Author: Becky Sarwate

Obama’s Pragmatic Problem (May 19, 2010)

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Barack Obama...President Barack Obama speaks about combat troop levels in Iraq as he addresses military personnel at Marine Corps Base Camp Lejeune, N.C., Friday, Feb. 27, 2009. (AP Photo/Charles Dharapak)

 

I want to state unequivocally from the outset that I am a huge supporter of President Obama and his work since taking the oath of office in January of 2009. The argument could reasonably be made that he inherited one of the finest messes that ever faced an incoming Executive, and for the most part, I believe he has acquitted himself with the thoughtful grace and deliberation that his predecessor, the “Bring ‘em on!” cowboy himself, George W. Bush, could never muster. There is much to be admired with Obama, and he has commanded my respect as a leader. I would not be the one to make the decisions he has thus far – stimulus, bailouts, health care, etc. – but I am glad someone did. I feel, for the first time since 2001, that we are in good hands, even if the national landscape remains an overgrown mess in need of some serious weeding.

Yet recently an inkling has begun to wash over me that Obama is losing a war right here at home that is as critical to his domestic agenda as any policy his think tank could develop – and that would be the public relations war. We read the same results in poll after poll. Folks like Obama personally, but judge him to be “professorial,” “intellectual” and “too deliberate.”

Such a paradox. On the one hand, we desire a level-headed leader who can soothe us in times of crisis. But on the other hand, the red blooded American public also wants passion and plenty of it – just don’t go overboard, a la Howard Dean. It’s a delicate balance for sure, but in my estimation, there are some recent issues where I would have preferred to see less analysis and more knee jerk emotion. I get the feeling at times that Obama’s “people” are so busy managing his image that they forget why we voted for him.

The White House response to the Gulf Oil spill comes to mind. While I understand that shouting down BP executives on a daily basis does nothing to resolve the crisis, I believe that Obama’s calm and cool demeanor represents a missed opportunity to harness the national anger to effect change – i.e. FINALLY doing something about our dependence on foreign oil. It was gratifying to read in this morning’s New York Times that no less a personage than Tom Friedman is with me on this one.

I am no fan of the Tea Party and find myself at odds with them on nearly every policy issue, but I readily believe that one of the reasons they have succeeded in connecting with the American people so palpably and quickly, is that their strategists cannily understand and tap into the way that anger and desperation can foment revolt. It’s one of the principles this great nation was founded upon. Mr. Obama, the former Constitutional lawyer, should know this better than anyone, but is failing to use this phenomenon to advantage.

So after much consideration, I am left with this assessment:

1. Obama = fair and balanced, measured and temperate

BUT

He often appears unrelatable – so contrary to the image of Citizen Obama, the candidate. And at the risk of sounding the complete cynic, I wonder if making the most logical decisions necessarily means making the best ones. Does his team even care about the difference? Or are they just trying to manage the returns of the November mid-term elections? This short term strategy is disappointing, and not what Obama supporters were after.

Another example from late last week: the issue of Supreme Court nominee Elena Kagan’s sexuality. Instead of rushing to squash the rumor, ask yourself Mr. President, and the American public simultaneously, why the hell it should matter? Most people don’t have an answer to this question that doesn’t clumsily fall out of their mouths as they mutter about “family values.” Become the Obama you once were, the one who when asked if he inhaled while smoking marijuana as a college student, nonchalantly replied, “I thought that was the point.” The question was never posed again.

2. Tea Party = fringe, hooking to the right, highly emotional

BUT

They have captured the cultural zeitgeist in a way that the overly messaged Obama administration has not. This truth is reflected in Obama’s poll numbers as well as this week’s House and Senate primary elections. Rand Paul is in. Harry Reid, the unpopular Senate majority leader from Nevada is hanging on by a thread. Enough said.

I sincerely hope the Tea Party does not confuse their recent victories with a “mandate” as some of their members have suggested, but all the same, the American people and the White House would be making a mistake to dismiss them as a passing trend. They do have something to teach Obama that could make him a better, stronger more effective leader.

Anger and disaffection, when wielded incorrectly, can be destructive. However, when harnessed and channeled in the right direction, emotions can act as an impetus to bring about “change we can believe in.”

Mr. President, we are still “fired up and ready to go.” Are you?

Facebook is No Longer my Happy Place (May 18, 2010)

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Facebook

I am often the last to jump on any new technology bandwagon. In fact I sat out most of the 90s – no pagers, AOL or the first onslaught of the DVD entertainment format for me. As I enjoyed a prolonged era of landlines, freedom from wireless communications and good old VHS tapes, I figured I had all I needed. If anyone wanted to talk me that badly, well they could just wait until I got home.

And yet look at the Crackberry addicted, constantly stimulated mess I have become. I watch almost all my TV via the wonders of commercial-free DVR. I blog, I Twitter (for work anyway), and I cannot seem to drag myself away from my PC for any longer than 30 straight minutes without fearing, deep in my bones, that I am missing important intelligence. Lindsay Lohan is unleashing her drunken fury on Cannes people!

One phenomenon I was eager to sign up for right away, in 2006, was my own Facebook profile. You may be thinking to yourself, “old news Boop, so what?” Well lambs, I will tell you. Facebook opened a whole new world for me – reconnecting with people I literally hadn’t thought of in years, folks I presumed had passed out of my life like the proverbial ship. Social networking in this fashion has been an invaluable gift.

So too has been the much discussed Facebook status. Twitter fans may hate me for saying this, but I look at “tweets” as little more than the red headed, second cousin of the groundbreaking status. In nearly as many characters as I want, I begin each day with a little dose of artistic expression (or complaint). I have come to rely on this as sort of a litmus test reflection of where I am in that moment of history. Periodically I revisit my old status updates and it’s like catching up with an old friend – only it’s me. For me, it is journaling in microcosm.

It may sound like a paradox, but I would argue that I am never more “myself,” with such a keen sense of abandon, a flagrant departure from worrying about how I’ll be received, than I am when I update my status each morning. Before I have given myself time to wipe the sleep from my eyes, I shoot from the hip and see what comes out. Need it even be said that oftentimes, my status update contains one or more of the following: not-safe-for-work language, hangover laments, or declarations of opinion about “alternative” issues (being purposely vague there)? I do have some Facebook friends that I often hope will avert their eyes – for example the parents of school mates – but in general I trust my Facebook community to know me and look the other way.

It is often said, by now a cliché, that “everyone is on Facebook.” This appears to be true, and the phenomenon has gone global. I have pals in England, Germany, Israel, and very recently, India.

It is inside the boundaries of this last ancient land that my current predicament lies. For you see, I received an email from my in-laws yesterday afternoon that instantly froze the blood in my veins. Mummy and Papa are about to go viral and start a Facebook account.

Shit.

I have viewed the Book as the one place, outside the confines of this blog, where I do not have to censor myself. That is all about to come to a crashing halt. Because here is the conundrum of Facebook etiquette: one has the absolute freedom to decline or accept any friend request, but as we all know, the psychological costs of doing so can be too much to bear. This got me thinking: am I really as free on the Book as I think I am?

My in-laws are well aware that I am not mainstream. They are aware of it as I say, but that doesn’t mean they want to actively think about it. From the safety of Mumbai, I can be comfortably viewed as a loving and supportive wife (which I am), without the other R-rated fun that makes me a unique brand of wingnut. That delicate balance is about to come crashing down. How do I get them to understand that befriending me through social networking will ultimately make all of us less happy?

So now instead of enjoying my footloose and fancy free Facebook joie de vivre, I am considering the possibility of edits. I cannot tell you people how many hours “scrubbing” my profile might take. It’s not like I am a porn star or gangster, but I am cringing already at the high volume of drunken photos, ex-boyfriend pictorials and inappropriate commentary they will encounter. And yes, to answer your pertinent and preemptory questions, I WILL hear about it. Yet I cannot decline to befriend them. They would be crushed and I truly do love my in-laws. So what to do?

With one email sentence, I feel like I fell from the sky, confronted with the possibility of acting as my own thought police. This is not an appetizing prospect. It’s enough to make me wish it were 1996 again. I am going to retreat into the fetal position clutching my Steel Magnolias video.

Hybrid (May 15, 2010)

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Hybrid-animals-Hybrid-ani-003

Whenever I get too full of myself, sense my ego getting ahead of me, I have a go list of “gut checkers,” which remind me that I am just a normal, ordinary, imperfect, ball of neuroses. While self-appreciation is a necessary part of a healthy life, it is important to stay grounded by your flaws and inabilities, to cherish them as you do your greatest assets. They are part of who you are too. For example, my tremendous discomfort of speaking in public, my tendency to turn red and stammer the word “um” a little too much for my liking, is what drove me to develop swiftness with the pen (or the laptop). So I accept my ineptitude and try to reflect upon it with equal consideration, especially when I experience a personal high, because it is what motivates me to work that much harder. I like to think of it as utilitarian self-doubt.

I had a good day today. I experienced a writing career high when I accepted an award from the Illinois Woman’s Press Association – for a series I wrote last year on the booming economic/ecological phenomenon of urban agriculture. I put on a fancy dress and accepted the applause of a roomful of respected, accomplished female writers. It was awful, wonderful, humbling and empowering all at once. Sometimes I think I’d be more at peace, and less bewildered, if my feelings came in black and white.

I did take a moment to feel proud of my award, of course. In fact I feel so fulfilled today that I am equally up to the task of taking the piss out of myself. Because at the end of the day, I am still, and always will be, such a work in progress.

Six idiosyncratic Boop-isms:

1. I can’t do a THING with my hands. It is awfully good I was born with a brain that functions adequately enough, because if I had to draw, assemble, sew or otherwise create or fix anything with my left and right, I would be screwed. Case in point: as bored teenagers, my younger sister Jen used to ask me draw animals (ex. elephant) just to enjoy the mirth of watching my earnest floundering.

2. The Lexulous application on FaceBook owns me. I have a Master’s in English Literature, and am one of the biggest nerds I know, yet I suck in the extreme at this glorified Scrabble. Perhaps my pedestrian use of the word “suck” contributes to my problems. Regardless, I have a deplorable win ratio of 12.5% (two for 14).

3. I cannot roll my tongue. I am not double jointed. I am not a great whistler, nor can I do a backflip. Trust me, there was a time in my life (secretly not over yet) when I thought all of these things were awesomeness itself.

4. I can’t take Vicodin. In fact, I am allergic to more man-made drugs than anyone I know. Do you know how much fun this has cost me over the years?

5. Motion sickness. Cruel irony: I am one of the most enthusiastic natural daredevils in existence. But around the age of 12, I inherited the family motion sickness gene to the tenth power. I have ralphed in public more times, and in more countries, than I can bear to remember.

6. Fears: bees, dogs, needles and human statues (that last one is another post for another time).

In short, I am weird. This used to bother me a lot until I realized that everyone else is too. They are just more or less adept at hiding it. Now I celebrate it. Because whenever I take a step forward, I take my oddities with me. We’re partners.

My Personal Credit Crisis (May 13, 2010)

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credit_crisis

Long before the start of this protracted recession, and prior to the stock market thud of late 2008, I became acquainted with the collapse of an economy at the micro-level. In the late 1990s, as I wrapped up my high school career and entered college as a freshman, my family’s fiscal health imploded alongside the tenacity of my parent’s marriage. My father’s prolonged unemployment begat depression, which led to more fighting than usual, then separation.

As if the family unrest were not enough, my mother’s departure from the family home, where she had long been the sole breadwinner, led to foreclosure and problems with the IRS. Instead of working together as a team to figure a way out of the mess, my mother, who is no longer a part of my life, chose identity fraud as her personal salvation. Whilst I was away completing my degree, she took my very early stage credit rating to the cleaners – to the tune of over $17,000.

As a 22 year-old graduate in 2000, I had neither the means nor the mental capacity to deal with this level of duplicity and ruin. Ultimately, I chose to file for bankruptcy, oddly enough one of the smartest moves I ever made. It gave me a fresh start and the closure I needed to put the last five years of sleepless nights behind me. I am proud to say this bankruptcy finally rolled off my credit report this past March. For a long time, I felt the irony of being one of the most anal, responsible people in existence, but unable to rent an apartment without a co-signer.

But this anecdote is not the point of my post today. Though years of adulthood have helped me put this saga in the past where it belongs, it still very much affects the way I do business today – much to the chagrin of my husband. Call me old fashioned (like REALLY old fashioned), but I do not trust credit, electronic money or other slippery currencies. Once (or thrice) bitten, always and forever shy I suppose. Though I am far more solvent than I once was, I refuse to have my name on a piece of plastic, don’t buy things unless I have the cash in the bank to pay for them, and if I owe the smallest debt to an acquaintance, I pay it off before I have the opportunity to break out into a sweat. Am I scarred or just sensible? You decide.

Anyway, my husband Eddie bought a new sport coat yesterday. I am receiving an award from the Illinois Woman’s Press Association this Saturday, and as part of the deal, we get to attend a fancy luncheon at Chicago’s Union League Club. The sport coat was necessary, so as he trotted off to Macy’s, I felt relatively calm. However, that evening, when he informed me he had charged the $200 bucks spent to his American Express (note: HIS, I have refused to have my name added to the account), I lost it for reasons even I cannot fully understand.

As I tried to work it out, I clumsily explained that once the credit floodgates are open, they are tempting and hard to close. Look no further than the national debt for proof. I somewhat hysterically relayed to Eddie that I know well where that road leads and I’d just rather not risk it. We had the cash, so why didn’t he use it? Answer? Credit card points.

Another schadenfreude designed by predatory card issuers. Yes, we will let you “earn” a free iPod while we hammer away at your debt ratio, making it impossible for you to ever be free of our clutches.

Readers, am I overreacting? Possibly. But the combination of having fiscally irresponsible mentors, and bearing witness to America’s move in the wrong direction, farther away from financial independence each day, only renders me more set in my ways.

I will be back to read your thoughts after I finish stuffing my last paycheck into the mattress.

So This is What Fat Looks Like? (May 11, 2010)

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Cheryl Burke

I will preface this post by admitting that this is a topic discussed so oft, there is practically nothing fresh to add. However, since our society continues to adopt an ever more sociopathic bent in its idea of female beauty, I feel the need to raise the issue again.

Last night, as I emerged from my post-Tae Bo bath, I received the following text mesage from a male friend who was watching the evening’s broadcast of Dancing with the Stars with his three young daughters.

“Cheryl Burke is looking heavy.”

I immediately replied that my friend is a sexist punk, but curiosity getting the better of me, as it always does, I promptly set my DVR recording in motion to have a look at this purportedly “heavy” woman……What I saw was, give or take, reflected in the image above.

I am almost too exhausted by this injustice to comment, but of course I will. I am 31 years old and far from famous. When I graduated with my BA in 2000, I weighed upwards of 190 pounds and wore a size 16. I couldn’t walk a standard issue flight of stairs without breathing heavily. Obviously, that is unacceptable at the age of 22, and though it took me a few more years to claim ownership of the hard work required, I am proud to say I lost 60 pounds and have kept it off (give or take a few holiday fluctuations) for 6 full years.

I won’t deny vanity played a role in my efforts, but in large part, I stay in shape for the right reasons – my health. I am perhaps phobically afraid of the aging process and the idea of becoming physically dependent one day, but that does not distort my own ideas of healthy womanhood. I might hate the cellulite that lives on my thighs, but I am learning to love Mother Nature’s curves a little more all the time.

How in the hell can Cheryl Burke, Jessica Simpson, Jennifer Love Hewitt or Tyra Banks – all media targets in recent years, and all gorgeous women – be called “fat” by anyone?

The argument has been made that standards are different for those in the public eye because they “know what they’re getting into” by choosing a career that in part, requires trading on one’s appearance. Nonsense, and I would think a man with three daughters would know better. Why does it seem that with each passing news cycle, female beauty becomes an ever more abstract concept, to be discussed in academic theory, but never really achievable by anyone? I realize there was never a formal meeting held by the Earth’s males, but it feels at times as if there’s a global conspiracy to keep us ladies held in check by some basic level of worthlessness.

In 2007, when Britney Spears was in the throes of her career meltdown, and bombed performing her single “Gimme More,” live on MTV, she was upset not at her deteriorating mental condition, or her crappy lip synching. No, she was in tears backstage after the show, wailing that she looked “like a fat pig,” as if that were the worst of her problems in that hour. She was about to lose custody of her two sons, but egads! Priorities! Let’s lose those 5 pounds first!

It’s wrong. It’s out of control. Men of the world, I ask ye: please start picking on your own gender. Lord knows there are plenty of uglies to choose from. Ah but yes, I forgot, as long as the man is rich/funny/talented, looks don’t matter. Just ask Jesse James, Tiger Woods or Larry King. Ladies! Let’s stop being complicit in our own destruction. Next time you feel a catty comment about another female’s weight rising to the surface, eat some chocolate instead. It tastes a whole lot better than jealousy anyway.