by Tom Hames

When I was in high school, if one of my friends was ‘cutting’ it meant they were skipping class. Today, the term can refer to something else completely. Cutting is a form of self-injury where a person takes a sharp object such as a knife, razor blade, pen or even a paper clip and cuts into their skin. It seems to be more prevalent among teenage girls, but boys do it too.

Although I do not claim to fully understand cutting, I can relate to it because of something that happened to me when I was in my early twenties. I was stocking the shelves in my dad’s wholesale grocery store and I had a wooden roll-around cart assigned to me that was just the right height to put boxes on so they could be cut open. One day, as I was pushing my cart down one of the aisles, I was suddenly overcome with the desire to hurt myself. It was a strange sensation, but to be honest, I thought about cutting myself. I used a razor knife every day, and I had one right in front of me, but I didn’t want to get blood on everything. The feeling to hurt myself persisted, and I got to the point where I had to do something. Finally, looking around to make sure that no one would see me, I raised my hand up over my head and slammed it down on the top of the wooden cart as hard as I could, knuckles first. Then, I did it again.

Oddly enough, despite the pain, I actually felt better inside. About that same time, I became fascinated with drawing skulls. I drew them in secret and then threw them away almost immediately. A daily routine took shape and for the better part of four months ─ I would spend my workday stocking shelves, drawing skulls, throwing them away and then slamming my hand down on the cart. It was a weird ritual, but one that I found gave me great comfort. Why I never broke any bones in my hand I will never know. When I stopped working for my dad to finish college, my personal form of self-injury stopped as well. What is strange to me is that I never did it anywhere but at work, and once I left I never did it again.

I don’t know how to make sense of what I just wrote, but I know it happened. Honestly, it is embarrassing to share that part of my life, but lately I have been extremely grieved over the issue of cutting, and if sharing my experience helps someone else, then I will gladly overcome my embarrassment. Unfortunately, most cases of self-injury are not short-lived like mine. Many continue for years, even into adulthood.

So, what causes teenagers to cut themselves? I’ve read a lot of articles on this subject, and the experts believe that it is a coping mechanism. If a teenager is dealing with a really intense emotion it can help them deaden the intensity. On the other hand, for those feeling a sense of numbness, it can perform the opposite way and actually help them feel something. They say it can also indicate that there are other issues involved, such as depression. Other experts say it is a control issue, that teenagers sometimes feel so out of control with their life that they cut themselves just so they can have control over something.

I will leave all of the causes up to the experts. As a parent who has raised three teenagers, and as someone who has spent a number of years working with youth, I would like to know how to deal with it. Although I do not claim to have all of the answers, in my personal, non-professional, opinion, acceptance, and communication are the keys to helping a teenager with this problem.

It is understandable for adults to be appalled at the thought of their child self-injuring. What parent wouldn’t be shocked to find out that the cuts on their daughter’s skin were self -inflicted? This is where parents need to be very careful. If the teenager has trusted enough to open up, reacting with shock and disbelief may shut them back out. It is in this critical moment that a parent needs to be as understanding as possible and accept the child along with their injuries. It is even more important if the self-injury was found out by other means. In this case, the teenager may not be willing to talk about it at all.

Communication is equally, if not more important, than acceptance. As parents, we often want to solve our children’s problems immediately.  But before rushing your child to the psychiatrist or emergency room, try communicating with them first. Listen to them, speak calmly and don’t judge them. It may be difficult, but we have to foster open communication if we ever hope to help them. It is at times like this that our children really need caring and nurturing, not chastising and nagging.

If you are a parent or you know someone who is dealing with cutting, or any form of self-injury, then please try to accept them for who they are, and take the time to communicate with them. Don’t be offended by what they have done, or make negative comments about their injuries. They need supportive people around them who will listen to them and not judge them for what they are doing to their bodies. They desperately need someone they can trust to help them through it. Professional help may need to take place, but simply being there for them will make a big difference.

by Vicola England

In case you’ve been stuck in a cave, I shall enlighten you about a little-talked about fact from the UK – Prince William and his girlfriend Kate are now engaged. It’s wall to wall coverage. Every ruddy channel and radio station is talking about it. Prize for the most pointless bit of journalism must go to Sky News who sent a reporter all the way to Kenya to stand in the dark in front of some trees, and talk about royal engagements, and that’s because Kenya is where William proposed a month or so ago. I bet their roving reporter is grateful he didn’t pop the question in a public convenience in Piccadilly Gardens or she’d be spending the next week sniffing in bleach, piss, and tramps. Tell me ─ why do we need her to report from Kenya? I’ve seen David Attenborough programmes, I know what African Plains look like. And it’s not like someone has put up a plaque. Yet.

Yesterday the newly engaged couple did an interview, and I couldn’t help but wonder what they’ve done to Miss Middleton. The last time I heard her speak, which admittedly was a while ago, she sounded a bit posh, but reasonably bright. Gone are those days. She now has an accent you could use to cut through steel, and her intelligent comments have been replaced with a sort of disturbing doe-eyed simpering. I’m wondering if the Royal Household has given the poor girl a transfrontal lobotomy of some sort. “It’s all rather daunting but I’m just looking forward to spending all my time with William” she gushed.

Pull the other one Kate, you’ve been with him for seven years, and unless you’re completely different to all the intelligent girls I know, you are well aware that if you spent “all your time with William”, you’d want to kill him slowly and painfully in less than a month. It’s a fact of life. Sadly, it seems that to be a royal woman you have to put all thoughts of a personality, job, or spirit behind you and concentrate on looking pretty and not doing anything controversial.

And I, for one, was quite surprised that he’d chosen to give her his mother’s engagement ring. I mean it’s a nice thought and all, but really, does Princess Diana’s engagement ring say “long and happy marriage” as much as it says, “Miserable existence where he lusts after someone else, so you bang other people to bolster your self-esteem and ultimately die in a tunnel in Paris with your lover”. Personally I’d have rather had a nice diamond or something. Or a horse. Nothing says ‘let’s get married’ like a new horse. If you’re posh, anyway. Or at least that’s what happens in Poshworld in my head, this may bear no relationship whatsoever to reality.

So far the collection of commemorative tat has been rather disappointing. It’s been 24 hours, I was expecting some truly marvellous concoctions to have emerged by now but no, so far we just have the Asda mug. I’m thinking that most manufacturers are going to go down the dull, tried and tested route of mugs and plates that you bung in a cupboard to gather dust until your grandkids drag it out and laugh at you. This leaves a gap in the market for alternative wedding-related crap, and we need a broader range of useful tat. Therefore, I present to you:

The Vicola Range of Royal Wedding Household Crap:

• Wills and Kate loo roll, available with a variety of photos on it, in aloe vera, quilted, double quilted and, for the less affluent tat hunter ‘cheapshit that scrapes the skin off your arse and disintegrates as you use it’.
• The Wills and Kate cake spatula, shaped like either a grinning Will or a grinning Kate – who hasn’t wanted to remove Victoria Sponge mix off the inside of a bowl using the flat side of the heir to the throne?
• The Wills and Kate plastic tablecloth – covered with a variety of pastel-coloured scenes from the cheaper tabloids, ideal for children’s parties, because the little sods always tip ice cream and Coca Cola all over your table. Doubles up as a plastic undersheet if you happen to have a household member who wets the bed.
• The Wills and Kate Wheelbarrow – Hand painted by people who can’t really draw but who we met in the pub and agreed to employ, complete with a plastic Wills glued to one handle and a plastic Kate to the other. Now you too can pretend you’re at Balmoral by wheeling the bag of horseshit you bought for the roses from one side of the garden to the other in a truly royal contraption. (We take no responsibility for any injuries received if the wheels fall off.)
• Truly the jewel in any commemorative tat crown, the Wills and Kate 1kg bag of tiling grout. Available in black and grey.

Hurry, hurry, people ─ these items are going to literally rocket out of my shed, so you need to get your order in early. And if anyone else has any great ideas for practical commemorative tat, now is the time to share them. I’m predicting an entrepreneurial boon here.

by Natasha J. Stillman

I live in New Zealand.  I drive by my meat a lot.  In spring the lambs are plentiful, frisky and adorable. Unfortunately for them, they are also tasty, and being New Zealand, lamb is relatively inexpensive and on every menu.  While traveling on the road or on a walk, my husband and I point out animals to each other and find them delightful as they frolic in their natural surroundings.  Despite our eating habits, we are animal lovers. But as we’re pointing them out, in the back of our minds, we think, “Hmmmm.”

We often see snails on the road in front of our house ─ oh so cute in their tiny, slimy glory.  I’ve saved several from being flattened by the crazy drivers who hurtle up our hill, placing them gently out of harm’s way. Yet after our year in Switzerland, escargot is my new favorite food, specifically, escargot with feta stuffed portabella mushrooms, grilled to perfection with crispy brown bread crumbs in the mix.

Once upon a time, I also had a problem eating duck and goose liver.  Sadly, that dilemma went the way of the dinosaurs after our year in Switzerland, also. Pâté de foie gras is simply too good not to be eaten.  While we were living in Zürich, our good friends from Toulouse brought us this heavenly stuff in a jar. You have to separate the liver from the fat, and then spread it on crackers or bread. We had the most decadent breakfast on our back deck, overlooking the lake.  I’ll never forget it, and as cannibalistic and pitiless as this makes me sound, I’ll never regret it, either.

Now, let’s talk about veal ─ for 12 years, it had been banned from our house. However, if it was on a menu at a restaurant, I’d give it serious consideration, my reasoning being that, hey ─ it’s already dead and in the kitchen, right? Besides, my mother, who is Goan-Indian, has a family dish called ‘veal marengo’ which is simply to die for. It’s so good that I imagine the veal is happy to have made such a permanent commitment to its existence.  But then again, my whole family is a bunch of rabid carnivores ─ we’ve eaten brain, chicken bone marrow, beef tongue, and more. Never let it be said that any part of a sacrificed mammal goes to waste within our tribe.  It made me feel guilty at first, but of course living in Europe put an end to that shame, too. My favorite soup ever while travelling through Europe was a delicate, clear broth made with slices of tasty veal marrow.

We also recently took a trip to Korea, and while I won’t be repeating the particular and dubious gustatory delight that is Seoul sea slug ─ my husband loved it; I filed it under the same category of the ‘less-than-satisfying raw jellyfish incident of Los Angeles 2003’ ─ I am already craving plenty of other foods from that trip, my particular favorite being Korean barbeque-style pig cheeks. Yes ─ pig cheeks. There was a whole restaurant devoted entirely to the cooking and serving of pig cheeks, and it was packed to the rafters.

Don’t bother writing in ─ it’s not like I’m not aware of the cruelty issues and my culpability in them. But I comfort myself by being updated on where most of our food comes from. In New Zealand where the cows and sheep are grass-fed, and one sees the imported deer on venison farms, romping on open grassy plains and hills, I breathe easier, justifying my taste for beef, lamb, and venison by appreciating that these are well-cared for at least, which is more than I can say for those out in the wild living in fear of being chased by hungry coyote or mountain lions.

Perhaps watching chefs like Anthony Bourdain and José Andrés on such a regular basis has left a permanent mark on my psyche. I’ve become an unabashed foodie who’ll try almost anything once. I pause, but I partake.

It’s just who I am, but being a conflicted carnivore is bliss.

by Vicola England

The Catholic Church, not exactly a stranger to controversy, has once again found itself in the spotlight, but not for the usual reasons of sexual abuse by priests, or one of its clergy letting rip with a one-liner that breaks every equality law known to humankind. No — this is a new one.

Sister Margaret McBride was a hospital administrator at the Catholic run St Joseph’s Hospital in Phoenix, Arizona, when a 27-year-old, pregnant mother of four was brought in suffering from pulmonary hypertension. Doctors determined that the risk of death from this condition was unacceptably high if she continued with the pregnancy and recommended an abortion. A consultation was held with family members, physicians, and hospital administrators. After this consultation, Sister Margaret gave her permission for the abortion to go ahead and the patient survived. For this act she has been excommunicated by the Bishop of Phoenix, Thomas Olmsted, effectively giving her ‘leper’ status within the Catholic community. She can’t receive the sacraments or be a part of her religious order, the Sisters of Mercy.

The medical ethics director for the Diocese of Phoenix, Rev. John Ehrich, has defended the excommunication, stating that “she consented in the murder of an unborn child”, showing a quite spectacular lack of regard for joined-up thinking, which, had he employed it, would have led him to the inevitable conclusion that if she didn’t agree to the termination and the patient died, Sister Margaret would have consented to the murder of both mother and child. So she was in a no-win situation.
He went on to say, “There are some situations where the mother may in fact die along with her child”, in a fine display of the human compassion that must be so very handy in his job. According to the Reverend, “This is the Catholic perspective – you can’t do evil to bring about good.”

Well they’ve certainly changed their tune, haven’t they? The Crusades, the Spanish Inquisition, the missionaries that went in to Africa and Polynesia to deal with the ‘savages’, the Magdalen Laundries in Ireland, the list could go on all day of things that the Catholic Church did for ‘good’ that we would now consider ‘evil.’

But this isn’t just about one nun doing something the Church doesn’t agree with; this is symptomatic of the Catholic Church’s wider attitude towards women, both in its hierarchy and in its congregations. Let’s be honest, it’s not exactly an ‘equal opportunities’ organisation, is it? Women are absolutely forbidden from becoming priests, and the treatment of nuns who have ‘done wrong’ has been harsher than that of priests. Take the issue of sexual abuse within the Catholic Church. Not one single, solitary priest has been excommunicated for abusing members of his parish. Not one. A few have been de-frocked, but it’s taken years. The Pope did say this year that he is willing to excommunicate any Catholic priests who have been rightfully accused of paedophilia, but he must be doing some decorating or something, because he doesn’t seem to have got round to it yet.

When asked about this discrepancy, Rev Ehrich said, “She said, ‘yes, you can kill that unborn child.’ That’s a heinous act. And I’m not going to make a distinction between what’s worse. They’re both abhorrent”. Which is where the evidence proves him wrong–the Church has decided which is worse and it certainly isn’t multiple counts of paedophilia.

Let’s take a working example, shall we? Sister Margaret and her agreement to allow an abortion vs the Reverend Peter Hullermann in Germany, a case which developed while the current pope was overseeing the Munich Diocese. Rev Hullermann was accused of abusing boys and, after a church investigation, in 1980 the Pope at the time approved his transfer to Munich to receive treatment for paedophilia. In 1986 he was convicted of abusing a youth, but he remained within the Church for a further twenty years.
So which would you say the Catholic Church thinks is worse? The fact is that the hierarchy is terrified of independent-minded nuns, so much so that in 2009 the Vatican began a ‘visitation’ of American female religious orders to assess whether sisters were complying with doctrinal teachings such as the Church’s stance on homosexuality. Good choice, fellas; can you imagine what would happen if those pesky women began to think for themselves, rather than just blindly following what the wiser men folk have deemed they should think? It would quite literally be the end of days multiplied by Armageddon. Notice there is no talk of doing the same for male religious orders. And they wonder why the number of women taking the veil is dropping faster than a concrete pigeon.

So what about the two individuals concerned, Sister Margaret and Bishop Thomas Olmsted? Traditionally nuns have operated at the coal face of humanity, getting their hands dirty with the needy, a position which can bring them into conflict with their Bishops, and Sister Margaret doesn’t appear to have been an exception. The chief of Gastroenterology at the hospital said that “saintly” was the word for Sister Margaret and that she was the “living embodiment of God in our building. She always made sure we understood that we’re here to help the less fortunate”. Bishop Olmsted, who has spent his life climbing the church’s career ladder, has also hit the headlines a few times, mainly for his fiercely pro-life stance. He criticised the president of Notre Dame University for inviting Barack Obama to give their commencement address, accusing him of committing a “public act of disobedience to the Bishops of the United States” because Obama doesn’t condemn abortion. He banned then-governor Janet Napolitano from speaking on any church property because she wasn’t anti-abortion. He also refused to give communion to a 10-year-old autistic boy because the child couldn’t swallow and so, Olmsted said, “…couldn’t partake of the body and blood of Christ.”

Bet that’s just what Jesus would have said, too…

On one side of the debate, you have a compassionate nun who has served her community hands-on and face-to-face and who, when faced with a decision that pitted her beliefs against her medical knowledge, selflessly took the path that she knew would bring the wrath of the bishop down on her head for the sake of her patient. On the other, you have a hard-line career Bishop who has chosen his stance and refuses to compromise on it under any circumstances, no matter what effect this may have on others.
So think about it ─ who has shown the most Christian values? And if you were a compassionate god, whose side would you come down on?

by Kate Hansen

After the birth of my son in 2007, I felt an incredible energy and drive to make art. Contrary to the popular belief that art-making is one of the things that fall to the wayside after the birth of children, I felt not just inspired but compelled by my experience of childbirth and motherhood. The creative act of making another human being awoke a creative drive in me. I also found that the time limitations involved in caring for an infant forced me to be more disciplined, eking out an hour here and there when my son was sleeping to continue my portraits. After my daughter’s birth in 2008, I embarked on a series of mother and child portraits accompanied by birth stories written by each subject. I wanted to simultaneously express the imperfection and fallibility of the mothers and capture an element of the divine in the mother/child bond. Each mother in the series shares her birth story—life-changing, beautiful, or harrowing—and these experiences unify a very diverse group with a common theme: love, self sacrifice and transcendence. The inspiration for this project is my children: their beauty, their challenges and the unique and universal bond of motherhood.

Each portrait is done in ‘conte crayon’ (semi hard pastel,) accented with a gold leaf halo in an echo of portraits of the Virgin Mary with child (Madonna Lactans) from the 15^th century, as well as an early 20^th century revival of the practice by such artists as William Adolphe Bouguereau. Working out the process of creating the haloes was complicated. I outlined the circular shapes and filled them in with the leaf in the first four portraits, then devised a way to make a pattern in the halo with “Gladys and Elizabeth.” I was thinking of rose windows, and wracking my brain for a way to make such an even pattern by hand with my limited math skills. Unable to think of anything, I set the problem aside and started cutting out snowflakes with my son instead. Then it occurred to me to cut an elaborate snowflake and use the radiating design for the halo. I outlined a snowflake pattern on each halo and painted the gold leaf sizing on to the ground of the pattern, but not the holes, waited for the sizing to dry, and then rubbed the un-sized leaf off to reveal the pattern.

Three of my portraits are of mothers breastfeeding their babies. These modern Madonnas Lactans are a true celebration of motherhood. Breastfeeding can be a challenge. Many women did not witness their mothers breastfeeding and are unsure of how to do it correctly, and many are unnerved by the social stigma surrounding breastfeeding in public. The simple act of successfully breastfeeding their babies is a true victory. For me, there is an aura of joy, bliss and awe surrounding a breastfeeding mother, as she seems to embody the fundamental divinity of motherhood, the Gaia and the Virgin Mary. I personally find breastfeeding mothers so beautiful and pure that I was unprepared for the reaction my portraits generated when I posted them on the popular networking website Facebook.

I posted one on a figurative artists group on Facebook, and was surprised to see that it had been removed on March 27^th, 2010, just a few days later. I had already posted two more portraits, so I went ahead and reposted the one in question, thinking it must have been a glitch. My new artwork was removed on March 28^th, and then on March 29^th the re-posted portrait was removed as well. I reposted all three in a row, as a kind of experiment, and received the following letter by email:

Hello,

You posted an item that violated our Terms of Use, and this item has been removed. Among other things, content that is hateful, threatening, or obscene is not allowed, nor is content that attacks an individual or group. Continued misuse of Facebook’s features could result in your account being disabled.

If you have any questions or concerns, you can contact us at warning@facebook.com from your login email address.

The Facebook Team

I went to the local CBC radio station, and was featured on the CBC Radio One morning show “On The Island” with Gregor Craigie. After that, the story took on a life of its own. It was covered by various CBC broadcasts, a CBC news program in Saskatoon, CBC Radio One’s “The Story from Here,” with Sheila Coles, CHEK-TV News in Victoria, two talk radio shows in Toronto and Montreal, the front page of the local Comox Valley Record, and an article by Antonia Zerbisias in the Toronto Star. I was surprised by the reaction to my artwork, but also gratified. I was pleased that my work was getting people talking on the issue of art censorship as well as on the taboo that still surrounds the act of breastfeeding.

I believe that Facebook’s treatment of my breastfeeding portraits is indicative of the brutally high expectations that society holds for mothers. Mothers are expected to breastfeed, every health organization tells us it’s the best choice, yet images of women breastfeeding are labelled obscene and mothers are treated with hostility and disdain when breastfeeding in public. The result is an ideal of motherhood that no mother could possibly meet: scolded if we don’t nourish our babies exactly the way they tell us to, shamed if we dare to do it in public or celebrate and honour the unique bond it creates.

A common theme throughout many of the birth stories was a sense of inadequacy. Many women felt they had not lived up to their ideal of what a mother should be, what a birth should be. There was often a sense of loneliness, as in the story of Gladys and Elizabeth. Gladys came to Canada with her Canadian husband and gave birth far away from her native Kenya, in the dead of winter. Many of us, myself included, wished to have a natural birth, and had to settle for a c section birth instead. For some women it was elating to give birth naturally after a previous c section, proving to themselves that they were capable of giving birth. For everyone the act of childbirth was a rite of passage, a moment in our lives right before motherhood, when everything changes, even one’s sense of self. I wanted to draw parallels between our own ideals of what a mother should be, and the cultural ideal of motherhood, symbolized by the Virgin Mary. I wanted to simultaneously honour both that ideal and actual motherhood in all the glory of its imperfection.

My biggest issue with the Facebook censorship was that it was selective. The artwork posted on the figurative and portrait site includes many (wonderful) full nudes, while none of my portraits show more than a two-piece bathing suit would. I can only conclude that it is not the amount of bare flesh, but the subject matter of my work that they find offensive, and I find that abhorrent. Breastfeeding is not obscene. If you wish to take part in an online petition, please join my Facebook group: “Hey Facebook! Breastfeeding artwork is not obscene!”

by Peter McCarthy
(reporting from Australia)

This last week has seen some interesting commentary about whether the current Pope can be put on trial for covering up child abuse when he was Cardinal Ratzinger as late as November 2002. This report from St Oswald Foundation is one of the better ones for covering the options. It’s an interesting question that has a few quirky responses that reveal more about the commentator than the facts.

Predictably some have attacked Richard Dawkins for wanting to destroy the Church, which is true enough but doesn’t alter the fact that questions need to be answered. Others have attacked Geoffrey Robinson for being a lawyer who (get this one) works for money. Apparently you can only attack the Pope if you work for free though I don’t quite follow the logic on this one.

Some claim the Holy See is a Head of State and can’t be prosecuted but this too is incorrect. As current Sudanese Head of State President Omar al-Bashir can attest (from his own country because he can’t risk arrest overseas).
Of course the wacky Miranda Devine has to try and take things even further in her approach. According to her

• There is more sexual abuse these days (not as I suspect more reporting of it)
• Society’s to blame for moral decline not the abusing priests. Too bad it predates the Internet.
• It’s all a Commie style plot to destroy the Church.

She then goes on to equate the possible destruction of the Catholic Church as the destruction of Christianity a proposal that should offend every other denomination that claims to be the True Christianity.

Where the real question lays is can a credible case be made that child abuse was systemic and I don’t think that one can get up. Even proof that some parts of the Church regularly relocated abusers into other child contact positions still won’t be enough to win the case unless the Pope has committed it to a written document. I hardly think something like that exists in an organization that tried to pretend the problem didn’t exist but imagine the future if the Pope got arrested on his next visit to the UK a la Pinochet?

It might actually be possible to prosecute the Pope for crimes against humanity over the Churches behavior towards it’s African members. When the African Bishops decided to undermine the AIDS campaign by spreading lies about the effectiveness of condoms, the previous Pope did nothing to reign these “Leaders” in. If the current Pope has not removed these gentlemen from Office, or worse, has not even directed them to behave responsibly, then it is a serious crime against humanity. With 2 million deaths from AIDS in Sub-Saharan Africa way back in 2007, its totally irresponsible for this human assisted tragedy to continue.

In the final wash-up I don’t think arresting the Pope over pedophile priests would make much difference to the victims. The Church seems to finally realize they have a moral responsibility over their protection of child molesters, but in the unfashionable case of AIDS in Africa it might just shake them up and get some responsibility taken by these social engineers who place so little value on human lives.

Hollywood, in general though not in total, seems to be rallying to the defense of Roman Polanski, admitted child-rapist. This includes the likes of Harvey Weinstein, Whoopie Goldberg, and Peter Fonda, to name a few.

Whoopie, for example, says it wasn’t “rape-rape.” Apparently, there’s rape, and then there’s rape, and a 43-year-old man drugging, then anally penetrating a 13-year-old girl isn’t rape, it’s just ‘rape’, and heck, if we’re going to start sending people to jail for that, where will it stop?

Mr. Fonda points out that Polanski didn’t kill anyone. Osama bin Laden is a murderer, Fonda’s argument goes, and we haven’t done anything to him yet, so why are we picking on poor Mr. Polanski? I assume by this argument no one should go to prison for anything until bin Laden is captured and convicted. We all have carte blanche!

Film critic Patrick Goldstein questioned the fact that Los Angeles County would spend money on an oversees extradition during a budget crisis. It’s only common sense that we should pursue child rapists only when we’re flush with cash. I mean, you have to have your priorities straight, right?

Anne Applebaum with the Washington Post points out that the victim no longer wants Polanski prosecuted, preferring to get on with her life. Trying and convicting the admitted rapist of a little girl, she says, “does not serve society in general or his victim in particular.” She says, “If he weren’t famous, I bet no one would bother with him at all.” Because non-famous pedophiles are never extradited from other countries, right?

Many of the articles published on the story, in fact, make a point of the fact that the victim no longer wants Polanski prosecuted, citing the fact that she received an “undisclosed settlement” from Polanski. By all means, if you have enough money to pay off the victim afterwards, you should of course be allowed to rape little children without legal repercussions.

The Swiss Directors Association said that the arrest was “not only a grotesque farce of justice, but also an immense cultural scandal.” Obviously, arresting this great director is much more of a scandal than the rape of a child.

France’s cultural minister thinks that Polanski has been “thrown to the lions because of ancient history”. Who knew that thirty years ago was ancient history? Now that makes me feel really old.

Polish Defense Minister Radek Sikorski says he will make an appeal in Polanski’s defense.

Here are my thoughts.

I don’t care that he’s a “great director.”
I don’t care that it was thirty years ago, as if sodomizing a child at the age of 43 is a “youthful indiscretion.”
I don’t care that the victim would rather leave it behind, as many victims do.
I don’t care how much it costs to fly him back to the U.S.
I don’t care that it was the 70′s and things were “just crazy back then”.
I don’t care that he has not been caught raping other little girls since he fled the U.S. to avoid prosecution.
I don’t care about the supposed injustice that he is going to be prosecuted while murderers like bin Laden are still free.
I don’t care how famous he is.
I don’t care how rich he is.
I don’t care how loved he is by his fans.
I don’t care.
I don’t care.
I don’t care.

Rape is rape is rape is rape.

I am glad that he was arrested.
I’m glad he’s being extradited.
I’ll be glad when he’s tried.
I will be glad when he’s convicted.
I will be glad when he goes to prison.

The next time conservatives rail against the Hollywood liberal elitists, I will have to agree with them. The fact that in 2009, there is even a debate about whether an admitted child-rapist should be given a pass because he’s famous is absurd, depressing, and infuriating.

I personally will not be watching any movies or TV shows, listening to songs, or reading books by any artist of any medium that defends this child-rapist because he’s “such a nice guy” and a “great filmmaker”. If entertainers think they are better than the rest of us and are above the law, it is because we have given them that impression. Maybe it’s time to remind them that they live in their exalted position only because we put them there, and we can remove them any time we want.

Last 5 posts by Paxton Daryl Branson

• Grandpa Max's Clock Repair - June 12th, 2009
• ‘Progressive’ Sexism: My Letter to Donna Brazile - February 1st, 2009
• The Disappeared of America - January 1st, 2009
• What Liberal Bias? - July 1st, 2008
• The Tyranny of Grammar - June 2nd, 2008

Marley

3:09 A.M.

I sat up suddenly in bed and squinted through the darkness. Marley shook his head, jangling his tags to let me know he was also awake.

“How long have you been up, Bubby?”

Marley just sighed. I heard him stand and walk towards the bedroom door.

“OK, Bubby, just a second,” I slipped out of bed and into my slippers. “I’m pretty parched myself and I have too much on my mind to get back to sleep anyway. Might as well get up.”

Marley sighed again and headed out into the hall towards the kitchen for a drink.

After he’d adequately hydrated himself, he came back into the bedroom where I sat reading what looked like a Bible, but was, in actuality, a gold-leafed copy of one of my favorite novels, entitled Lamb: The Gospel According to Biff, Christ’s Childhood Pal.

The author, Christopher Moore, was in Seattle the night before and Amanda had gone to meet him in person. She had taken my copy of Lamb with her and asked him to autograph it for me. “Kirk wasn’t feeling well at all,” she had told him. “There was just no way he could make it.” Moore had been happy to oblige. In fact, he autographed every single book Panda had brought with her. And there were many.

“So…what does it say?” It was Marley. He sat at my feet, doing his best not to scratch at the wrinkly, itchy mass that currently serves as his underbelly.

“It says, ‘To Kirk, Missed you! See ya next time! Christopher Moore’”.

“Shame,” said Marley.

“How do you mean? I think it’s very thoughtful.”

“Oh, it is. But I wasn’t talking about the autograph.”

I had no idea where he was going with this. “Where are you going with this?” I asked.

“Why didn’t you go with Amanda last night?”

“Because I felt like hell.”

“Huh. You looked fine to me. Please elaborate.”

“Well, I’m just having a bit of a hard time right now, Marls. Lots on my mind.”

“You said that much already.” (With the exception of playing fetch, Marley has little tolerance for redundancy.) “What I want to know is how keeping a few extra thoughts in your head prevents you from going to meet one of your favorite authors.”

“They’re heavy thoughts, Marley. About emotional topics. Sometimes emotions make humans very tired.”

“You stayed home because of me, didn’t you?”

“Not entirely.”

“Look, daddy, the cat isn’t the only one who knows the URL to your blog. I read your post yesterday about how much my declining health is troubling you.”

That took me by surprise, let me tell you. I didn’t even know Marley could read.

“Oh? Well, I just wanted to stay home and play with you instead. What’s wrong with that?”

“You can play with me any day! Christopher Moore won’t be back for at least a year!” Marley was shifting from his left paw to his right and back again. “What the hell is wrong with you!?”

He was visibly upset and I was confused as hell. There have only been a handful of times in eight years he’s acted in such a way. The last time was when I told him I was thinking about buying a motorcycle.

“You’re more important to me than some person I’ve never met,” I replied sharply. “I wanted to play ball with you. Get your sheets washed. Rub your itchy chin for a bit. Clean your ears. Massage your neck.”

“I love all of those things and you’re frequently doing one or another of them. Despite my illness, I am a happy dog. I am never in doubt as to whether I am loved. I am never hungry. I have a big, floofy bed and lots of other animals to hang out with. I get tired quickly, but I can still play. I have very little to complain about.”

I stared at him and felt tears begin to well up. When he realized I wasn’t going to say anything, he continued: “Do I have to spell it out for you, daddy? Are you really going to make me condescend?”

“Well…”

“What’s that song you keep playing over and over all the time right now?”

“It’s called Kids. It’s by a group called MGMT.”

“And what’s that lyric you like so much?”

“It goes, ‘Control yourself. Take only what you need from it.’”

“What do you think it means?”

“I believe it speaks to the importance of moderation and not allowing yourself to become so consumed by something you become compromised or held back by it.”

“Right – and that applies without exception, I might add. Even loving too much can be dangerous.”

Marley looked hard into my eyes, waiting for me to make the connection. Looking into his, I could see wisdom that extended back considerably farther than his eight short years. I perceived a level of understanding I doubt I’ve ever noted in a human being and found myself lost in it.

I had a realization then, as if falling so deeply into those dark, intelligent eyes had imbued me with the very awareness Marley wanted for me. I blurted it out even as it was forming in my mind. “Holy hell!” I shouted, forgetting everyone else in the house was still sound asleep. “I’ve allowed my concern for your health to make me miserable! I’ve taken so much from that uncertainty that I’m incapable of reacting appropriately. I’m so worried, my mind is elsewhere, even when we’re playing ball together!”

“There you go, daddy. Now you’re getting it. You should know by now there’s nothing I want more than to watch you get excited about something – to see you happy. That’s what makes me excited and happy.” He scratched at his belly and furrowed his brow as if in deep thought for a moment. “You know what doesn’t make me happy? Finding out you chose not to go to that book signing because you felt an obligation to stay here with me!”

“God, I am so sorry, Marley!”

“Oh, knock it off! It is what it is. Why not let go of the tiresome self-loathing and focus on the progress you’ve just made?”

I patted him on the head. He smiled and put his ears back in that adorable way that looks like he’s got a baseball cap on backwards.

“Now,” he said, “how about the two of us go outside and add a little excitement to some stupid squirrel’s morning? Whadda ya say?”

Last 5 posts by Kirk Starr

• The Zen of Junior High Dodgeball - June 8th, 2009
• Immortal Kombat - February 1st, 2009
• Brown Belt, Black Shoes - January 1st, 2009
• You Can't Get Good Help These Days - July 19th, 2008
• Macho Cheese - June 20th, 2008

Madonna, and Another of Her Adopted Boys from Malawi??

Sometimes I really do wonder what goes on in the heads of celebrities, and nothing demonstrates the weirdness that is celeb-world more than Madonna. Some people when their marriage goes belly up buy a new car, get their hair restyled, buy a new pair of posh shoes, but Madonna trumps all others by buying…another Malawian child. A girl this time, to match the boy she bought last time, after all, why buy the shoes and not the matching handbag?

Leaving aside the fact that Madonna has bypassed all the usual systems for adoption and shot straight to the “pick which pretty sprog you’d like” stage, how can she possibly think about introducing another child to the insane world of commercial madness, public scrutiny, and upbringing-by-nanny that is life in her household?

But then let’s be honest, it’s not about the child is it? It is, as usual, all about Madonna and what she wants. Let’s face facts: with what she’s paying in ‘donations’ to the Malawian authorities. and whoever else she needs to grease the palm of, she could have set the child and its grandmother up in a secure home with a way to make their own living. She could have picked an actual orphan, a child with no family and no one to care for it, because Malawi has an awful lot of those. She could have given stipends to dozens of families to ensure that they don’t have to give up their kids to an orphanage because they can’t afford to feed them. But she did none of these things.

Instead, she chose to buy herself another little Malawian-shaped trinket. Rumours are that the little girl’s grandmother doesn’t want her to be adopted away, but she needs to face facts ─ what one wizened old woman wants doesn’t matter two hoots to the Malawian authorities, when on the other side of the scales is Madonna with her massive wads of cash, and support of a number of orphanages. The depth of Madge’s concern for the wellbeing of the kids she’s seen can be summed up by the fact that she went touring round the orphanage wearing a £2000 Chanel tracksuit. What could the average Malawian family do with £2000, do you suppose?

Perhaps she’s in some sort of weird-ass competition with Angelina Jolie to see who can adopt the largest number of disadvantaged children in the shortest period of time or something. Still, we should be grateful for small mercies I suppose, while she’s in Malawi deciding which child will go best with her new shoes, she isn’t in the UK gyrating her scrawny self around on stage in an embarrassing leotard or S&M gear and she isn’t releasing any pseudo-dance, craptastic pop shite. Every cloud and all that….

Last 5 posts by Vicola England

• Wills and Kate Tat for Sale - December 17th, 2010
• Harmony or Hatred – What's Really Going on in Multicultural Britain? - July 1st, 2010
• The Stoning of Sister Mc Bride - June 30th, 2010
• A Letter to the (British) Department of Health - March 5th, 2010
• What Were They Thinking? - July 29th, 2009

Mulberry Street, New York City, Circa 1900

I’ve never been a flag waver. While I am deeply thankful that I was born in the United States, I’d never make the statement, “proud to be an American,” because that indicates ─ to me, at least ─ that it’s an accomplishment I did something to earn.

Instead, I consider myself “lucky to be an American,” whereas I think it’s my father, born in Sicily, and having had to make his way into the country, and then having to work to become a citizen of it, who can rightfully use the word “proud.”

His birth on that island categorizes me as a first-generation “Italian-American”, yet I’ve never dwelled much on this label, either. I mostly remember I’m ‘Italian-American’ to the rest of the country when I struggle to get knots out of the thick, dark hair that’s been passed down to me by my Mediterranean ancestors. Or, on thinking back to when I was a little girl, and my mother made pasta sauce on Sundays, as my father sang along to scratchy old Caruso recordings. I confess I did become a soccer fan who always supported Forza Azzurri, because I loved my father and uncles, and they were avid soccer fans who always cheered for Italy during the World Cup. But I never even learned to speak Italian until well into my twenties, as my parents spoke English at home, and only broke out their Sicilian dialect as a “code” when they wanted to say something to each other they hoped their children wouldn’t be able to decipher.

So, with all of these indicators of my woeful lack of nationalism and ethnic pride, (and in fact, because of my writing name, it’s often assumed that my background is Greek), why am I so ticked off at the non-stop ethnic slurs against Italian-Americans uttered by a loud-mouthed radio host, named Curtis Sliwa?

Well, there are several reasons, not the least of which is because they’re so lightly dismissed by everyone. In this country, where every slogan, term, and offhand utterance is microscopically examined as to whether or not it bears any hint of racism, homophobia, or sexism, it’s always been politically correct ─ moreover, enjoyable to many ─ for talk show hosts, stand up comics, and of course, Hollywood, to smear every Italian-American with some measure of Mafia.

News Flash to the World: There do exist Italian-Americans who don’t have ‘Movie Brooklyn’ accents, don’t chew gum with their mouths open, don’t wear cheap black leather trousers, and who, by the time they reach the age of twenty, feel grown-up enough to call themselves, ‘Joseph’, or ‘Joe’, rather than ‘Joey’. Guess what else? There are far more Italian-Americans who are teachers, lawyers, doctors, librarians, and even house painters, than they are Mafia kingpins.

Radio kicked Don Imus (who at one point, was on the same radio station as Curtis Sliwa) off the air because of his “nappy-headed” commentary about the Rutgers University Women’s Basketball Team, but if they’d had white skin and names like Gina Lollabridgida, he could have called them “Mafia Princesses” and even the FCC would have chuckled. And because Italian-Americans are white-skinned, and so firmly at ease in their position on the American landscape, we’d be bad sports, wouldn’t we, if we couldn’t put up with a joke or two?

Maybe my so very deeply-entrenched, way over-the-top ethnic pride is at fault for my taking umbrage with Sliwa’s remark that on Staten Island, again in reference to Italian-Americans, he could, “swing a dead cat” over his head “and every fifth person” he’d hit would be “organized crime.”

When Sliwa was asked by two of his radio show fans, Republican City Council members Vincent Ignizio and James Oddo to go to Staten Island and apologize for that commentary, he did so by going to Arrochar Friendship Club in South Beach, and allowed himself to be paddled by “Italian grandma,” Mrs. Cammarata, who also playfully shoved soap in his mouth. Mrs. Cammarata was chosen to administer Sliwa’s punishment, “because of her sense of humor.” She called Sliwa “a gentleman.”

“Sometimes we don’t mean things the way they come out,” Mrs. Cammarata said.

“Every fifth person would mean you have to have close to 100,000 people in organized crime on Staten Island, and there aren’t that many people left in the mob,” he later was reported to have said in his recant.

Perhaps, but he didn’t say that on the radio.

Sliwa ended his ‘apology’ by asking the gathered, laughing senior citizens, “Where‘s the cannolis?”

Like I said, it’s the failing of my fierce ethnocentricity that blinds me to the ‘humor’ in this. And it was even less funny to me when I heard that Mr. Sliwa accused the Italian-American Museum in New York City’s Little Italy of being backed by the mob.

This time his rant was as a result of the 475,000 dollars Senator Charles Schumer earmarked from the Obama administration stimulus package to improve and expand the Italian-American Museum in Little Italy in NYC.

Granted, one can argue that close to half a million dollars to refurbish an ethnic museum is a pork barrel project, and during this time of fiscal emergency, it’s one that perhaps shouldn’t be indulged.

Although, having said that, when Robert Ciofalo of the Italian-American Museum was questioned about this grant, his comment was, “We were once the recipients of a one million dollar grant, too. But the way these grants work, we had to first put in one million dollars worth of improvements and then apply to be paid back the designated monies. Well, who’s going to lend us one million dollars to do work, and then wait for the government to pay us back? Needless to say, that was one million dollars we never got to see. We’ll see what happens with this.”

The argument that the grant might be an inappropriate appropriation at this time, and Mr. Ciofalo’s response to that argument, are both worth intelligent consideration. What’s not intelligent is this commentary by Mr. Sliwa:

“Uh, the Italian-American Museum in Little Italy? What the hell is that?
I mean, what do you need an Italian-American Museum in Little Italy for?”

And this commentary by Mr. Sliwa:

And plus, what do we need to be spending federal tax dollars? You go to the Italian-American Museum, you make a contribution. Or, you have an enforcer there from the Genovese, Gambino, Lucchese, Colombo, Bonanno crime families who forces you to pay a contribution.”

The fact that the Mafioso Italian-American stereotype is so prevalent in the United States says more about the preferences of Americans in general, and not just Italian Americans. Let’s take Al Pacino, for example ─ he’s practically worshipped for his role in The Godfather, but woefully disregarded for his shining, stellar portrayal of Shylock in The Merchant of Venice. In fact, he may have played Michael Corleone, but Al Pacino was apparently in no hurry to be photographed with real-life Mafia princess, Victoria Gotti, after a preview screening of MOV, because he is said to feel that the antics of Gotti and her three sons are a bigger blight on the ethnic group’s dignity than the Mafia films in which he’s acted. (And, I guess everybody’s has to make a living, right?)

And the fact that the stereotype is so prevalent is exactly why we do need an Italian-American Museum. There has to be another reference besides Coppola and Scorsese films to the contributions of Italian immigrants to American society.

For example, it’s not widely known that Italian-American soldiers during WWII went undercover in Sicily to help overthrow the Mussolini regime and the Mafia. Think about that. From one perspective, it’s almost treasonous. From another, it’s downright foolhardy. But either way, it took a lot of guts.

Does Curtis know about that, I wonder?

Does he know that although Japanese-Americans were “compensated” for their interment during that same war, many Italian-Americans were considered “enemy-aliens” and were also “relocated” , also lost properties, etc., but were never compensated?

Curtis doesn’t know and Curtis doesn’t care.

And another reason I find this so ─ to quote Curtis again ─ “annoying, annoying, annoying”, is because there was a time in my girlhood, as I traversed the NYC subway system in order to get to work at the Diamond Exchange on 6th Avenue, when Curtis Sliwa was someone I admired. Yep, I thought Curtis was a New York hero, but here goes yet another girlish dream crushed. Curtis turned out to be just as phony as some of the diamonds a few of the more nefarious merchants were hawking back in the day. Now he’s nothing but a blowhard on a radio show, whose crusade is not really to rescue New York, but an agenda of self-aggrandizement. Because if he really were all for New York, he’d speak rationally and kindly about all its citizens and appreciate the things that Italian-Americans have contributed to his city and the boroughs surrounding it. Things you don’t think about, like Barnes and Noble, for example, and much, much more, all of which can be learned about in the museum which he’s mocked.

At the very least, Curtis, you should give us credit for New York pizza. I’ve lived out here on the west coast of the country for several years now, have met transplanted New York Jews, Asians, Blacks, and every other ethnic group you can imagine, and they all rhapsodize about how much they miss New York pizza. People don’t come to the Big Apple to taste the apples, Curtis, they come to taste the pizza.

Well, ‘wise guys’ make deals, Curtis, they don’t make pizza. My uncles made New York pizza, and had the misshapen fingernails and flour in their lungs to prove it. They wore white aprons, not diamond stickpins and pinky rings. They were proud of those aprons, proud of their heritage, and proud of their new country and city.

And they no sooner would have sat down and had an espresso with a ‘wise guy’ than they would have sat down and had one with you, Curtis.

Yet, you trivialize your hateful rhetoric by saying you’re “half Italian,” yourself. If President Obama used the word “nigger” and tried to excuse it by saying he was half Black himself, should we all be okay with it?

But, I’ll go with your premise, Curtis, and bastardize an old Groucho Marx joke by asking:

So, at which half of you do I get to throw the dead cat?

_____________________________________________________________

Patricia will be PROUDLY speaking at the Italian-American Museum in NYC’s Little Italy, on June 7, 2009, from 2:00- 4:00 p.m. She just might wear her blue soccer jersey, too.

Last 5 posts by Patricia Volonakis Davis

• A Girl, a Boy, and a Fountain - July 1st, 2010
• Podcast Interview with James Redford: “I Ask Myself ─ Even if Nothing Comes of It, Will it Enrich My Life by My Having Spent Time on It?’” - June 24th, 2010
• Podcast Interview with author Scott James: “People Don’t Want the Government in their Bedrooms” - March 4th, 2010
• Catching Up with Some of Our Previous Podcast Interviewees - March 3rd, 2010
• Podcast Interview with Michael Larsen & Elizabeth Pomada - February 3rd, 2010