

"Every time they open their eyes, they see a new chicken," explained the vet.

In the hen house we saw two cages. The enriched space was larger, but contained more chickens. They could go off to a small private space to lay their eggs. The other cage had about eight chickens. They could walk around in it, but it was very small.

"See how content they are?" asked the young worker? "Even in the smaller cage?"

I'm not sure what a happy chicken looks like, but they certainly weren't fighting. They weren't droopy or listless either. They just looked like they were getting on with the business of being chickens.

It's the same with dogs. We can't resist thinking of them as people, and we derail their training with our affection. We don't want to hurt their feelings. We want them to return our love.

But dogs aren't people. The most important thing to them is their place in the pack. They don't feel ashamed if they aren't the alpha. They don't secretly scheme House of Cards style to take over power. Submitting is as natural to dogs as dominating. If they don't know their place, they are stressed. They need to keep checking on their status in relation to every pack member, human or canine. If they know when to submit, they can get on with the business of being dogs.

We like to impose our own ideas about happiness on other cultures, too. We look at women who cover themselves—Muslim or Amish or Catholic or Jewish—and say, "They are imprisoned. They are dominated." We assume they must long to be free from their cages. Free from domination. If only they could strip off that clothing, they could be happy like us.

But the problem isn't too many clothes. I've heard many women in hijabs talk about their dreams. They sound similar to women in jeans and t-shirts. They want to be doctors or nurses or to start their own businesses. They want that ubiquitous thing known as "a better job."

No. The problem is when women and girls are forced to take off their clothes. I was sickened to learn about the link between sex trafficking and sports. While athletes competed in the Olympics, young girls who had been brought to Rio were satisfying the throngs of spectators. The same with the Super Bowl. The Ryder Cup.

It suits those who pay for sex assume that these women and girls are free. That it's their career choice to sell sex for money. That they are entrepreneurs.

No. They are imprisoned in a nightmare of abuse—physical, emotional, substance abuse. They are not free to go about the business of being women.

Extreme, Extreme Vetting

I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t heard it with my own ears.  It wasn’t the call to keep our country safe from immigrants. That’s old news. Or the presumption that we can judge entire populations by the actions of a few. Call them terror countries. That’s old news. Not the assumption that real Americans worship at altars adorned with flags and guns and crosses. That’s old news, too.

What I heard this week was even more unbelievable. It came from the creature who rests on piles of gold in his lair like the great dragon Smaug, but flies out into the world to destroy everything in his path. The creature who revels in setting our country aflame.

We must close our country’s gates to those “who support bigotry and hatred.”

Unbelievable.

He meant, of course, brown people from warm places where Jesus isn’t everybody’s friend. Places where muezzins call from minarets. Where God’s name has two syllables. Where prayer and fasting are required of everyone, not just monks and nuns. It doesn’t even matter if they were born here, like the Orlando shooter. If their parents were immigrants from those places, that’s enough. The problem is immigration, and it needs to be stopped. Then we will be safe.

I am a Norwegian Lutheran from Minnesota. Nothing could be more bland. Yet if my grandfather were immigrating today, he would undergo extreme vetting. In Norway in 2011, bombs went off. Young people on an island were gunned down. All of it politically motivated. All of that in a pale country were God goes by the right name. A terror country.

But if we lock the doors of our country, we also lock people in. People like Timothy McVeigh, John Allen Muhammad and Lee Boyd Malvo, Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold, James Holmes, and Dylann Storm. We lock in all the violence and terror festering under the flag.

Are bigotry and hatred foreign imports? This summer, the Gay Men’s Chorus of D.C. got on a bus and rode to Raleigh, NC to join with the local chorus. In a public square, they sang:

                        Teach every child to raise his voice

                        And then, my brothers, then

                        Will justice be demanded

                        By ten million righteous men.

                        Make them hear you.

There is video of the men standing in the dappled shade of a large tree. The director gracefully waves her arms, extracting exquisite singing from the united choirs.

But the singing isn’t all that is heard. From off screen, someone shouts Leviticus 20:13. When he isn’t loud enough to drown out the singing, someone else joins him. “Abomination!” Then louder, “They shall surely be put to death!” Over and over again it crashes through the music. “Death!”

Surely we don’t need to be worried about importing bigotry and hatred. We have plenty right here.

Magnificent Mile

Cardboard. Corners. Those are the rules. You must make a sign from part of a cardboard box, and you must stand at a corner. In Minneapolis and Chicago it's the same. The homeless stand still. Others move past them.

Who writes these rules? Who disseminates them? Who enforces them? Because after all, the homeless we see are a very orderly bunch. They never step out of their place and, for instance, follow you down the street shouting. In fact, they never say anything at all. It's all there on the cardboard. They are mute. Unless you give them some money. Then they're allowed to talk to you. But only to shower you with God's blessings.

It's all so scripted, it makes me wonder how it can be real. Is it a scam? Or is it that homeless people have to do what is expected of them to generate optimal donations?

And the rest of us. Did we write the script so that we can use them to measure our generosity? Some days, we give. We feel good about helping someone in need. Otherwise, forget it. They're just faking it. Or they're just going to spend it on drugs.

Would we ever throw away the script? Would we tolerate an actual humanizing conversation with them? I'd have so many practical questions. Where do you sleep at night? How do you decide where to beg? How many hours do you stay here? What's your average daily take? Where do you go to the bathroom?

But then I would listen for the story. There's always a story. Nobody was born and raised on a corner. Nobody went to Cardboard Sign University to get a degree in asking for money. Nobody was sentenced to life on the corner as punishment for their sins. These are lives that must have included tragedy and loss, the stuff of fascinating stories.

And what if they were allowed to move from the corner? What if they could walk into the stores and mingle with the shoppers? Would that break the unspoken code that glues them, mute, to their places? It suits us, I think, to keep them still. In their place. Noticing them is optional.

I was recently in Chicago, staying near the part of Michigan Ave known as the Magnificent Mile, home of the American Girl Doll Store. It was the height of tourist season, and families thronged the sidewalks and stores. Teens slouched behind their parents with pained expressions. Toddlers slept, smiled, or screamed in their strollers. But it was the little girls who reigned supreme. Every girl old enough to walk on her own was carrying an American Girl doll, retailing for $115-$120. Of course, you get a paperback book with that, so it's totally worth it. The outfits and other doll necessities range from $20- $395.

Children of all ages, whether carrying an embarrassingly expensive doll or not, have already absorbed the rules of the street. Walking by a homeless beggar is the norm. Acting like you don't notice the person crumpled on the hot pavement in front of you is the norm. Hurrying toward the next air-conditioned, upscale shopping experience is the norm.

I am ashamed to say that I followed the script. But my husband didn't. Back at the hotel, he went into the executive lounge of our hotel and grabbed a cold Coke. Back on the street, he was ready.

"Would you like something cold to drink?" he asked a man on the pavement.

Hair

I have a hair appointment next week. I will pay far too much for a skilled stylist to color my hair. Then later I will pay again for another person to keep it short. She will make sure that it looks natural. As if it were always short, always framed my face and always lifted slightly off my forehead. But there is nothing natural about my hair.

I am conflicted about this process.  The women who do my hair with such skill have been doing it for years. I listen to their lives and they listen to mine. I've been with them through marriages and divorces, cancer deaths, addiction recovery, knee replacements and a child with downs syndrome.  They have listened to me raise four children to adulthood, with all the joys and sorrows that has brought. We are tied together in a unique bond, stylist and stylee.

But so much money, so much time and energy going into hair? My rational brain tells me this is ridiculous. Hair has no significance unless we give it. And yet I give it freely. I don't wear makeup, do my nails or pluck my eyebrows. But I still invest in my hair. Because when I look in the mirror, I have no rational brain. It's pure emotion. Hair that's behaving gives me confidence. Hair that lies too flat or sticks out in the wrong places or shows too much grey, destroys it.

Sometimes I wonder if a hijab wouldn't be better. There's never a bad hair day, and it makes a nice, hands-free cell phone holder. I've seen many women talking on phones held in place by hijabs. Plus, revealing less, you would have to find your confidence from within.

This is what people miss about muslim women. The confidence. It's the covering that throws them off because we assume that no one would cover themselves voluntarily. They must be forced by men. But it's not that simple. A muslim woman doesn't put on a headscarf or hijab for a man. She does it for her God. And for herself. It identifies her as part of her culture, a group that gives her life meaning and keeps her safe. In other words, it gives her confidence.

This is what Donald Trump missed when he saw Ghazala Khan stand beside her husband on the DNC stage. He got distracted by the headscarf and missed the confidence. It's been interesting to see the consequences of his attack on her. The hashtag fury of accomplished women, demanding to be heard. If Donald had asked, I could have told him he was stepping into a hornet's nest. Never mess with muslim women. They are some of the toughest people on the planet.

Once, I taught my adult ESL class wearing a headscarf. I'd been to the dermatologist and planned to go back to class after, but I didn't plan on the hideous bandage on my head. I grabbed a scarf from my car and voila!

"Teacher! You look so nice!" said my students. They were so excited. All those trips to the hairdresser, and it was covering my hair that made me beautiful to them. Maybe I looked more confident, too.

MOA

Even though I avoid it, I can feel its massive presence. It's there, on the way to where I may be going, the center of a web highways, casting sticky, silvery threads to capture unwary passersby. I quickly punch down the accelerator, lest I become its latest victim.

"I live in Bloomington," I tell people. If they're not from the Twin Cities or Minnesota or even the United States, their brows may furrow. But their faces always clear when I say, "You know. The Mall of America. We live near the Mall of America."

It's popular. I have had friends and family visit whose central aim is to shop there. My home and hospitality run a poor second to an indoor roller coaster, Legoland, and every store they don't have near their homes. I suppose it's a little like living near the pyramids or Mount Everest. But I don't mind. As long as they don't make me come with them.

My kids used to go to school near the mall, and one of their teachers continuously railed against the soul-sucking evil of the place. But that man turned out to be highly susceptible to evil himself. He became head of the school, abused his power to purge those who questioned his authority, and replaced them with loyal family members. So, perhaps his views can be discounted. Or perhaps it was the mall that led him astray.

When my sisters came to town last week and wanted to go to the mall, I was surprised to hear myself say, "I need to do some shopping. I'll go with you."

It's changed a lot. Many years ago, when the amusement park was called Camp Snoopy, and my kids played with legos, I used to go there once in a while. After all, winter in Minnesota is very cold and long, and it was worth the risk of a little soul-sucking evil to tire them out without having to put four kids in snow pants, boots, hats, mittens and jackets. Last week, I wasn't even sure how to get to the parking ramps. The exits looked different. There were hotels in the way.

When I stepped into the entrance, it all came flooding back. The never ending windowless hallways filled with florescent lighting that failed to completely conquer the darkness. The weight of it all. The ricocheting energy of so many people.

The noise. It was the noise that made me want to turn around and leave. I was immediately transported to the time we took out-of-town guests to the mall, and I got a terrible migraine. There is nothing worse that an indoor amusement park for a throbbing head. But I was on a mission. I needed to meet my sisters and get the job done.

I looked around to get my bearings. To my left, I saw a sign on a plain metal door. It was the name of the school where I work. I knew we had offered English classes at the mall for employees and nearby residents, but that program had been discontinued a couple of years ago.  I was surprised to see the sign still up. I turned to my right. Victoria's Secret. The window was filled with a huge photo of a woman in lace panties. It must have been culture shock for some of the new immigrants coming to learn English.

Once I figured out where I was, I began to walk. Verbs flew at me from every store I passed. Need! Want! Save! My determination wavered. I knew what I was there for, but what if I really needed something else, too?  Something I hadn't thought of. Something that I would regret not buying. Something—God forbid—that I would need to come back for. And it would be on sale. A good deal. Before I knew it, I would be browsing. I would be buying. I would be weighed down with shopping bags.

But my sisters know me. By the time I met up with them, they had already zeroed in on where I needed to go. They had even done initial reconnaissance. They enlisted a sales person to help with the specifics, and I bought nearly everything she suggested with the credit card I opened at the store.

The next time I drive by the mall, I'm going to step harder on the gas. It's a very dangerous place.

Stop!

"Protesting is when you see something wrong, and you want to stop it," I told my adult English students. "A march is when lots of people walk together in protest."

Born in 1959, I grew into consciousness as the Civil Rights Movement came to national prominence. The Vietnam War protests were the backdrop of my adolescence. By the time I went to college, Reagan was president. We signed petitions to pressure our administration to divest from companies with ties to South African apartheid. No one marched in the streets.

Since then I have used my voice. I wrote letters to the editor, a few of them published. I became politically active, as a donor and volunteer. I made countless calls to hostile strangers to defeat an effort to legalize discrimination in our state. I visited my state legislators to make sure they heard me. But I have never used my feet. I have never marched.

When I first heard of Black Lives Matter, it made sense. "Stand up," I thought. "Tell your story. People will listen." Because that has been my experience. I spoke up, and a mere four years later, my church became more inclusive. I gave a letter to my state senator and later she read it on the senate floor. I was heard. I am white.

Black Lives Matter wasn't heard. The killing continued. So they came to places where people were already gathered. They came to the Mall of America, and it didn't bother me. I hate shopping there. They came to the State Fair. I was annoyed. I love the State Fair.

"They're not doing it right," I said. "Annoying people won't change anything. They need to tell their stories. That's how we defeated the marriage amendment."

Then came Alton, Philando and Dallas. Black Lives Matter walked onto an interstate near me to stop traffic. It didn't go perfectly. Anti-police rage led to injuries. Many people were annoyed.

"They're doing it wrong. They shouldn't be allowed to disrupt so many lives. People need to be places."

I've been teaching American history this summer. It's English class, but we teach the language through a variety of topics. We began with the Native peoples, then European arrival. After studying independence from England, we looked at American expansion. Next came the Civil War and the Civil Rights Movement. We had just finished comparing Cesar Chavez and Martin Luther King Jr., when Philando Castile was killed fifteen miles away. I realized with a jolt that I had taught my students the history of race and violence in this country.

"Now you can understand why this is happening," I said as if that were possible.

But it's not possible. So maybe Black Lives Matter is doing it right. Maybe standing in the middle of an eight-lane highway and refusing to move is the only thing left to do. You may not stop the next bullets being unloaded into a man who is only frightening because he is black. You may not stop the next retaliation against a decent police officer. But at least you are stopping something. Even if it's only traffic.

And maybe it's time for me to use my feet. I won't join them on the highway. That's terrifying. But I might at the state fair. I'll be there anyway.

Safer?

Never!
(Received this in the mail post-Orlando.) 

 It's not uncommon for me to bring current events into my ESL classroom. They're all adults, and it's empowering for them to be able to voice opinions about their new country in their new language.

After Orlando, I wanted to talk with my students about it. But how? Most of them come from religious backgrounds that prohibit homosexuality. Their reaction to the subject tends to be about the same as a seven-year-old boy who hears the word "underpants". There is whispering and giggling.

I decided to approach it from the issue of guns. I asked the basic question that America is facing. Do more guns make America safer?

Many of these students have extensive experience with guns. They have seen chaos and bloodshed on a scale Americans can't imagine. After discussion, they unanimously expressed support for strict gun control. "Only the government needs guns. To protect us." Black Lives Matter would have squirmed to hear the naive trust these new black and brown Americans have in our institutions.

Then someone asked, "Teacher, can't the president do something?"

"Remember when we studied government? All laws have to come from Congress. And Congress won't do anything."

Their trust crumbled, just a little.

The House Democrats tried. They sat. They spoke. They shouted...Nothing.

Our representative, Eric Paulsen, who passes himself off as moderate because he never voices an opinion, voted to do nothing.

So it was ironic that the next week, the NRA sent a membership solicitation warning me that I am under attack. Especially by the "freedom-hating Hollywood elite." These moustache-twirling evildoers are plotting to take my guns. And my children's! How could they? Only the NRA can save me. Putting an NRA member sticker on my car will send tremors of fear through local politicians. Just $25 buys me this super power for one year. Or, if I'm a bargain shopper, I can get three years for $70 or even five years for $100. There are some nifty member gifts, too.

It's the NRA who keeps telling us that more guns = more safety. But we haven't heard much from them this week, when Philando Castile's gun made a police officer nervous enough to kill him.

It's easy to fault the cop for being nervous. It must mean he's racist. Black = bad must be at work in his soul. Like so many before him, he saw black. He killed black.

Dallas reminds us that police officers have a right to be nervous. Police are some of the first to say that the more guns = more safety formula doesn't work for them. It puts their lives at risk.

But this can't continue. 

     More guns

  Nervous cops 

+  Black is bad 

       More death 

"Teacher, can't the president do something?" 

"No." I said. "All laws have to come from Congress. And Congress won't do anything. But you can. When you vote, think about guns." 

Eid mubarak!

YESTERDAY

Family: How was your day at work?
Me: Very quiet.
Family: What do you mean?
Me: It's Eid.
Family: What?
Me: It's Eid. The biggest Muslim holiday of the year. The end of fasting for Ramadan. None of my Muslim students were at school today.

I wonder how long it will take for America to add Eid to our collection of marketable holidays. I'm sure there are already greeting cards. The greeting card companies know what everyone needs to say long before they do. Eid is a big shopping time. New clothes. New shoes. Tons of food. How long before the newspaper ads have pictures of mouthwatering goat stew, enticing shoppers to get the best deal on halal meats in the Twin Cities? Because that's what America does to holidays. We sell them to people. Easter baskets, Black Friday sales, Hanukah and Christmas wrapped up.

Ramadan is harder to wrap because it's the absence of something. Food, water, sleep. For a month, my students dragged themselves to class hungry, thirsty, and sleep deprived. They weren't allowed to eat or drink while the sun was up, so this time it was particularly tough. Ramadan straddled the summer solstice. From a teaching perspective, this isn't ideal. It interferes with learning. By the time my evening students left class, they hadn't put anything into their mouths for over fifteen hours.

Or maybe they had. One of my students was still waiting for a ride when I came out to my car. "Have a great Eid," I said.

"Teacher," she said in a spontaneous confession. "I ate breakfast today." She looked miserable.

"Well, you have to take care of yourself," I said. Completely logical, but completely sinful according to her religion.

Another student came up to me during Ramadan and said, "Teacher, we're praying that you become Muslim!"

I took it as a compliment because if there's one very positive thing about Ramadan, it's that it creates a sense of community. You may be suffering, but you're not doing it alone. Not only does God notice what you're doing, but your fellow fasters do, too. So my student was inviting me into community.

(Which isn't what if feels like with some Christians. With them, I feel like the offer to pray for me is because I've failed to do it myself. I should know better. I was raised in a culture dominated by Christianity and shaped by its judgements.)

All of this Muslim goodwill during Ramadan makes me wonder about the violence we've seen. Orlando, Istanbul, Kabul, Dhaka... The fact that these occurred during the holy month makes it obvious that they weren't motivated by Islam, the religion that makes you feel guilty for eating breakfast when everyone else is hungry.

Eid mubarak, everyone. Blessed Eid.

Independence Day

It's Independence Day. A day to celebrate freedom. Americans live and breathe liberty. Independence permeates our red, white and blue souls.

My students, most not citizens yet, have become infected by it. Last week I put the First Amendment on the board. If you need a refresher, it includes freedom of religion, freedom of speech, freedom of assembly, freedom of the press, and freedom to petition. I asked them to discuss which was most important to them.

(Bear in mind that a typical conversation with a student might go like this: "Teacher, I no coming tomorrow. My wife she have appointment.")

I was astonished at the level of discourse. One group began to discuss gender roles and the rights of women in their respective countries. Another group talked about freedom of the press and freedom of speech.  A student pointed out that what people do is more important than what they say. A third conversation revolved around elections and term limits. Students wondered if they could be free without the right to vote for their leaders.

While I reveled my students' achievements in their new language, I was mindful that there are many in America who believe that freedom is finite.  If we give immigrants a share in our freedom, they reason, who knows what they'll do? They certainly won't appreciate it. They may even use it against us. America First! Immigrants never!

I have some good news for those people. Freedom is precious to your immigrants. They know what life is like without it. And they ask whatever god they worship to bless America.