Wolf Cubs and Backpacks

The speaker at our Rotary Club last night was from the Food Bank. His talk reminded me of this Scout project, even though it's been years since I was a Wolf Den leader. I wrote this just after we completed the project.

Knowing that you've fed someone is an amazing feeling. Knowing that you've taught children to think of others, and to do something with those feelings, is even better.

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As a Scout leader, you want to involve your Scouts in service projects, to get them to think beyond themselves, and beyond their neighborhood. Since I've spent years leading both Cub Scouts and Girl Scouts, I've had the chance to help kids take on a number of projects.

Some service is fairly obvious and easy. Every Scout group I know of does a holiday food drive. My Girl Scouts also served food at a homeless shelter and tied baby quilts. My Cubs helped clean up neighborhood trash and sang Christmas carols at a nursing home. Then, while leading a Wolf Den (8 year old boys), I found an opportunity to help them think of kids their own age, living in the same community under radically different circumstances.

Our local Food Bank runs a backpack program at schools with a large number of students on free lunch and breakfast programs. Since a number of the children live in motels, shelters or campgrounds, and depend on the school for meals, they might not get anything to eat all weekend. So, the Food Bank sends them home every Friday with a backpack of no cook, individual servings of nonperishable foods. I thought that having our boys participate in a program aimed at other kids their age would help build empathy.

None of the boys in our pack are wealthy, but they lived in an entirely different universe than the kids we'd be helping. Our Cubs live in a variety of homes – apartments, condos, houses, rented or owned. They may have to share bedrooms, but not a bed. Some of the boys took advantage of the second-hand uniforms the Pack offered, but none, I'm sure, could imagine being perpetually hungry.

First, I explained the program to them, and told them what we'd be doing and who would benefit. Then, I asked them to try to imagine living in a motel room. "Your whole family is in one room. There's one or two beds, and you all have to share or sleep on the floor. There might be a table for you to do homework on. You can watch TV, but there's nowhere to play outside. There's no yard, no playground. There's a bathroom, but no kitchen. You have no refrigerator, no microwave, no stove." We talked a little about what that might be like.

Then, I asked them what they'd have for breakfast on weekends.

"Cereal!"

"OK, but you have to eat it with your hands, straight out of the box. There's no milk because you have no refrigerator to keep it in."

They looked stunned. "You might not have a bowl or spoon, either. There's hardly any room, and you'll need it for everybody's clothes and school books."

They took a moment before somebody yelled out another suggestion. You could see them thinking that maybe this wouldn't be so easy.

"Instant oatmeal!"

"Nope. You have no way to boil water, and no microwave."

"Cream of Wheat!"

"Same problem. No microwave, no stove."

"Pop Tarts!"

"OK! You can have Pop Tarts. But they'll be cold. You have no toaster."

"At home, we use a toaster oven."

"We do, too," I told them, "but you can't have one in a motel. They aren't allowed."

"That's OK. I like my Pop Tarts cold," one Scout said gamely.

We eventually decided that for breakfast, we could have, besides cold Pop Tarts, granola bars, fruit and cereal bars, premade Rice Krispie treats, fruit snacks, applesauce or fresh fruit. I pointed out that fresh fruit was something we couldn't collect, because it would spoil before the Food Bank had a chance to sort and deliver it.

Then we moved on to lunch. "What would you have for lunch?"

"Macaroni and cheese!" one excited Scout piped up. "I make it all the time. It's really easy. And, it's good."

"You can't boil the water. Besides, you have no butter or milk, because you have no refrigerator to keep them in." The look on this boy's face said that he simply could not imagine being unable to make macaroni and cheese. It was a completely foreign idea.

"Ramen noodles!" one boy offered. These are the sorts of foods you start being able to cook for yourselves when you're eight years old.

I felt like a broken record. "No stove, no microwave, no way to boil water."

"What about the cups of instant ramen noodles?"

"You'd still need to boil water. You could try hot water out of the bathroom, but it wouldn't be hot enough and wouldn't work very well."

Several of their next suggestions – Spaghettios, canned ravioli, canned soup – could be eaten cold out of the can. When someone said, "Sandwiches!" I thought that they were finally internalizing the restrictions. "What would you put on your sandwiches?"

"Ham!"

"Turkey!"

Again, I explained that meats needed a refrigerator. A boy ventured, "Cheese! Grilled cheese."

"You can't grill it. You don't have a stove or a pan. And cheese goes bad out of the refrigerator, too."

"Tuna fish comes in a can!" One Scout was sure he had it figured out.

"Tuna is high protein, and that's good. It comes in a can or a pouch and doesn't need the refrigerator, and that's good." The boy smiled. "But, you usually mix it with something before you put it in the sandwich. What is that?" Mayonnaise or salad dressing, I told them, also need a refrigerator. "But have you ever seen those little cans of tuna spread that come with crackers? Those are really good, and everything is right there in the package. They also make those lunch packages with ham spread."

They still hadn't guessed my favorite sandwich filling, and one that the Food Bank specifically requested. "What else can you put in sandwiches?" After a few nonfeasible suggestions such as egg salad and a few, "I dunnos," I said, "How about peanut butter?"

"Yeah! Peanut butter and jelly!"

Maybe not jelly, I told them, since a lot of jams and jellies need refrigerated after opening. "But peanut butter is high protein, and doesn't need a refrigerator, so it's a really good choice. You can have it on bread or crackers."

I suggested nuts or beef jerky, too, since they are both high protein. Protein is a big deal, I told the boys, because it's what builds cells in our bodies. "But protein foods are expensive, so if you don't have a lot of money it's hard to get enough." None of the boys thought a lunch of beef jerky sounded too wonderful, but I assured them that when they got older and went on Scout camping trips, they'd find out it was a great camping or backpacking food, too. I brought up other foods like trail mix, a term that puzzled them until I said, "It's like granola."

To go with our sandwiches, crackers or jerky we talked about raisins, granola bars, and the crackers or pretzels or breadsticks that come packaged with cheese spread. That kind of cheese, I told them, doesn't need a refrigerator. Plus, they come in individual containers. I reminded the boys often that we needed individual containers. "It costs more that way, but if you have nowhere to store food or leftovers you can't open a big jar of applesauce. It will go bad. You need the little single serving cups." We talked about individual cans of fruit, and how the pull top made it easy even if you didn't have a can opener.

When we got to, "How about dinner?" the boys were stumped. They couldn't think of anything else we hadn't talked about.

"So, you'll probably have the same kinds of stuff for dinner that you had for lunch. If you had peanut butter sandwiches for lunch, you'll want something different, like tuna and crackers, for dinner." I thought about asking what these kids we were collecting for might have for special occasions, but feared that would sidetrack the Scouts' thinking. I had a note prepared for their parents, but I wanted suitable foods and the reasons for them firmly in the boys' heads.

The notes went home, and the next week the food came in. I was so proud - there was not a single inappropriate donation. Some boys brought used backpacks, too, and I spent time with a Sharpie obliterating their names and info.

The Food Bank was delighted by our 29 pounds of donations. They sent the den a thank you note.

When the boys get older, there will be time for them to contemplate the roots of poverty, and how to fix those issues. They'll be exposed to debates about how drug abuse affects both poverty and child abuse. They may struggle with questions about helping kids whose parents fail to provide basics because of substance abuse. But for the moment, at eight years old, their world had broadened just enough to imagine, "What if it was me?" They reached out to other children with compassion. That's a pretty good day's work.

Doctor Korczak

I could go on and on about how I think my children have benefited from homeschooling, and what they have learned since I took them out of public school, but at the moment I won't. I don't want to digress here; I want to discuss some things I have learned since we've been homeschooling.

I like to think that I'm well informed. I'm a voracious reader, and my favorite TV stations are stations like Discovery and History International. Plus, I'm supposed to be presenting unknowns to my kids. Still, the things I have learned amaze me.

The fact that I, a museum junkie in a family of museum junkies, a rockhound with a frankly embarrassingly large rock collection for a grown woman to have, did not know that there was a rock, mineral and gem museum with free admission about 20 minutes from my home until I started homeschooling is staggering.

One of the things you learn quickly on any quest for knowledge is that you will never, ever know it all. You can cram facts into your head 24 hours a day and barely scratch the surface - any surface, of any given subject. I'm also a big believer in learning outside the classroom. (That's one of the reasons that homeschooling is a good fit for us.) Unlike most American schoolkids, I knew that Lincoln and Kennedy were not the only presidents assassinated. It wasn't until I was an adult, a homeowner and parent of two, that I could tell you details about anarchist Leon Czolgosz, killer of William McKinley, or would-be Nixon assassin Sam Bick. Thanks to the play "Assassins," I can sing a remarkable little ditty that sticks in your head, sung by the character of Charles Guiteau, assassin of James Garfield. (Details about Lynette "Squeaky" Fromme and her attempt on Gerald Ford's life, I'd known since I was 17. It's a strange world.)

It was in another play, and a decade and a half later, that I was introduced to one of my heroes.

Two years ago, I was teaching speech and theater classes for junior high and high school students when an audition notice showed up in my inbox. A local theater company was casting a play that needed two dozen or so children and teens. I'd never worked with this company, but knew its founder by reputation as talented, good with youth and running a quality theater company. I took seven of my students to auditions - five ended up performing, including my son.

The play was about Janusz Korczak; I'd never heard of him. A medical doctor and author, he was born in 1878 (or thereabouts; his father didn't officially register his birth for years, and wasn't sure if he was off by a year or so) in Warsaw, Poland. His given name is Henryk (pronounced Hen-rick, not Hine-rick, the way the name is pronounced in neighboring Germany) Goldszmit. The son and grandson of physicians, he followed in their footsteps. As a young boy, though, he felt isolated and lonely because he wasn't allowed to play with the neighborhood children because his father found those children to be beneath him. They were poor and often dirty; it just wouldn't do to associate with them.

As an adult, he treated poor children, often charging his wealthy patients enough to cover their care and that of a patient unable to pay. He was universally accepted as a gifted doctor, but Polish society still found his association with the poor to be unseemly.

He was an educator, and a proponent of what we now call "values education," the idea that kindness, honesty, compassion and a good work ethic are at least as important, and probably more important, than learning to read or write or calculate sums. His most scathing opinions are directed at the selfish and badly behaved.

In the days when radio was king, he had a successful radio program as the Old Doctor, who dispensed wisdom and wit over the airwaves.

He took the name Janusz Korczak as his pen name, and authored a number of books, both for adults and children. His most famous children's novel, King Matt the First, is beloved by millions, I found out. Modern scholars compare his work to that of Rowling, Barrie and Dahl. The testimonial on the front cover of the edition that I own is written by Maurice Sendak - "We need King Matt now, in our world, more than ever." How is it that I had never heard of this book? Why is it not on shelves in schools and bookstores? I am loving King Matt himself and the wry writing that tells his story. I have been actively seeking out Korczak's books, and the Internet is my friend. I got my English language version, printed in the USA, on Amazon for 16 cents.

He was an expert in child psychology and child development. His work entitled The Rights of the Child has been quoted, reprinted, dissected and discussed by experts from many nations. He was known to advocate in court for those who couldn't do it for themselves and couldn't hire any advocates. He believed deeply in the power of play as an educational tool, and in the child's rights being equal to or surpassing that of adults. They deserved to have their opinions respected, even if they might be wrong, the same as adults, he said, flying in the face of those who believed otherwise.

He decided, after much soul searching, that his highest calling was to combine all his previous work and become the director of orphanages. As a pediatrician, he healed children one at a time, as an educator and advocate he reached people on a slightly larger scale, but in the orphanage he saw the chance to direct and change the future on a larger scale still. Deeply introspective, he examined his motives and beliefs thoroughly, then went about creating, for poor children with no other family or opportunity, an existence and education that rivaled that received by the wealthy and privileged in expensive boarding schools.

When most people from our culture hear "orphanage," they get a very Dickensian, Oliver Twist picture in their heads of abuse and deprivation. This is not an accurate picture of Korczak's orphanages. The children were encouraged to think, to be creative, to interact with the world around them. The student newspaper he started in one of his orphanages, written and published by the children, was distributed and read throughout Warsaw. They were governed in part by a Children's Court, where any resident could bring any grievance and be heard. The judges at weekly sessions changed, always chosen from those students who had no charges pending that week.

Korczak was outspoken about children's rights and their need for play, but that didn't mean a world of chaos, no responsibility and ice cream for dinner. The orphanage had a routine and a schedule. Children had chores, duties and expectations. One of those expectations was that they try their hardest and do their best at any task. They were also expected to be very respectful of others, and their rights, and not to infringe on another. The governing principles of Children's Court included the fact that truth was sometimes difficult or impossible to find, but they were expected to get as close as possible. It was also noted that the judges were imperfect and might therefore render faulty judgement, but it was also noted that to do so willingly was "shameful." Children who simply refused to follow rules would be asked to leave.

He never married or had biological children, but when asked how many children he had, he answered in the hundreds, including all of his charges. Others often thought he was joking; he was not.

How is it that I didn't hear of this man until I was over 40?

Korczak himself had a little something to say about that. "The world knows nothing of a great many Poles," he wrote.

I take a ridiculously unearned delight in amazing Polish individuals. My paternal great grandparents, Frank Zakrzewski and Josephine Marcinkiewicz, are from Poland. I'm unclear on when they emigrated, but my grandfather Peter was born in Michigan in 1898. Having Polish ancestors means I feel that when I hear of amazing Poles, I can share in a kind of national pride. I take special pride in the lives of Lech Walesa and Pope John II. Dr. Korczak has been added to that list.

As the infomercials would say, "But wait! There's more!" Dr. Korczak, known to his staff and orphans as Pan Doctor, already had amazing credentials and achievements by the 1930s. Then, history wrote a new chapter, one that cemented his name and his story even more firmly in history.

Janusz Korczak was Jewish. At a time and place when Jews were seen as a separate people, not "truly" Polish, his father and grandfather had worked to integrate Jewish society with mainstream Polish society. Dr. Korczak did the same. But, the 1930s were a dangerous time to be Jewish in Poland, as in most of Europe, as the Nazis forcibly annexed and occupied country after country. Korczak was fiercely patriotic. He had served Poland in WWI, and he continued to wear his uniform, an act of open defiance toward the Nazi occupiers.

He refused to wear the mandated white armband with the blue Star of David. Other Jews of his era wore it out of obligation, fear, or, most admirably, because they refused to be embarrassed about their religion, identity and heritage. Korczak refused, because he felt it was a desecration for the Nazis to feel that they could have any say in where, when or how a religious symbol was used. I admire both mindsets - the why is always more important to me than the action itself. Korczak actually spent time in jail for refusing to wear the armband.

He had run orphanages for Christian children as well as Jewish ones. As the Nazi oppression grew, one of his trusted aides and partners, Stefa Wilczynska, left Poland and emigrated to Palestine to work on a kibbutz. Korczak visited her there, and considered building an orphanage in Palestine. But he was a Pole, and Poland called to him. He loved Warsaw as though it were human. He returned to Warsaw and the children there.

His visit to Palestine caused the Nazis to label him a Zionist as well as a troublemaker. The persecution intensified. His orphanage was moved to less and less desirable quarters. Rationing and anti-Jewish laws made it harder and harder to buy food.

Stefa returned to Poland, Pan Doctor and the children. She knew she was needed.

Finally, they and all other Jews were moved into the Warsaw ghetto, walled in, and endured the worst conditions yet. Overcrowded, underfed, cold - the ghetto was not the home from which they had been driven.

At the orphanage, the adults tried to keep everything as normal as possible. There were lessons, singing, baths, chores and adults who looked out for them. Korczak did whatever he could to feed them all, the children first. He begged, bribed, threatened and dealt with black marketeers. They endured illness from rotten food.

Korczak's last book is simply called Ghetto Diary. It's the actual diary he wrote during the months of May to August, 1942. He talks about the books he hopes to write in the future, including a biography of young King David. It is several pages in before he notes, drily, "I have forgotten to mention that now, too, a war is going on." He writes of weighing and measuring the children every Saturday morning, to see how much (but in reality, if) they have grown. He holds imaginary conversations. He muses about everything, always writing late at night or early in the morning when everyone else is asleep.

The play my son and my other students were cast in was called "Korczak's Children." It covers roughly the period from mid July to early August 1942 and, from all the reading I have done since, it is remarkably accurate. The director, Stacey, without frightening the children or being heavy handed, told them, "These are actual people you are playing. Your performance must do honor to their lives."

She brought in a concentration camp survivor, an orphan, to speak to the children. The youngest cast member was 4, so some things were slightly sanitized. The idea of being an orphan was scary enough to some children. They were amazed that he didn't remember his true name or how old he was.

My son was 14 when he played the part of Ivan, an orphan. In 1942, my mother, a lovely Michigan farm girl of Polish descent, was 13. She did not come to see her grandson in the play. "I just can't. You understand." We did.

Korczak received several offers to smuggle him out of the ghetto and out of the country. He refused. Stefa received similar offers; she, too, turned them down. Who would take care of the children if they left? More importantly, what kind of person leaves hundreds of children in peril, just to save themselves?

He does not mention it himself in his diary, but his biography tells of his attempt to establish manufacturing in the orphanage so that his children would be considered "essential" to the war effort of the Nazis, and therefore immune to deportation. The effort failed.

Rumors went through the ghetto, rumors that people undergoing "relocation" simply disappeared. More rumors came, rumors of what may have happened to them. No one was sure.

Esterka Winograd, a former pupil of the doctor's, came to the orphanage to help the staff, and, in July 1942, she directed a play at the orphanage - "The Post Office," by the Indian writer Rabindranath Tagore. It tells the story of a dying boy, awaiting a letter from the king. In the play "Korczak's Children," Esterka exults that it is also "an allegory about the Germans." Esterka was played in the local production by a beautiful dancer and actress named Tova. She absolutely glowed. Esterka herself was part of the Resistance, taking great chances with secret meetings where the overthrow of the invading Nazis was discussed.

"The Post Office" was a triumph for the orphanage - it seemed that everyone in the ghetto came to see it. Korczak writes in his diary, "Applause, handshakes, smiles, efforts at cordial conversation." It was an effort for some, who wondered why he had allowed the children to perform such a "dark" play - the main character, the ill boy, dies. Korczak is reported to have replied that it was a lesson that it is sometimes necessary to accept death serenely.

The children would need the lesson. Rumors became fact, notices posted throughout the ghetto - more "relocations" were coming. The residents of the orphanage were to be sent to Treblinka. It was not a concentration camp, a forced labor camp, a resettlement camp - it was a death camp. Its entire purpose was to execute people quickly, in massive numbers. The doctor and the children did not, could not, know that, but they sensed that this new move was more sinister than the others.

Esterka was arrested; the doctor was beside himself. The chairman of the Judenrat, the Jewish Council, committed suicide rather than sign the order of deportation. A friend of Korczak's, he kept a stash of pills just for that purpose. Korczak had kept such a stash, too, in order to maintain "some kind of control" over his circumstances, but he didn't use them. He had the children to think of.

In his diary, Korczak asked repeatedly, "Why am I writing this?" Part of the answer is simply, "Because you are a writer." It's what writers do, how they make sense of the world, how they process their own thoughts, as natural to them as breathing. I think, though, that he answered his own question. In the last pages of the diary, he says, "What matters is that all this did happen." He wonders about the young Nazi with the rifle that he can see through his window - why doesn't he shoot? "My bald head in the window. What a splendid target." He supposes it is because he has been given no order to shoot. Korczak wonders where he came from, who he was before he put on the uniform. "Perhaps he doesn't even know that things are - as they are?"

It is the last entry.

The residents of the orphanage were sitting down to breakfast when the order came. They were to report to the train station immediately. No one who heard the doctor's instructions is still living, but those who saw the residents march to the train, and those who knew him well, surmise that it went something along the lines of: Don't worry. We've been moved before. We may be moved again. The important thing is that we will all be together.

Each child took along a favorite book or toy. They paired up and held hands. Dr. Korczak put on his Army uniform. They marched four across, except for the front group, made up of Korczak, holding the hands of two children. They carried their flag, one with the green flag of King Matt on one side, and the blue Star of David on a white background on the other. One witness called this orderly procession the most moving protest against the brutality of the Nazis that he had ever witnessed.

At the station, a member of the Jewish council who ran a first aid station (oh, the irony!) on the Umschlagplatz again tried to get Dr. Korczak to flee. He would not consider leaving the children, even for a moment. He was their father. There is another report that a Nazi officer recognized Korczak as the author of his favorite children's book, and offered to put him "on another train," a train with a different destination. Again, Korczak refused.

The Jewish police saluted the regal man in the Army uniform. As he helped the children climb into the cars, it is said that the Nazis asked, "Who is that man?"

There were 192 orphans and 10 staff members from Korczak's orphanage that day. Also on the train were approximately 4,000 other orphans.

In some cultures, it is the custom to present food and drink to the dead to honor them. I grew up putting flowers on graves. In the Jewish culture, a stone is placed on the grave to honor the dead. Where Treblinka stood, there is a field of stones. People bring them in remembrance of those who have no graves. Approximately one million people died there - 1,000 or so Gypsies, the rest Jews. One rock bears the notation, "Janusz Korczak and the children."

Korczak's Gentile friend, Igor Newerly, had repeatedly urged him to flee. He refused, but promised Newerly that if anything happened, he would send his diary. The day after the train departed Warsaw, the first day without the 192 chidren, one of whom might have grown up to cure cancer, or AIDS, who may have invented or written or taught or sung, the first day without Korczak or Stefa, a red haired boy appeared at Newerly's door. He handed Newerly a package and ran. The package contained the diary.

Newerly and a friend bricked the diary up in a wall. After the war, after he himself spent 2 years in Auschwitz, Newerly returned. Almost 10 years later, he was the first to publish the diary. Its survival is no less amazing, its impact as profound, as Anne Frank's.

The back of my copy of Ghetto Diary ($6.99 on Amazon) has a notation at the top: "Jewish Studies/Biography." Why isn't this book in every bookstore and library? Why aren't Korczak's other works next to it?

"What matters is that all this did happen."

All photos from the TheatreWorks of Northern Nevada production of "Korczak's Children"

directed by Stacey Spain

photo copyright: The Reflection Works Photography

You Look Marvelous

 

Today I read a blog post about vanity over 40. I am well over 40, and not a fan of vanity, in any form. I should have skipped the post; I know that. Still, I didn't. Instead I read, yet again, how women my age are supposedly obsessed with drooping bottoms and crows feet. I would love to dismiss these thoughts, but I know that, by and large, they're right. This post, probably because the writer lives in LA, dealt mostly with cosmetic surgery.

Then I read this: "On the other hand, there is the opposite problem: an over 40 lack of vanity. You know what I mean, those women wandering around in sweats with graying hair and zero makeup, and kind of reveling in it, as if it's a virtue. One friend proudly mentioned to me that she was out in a group of women, and 'none of us had a stitch of makeup on.' Ok. Why is this an accomplishment any more than saying all the women in the group had tons of work done? It's sort of like reverse vanity: 'I'm so evolved and less vain than you.' " She, like most bloggers, had space to leave a comment. I thought about it, but what I have to say is far too wordy and involved. I can't dash off two or three pithy sentences.

I do not feel that I am more evolved than anybody. I am quite probably less vain than some.

Full disclosure here: I wear makeup. I have since I was a teenager. As a kid, I wore blush, eyeshadow and mascara. Since I was in my early 30s, though, I've worn concealer, foundation, blush, eyeshadow, eyeliner and mascara. Why? Because it's hard enough to get people to take me seriously without flouting convention daily.

I also shave my legs and armpits, pluck my eyebrows and yank my ridiculous, black whiskers out of my chin. I don't mean "dark" or "darker," I mean "black." I'm sure these are a hereditary gift from my Eastern European ancestors.

I hairspray my hair, every day. I fought for years to avoid daily "styling," but at a certain point the intelligent concede defeat. I also Rogaine it, since I started losing it almost 30 years ago and without the minoxidil, I and the very few straggly hairs left on my shiny pink pate would be totally socially unacceptable. Still, I don't curl it, straighten it, dye it or pull out my gray hairs. I wash it, comb it and spray it.

I resent every second of the "beauty" routine. Take the shaving and plucking: I think we should all get a handle on the fact that we're MAMMALS. I find something so deeply wrong with the idea of laser hair removal, waxing, men shaving their backs. It's ridiculous. We look back at the long ago era in Europe when eyelashes were considered unattractive, when women especially had pots of gold powder to rub onto their lashes to make them disappear, and we jeer. We laugh at portrait painters who left lashes off their subjects. And while we're at it, we howl in derision at high, white powdered wigs. Then we go back to using our Latisse, mascara, Botox, facial peels, highlights, hair extensions and Brazilian bikini waxes.

I was out a Girl Scout leaders' meeting this week, and I realized two things; 1. I was quite possibly the oldest woman in the room and 2. I was the only one wearing any makeup. Any. These are women with expensive haircuts, professional highlights, gym memberships, manicures – all of these things are foreign to me. They are very attractive women. And I'm the only one in makeup. It seemed very odd and silly.

I would love to wander around unshaven and without makeup. Most people, I've discovered, assume that I don't wear any makeup. In one way, that's a big compliment, because it means that I apply it very well. When my middle daughter's coworker was trying (in vain) to talk her into a makeover, she said, "Is it because your mom doesn't wear makeup?" "My mom wears more than I do!" said my daughter, whose routine consists of eyeliner and mascara.

When people see me actually without any, though, they've been known to actually gasp or recoil. I spent a week as a tent mom at our church girls camp, and the last day was visitor's day, with parents and leaders coming up to join in the closing activities. Several of the visitors who knew me were visibly astonished by my appearance. You'd be amazed at the many and varied ways to say, "Wow, the woods have not been good to you" without being offensive.

I don't believe that wearing, or not wearing, makeup indicates anything about a person's self esteem or values.

I have a niece who sells makeup and skin care products. She's very good at what she does, just earned another promotion, and makes a pretty good living. She's also lovely. She's an amazing woman, and I applaud her.

Another niece not only doesn't wear makeup, she doesn't shave, at all. She's a brunette, too. She wears skirts, and at the beach, she wears a bikini. She's also lovely. She's an amazing woman, and I applaud her.

Each of these women has excellent hygiene, interpersonal skills and values. Each is living an "authentic" life, her daily actions in tune with her beliefs.

Me? I espouse one thing and do another. I have reasons, valid ones, I think, but I'm hoping age is a factor. I'm waiting for enough time to pass that I can give up the routines that I find unnecessary. My mother is 82, intelligent and lovely, but I'd think that dementia was setting in if she asked me if I thought coral lipstick worked with her outfit or if I recommended waterproof mascara. I wonder what the magic age is at which I can dispense with cosmetics and shaving and still be considered socially acceptable.

I am deeply annoyed by superficiality. I am an artist, a photographer, actor and set dresser. I understand aesthetics, beauty and their effect on humans. I just can't see unduly elevating appearance, and I think our definition of beauty is far too narrow. (Don't even get me started on what's considered "fashionable.")

I am still annoyed by 27 year old criticism of Walter Mondale's brown suit. In case you've forgotten, or never knew, Walter Mondale was a mainstream party candidate for president of the United States. What took the most criticism: his foreign policy, his tax plan, his views on education or his brown suit? Yes! The suit! Can you imagine? A man is one election away from being leader of millions, the "Leader of the Free World," and we're worried because his suit was brown? Apparently, black, gray and blue are acceptable, but brown is not. Are you kidding? And, says who?

In high school, I worked for a law firm. One of the attorneys was intelligent, well educated, well informed, dedicated, informed and hard working. His favorite suit was a bright green and yellow plaid. (He also had extensive facial scarring from a childhood burn.) It did not keep him from being an effective litigator.

See, here's the thing: he could do his job in pajamas, or in the tub, or wearing worn out denim coveralls. His brain is unaffected by his wardrobe. Everyone's is.

Since being frugal is becoming fashionable, I keep waiting for being superficial to become unfashionable. I keep thinking that since we have record unemployment, record foreclosures, failing businesses, failing schools and millions of children in poverty, it will become supremely unacceptable to worry about laugh lines. I am still waiting. TV commercials are bad enough. Billboards are worse, and radio commercials are enough to make me violent. WHY are we telling people to use their tax return money for liposuction? How is it that ordinary, middle class people are feeling pressured to look like airbrushed and Photoshopped magazine covers? How is that OK?

Does anyone remember another time in history when ordinary people have felt compelled to surgically alter themselves? We think foot binding is barbaric, we sneer at groups that put plates in their bottom lips, we are aghast at women who put metal rings around their necks, so heavy that their shoulders finally collapse. We think ritual scarring is primitive.

Tattooing and piercing, on the other hand, we find ordinary and acceptable. Cosmetic surgery is so common that it's offered at "spas," and I hear commercials for it routinely on my country music radio station. (Country music!)

Can we PLEASE stop worrying about what people look like?

So, Ms. Over 40 Blogger, that's why it's more acceptable to say that you're wearing no makeup than it is to say that you've had extensive cosmetic surgery. Whether you believe that God or nature is the highest authority, the natural state of humans is good enough. Believing otherwise is a bad idea, indicative of feelings of low self worth, and the cause of a good many behavioral disorders.

Ordinary IS attractive.

Panting Indignantly

Do I have to sacrifice a poodle skirt to the gods of fashion to find a pair of reasonable pants, for crying out loud?

By "reasonable," I mean "totally unrealistic, given the current whims of designers and manufacturers of garments." I want pants with a waist that is, see if you can follow my arcane logic here, designed to sit at a person's waist. Today, that's apparently about as likely as winning the lottery.

I do not mind being mocked by my desire for "old lady pants." I know that these same people will change their minds in a few years. How do I know? Because I have an amazing ability to predict future events based on past events. Gasp, you say. Allow me to demonstrate my prognosticating prowess.

First, though, we have to go back. Since we're talking waists, let's go back to my childhood, the 70s. Yes, the period often mocked as "The Decade That Taste Forgot" that now has its staples appearing again as up-to-the-minute fashion. Huge Afros? 70s. Fringed leather? Yup. Blue eyeshadow, flared pant legs (they were called "bell bottoms" then) ... need I go on?

Back then, we called pants that rose no higher than your hip bones "hip huggers," not "low rise," as they're called now. Parents were scandalized, but everyone else loved them. I had a pair - and I was 4 years old in 1970, which (amazingly enough) made me 14 in 1980 - that was handed down by my sister. They had little metal star studs that we'd hammered in ourselves, all down both outside seams. The "waist" had a tab that buttoned off center. They were tres chic. My mother insisted that our shirts had to at least meet, if not be tucked into, these pants (and good for her.) That wasn't hard back when. Mostly, I wore them with bodysuits. Remember bodysuits - like leotards, only with a snap crotch?

Even though they weren't terribly low, they still had to be stabilized or tugged up several times a day, mostly when you sat down, stood up, bent over - in short, moved at all. Back then, it was considered a faux pas of the highest order to let anyone see your undergarments. Bra straps were carefully hidden. Visible panties or boxer shorts were unheard of, and would have caused the wearer much embarrassment.

When hip huggers went out of style, the style mavens had an explanation. "They're universally unflattering," they said. "They draw a horizontal line directly across the largest part of the body, making hips look even wider. Even if you're slender, they make you look chunky. Without anything holding in your tummy, it looks bigger and rounder as well. They draw attention away from your face, your legs, or other, more flattering, features."

"They're soooo right," the collective population said. "What were we thinking? We looked awful in those." Now, of course, it's been, what, 15 years or so that "low rise" and the even more heinous "ultra low rise" pants have been back in style, and what do the style mavens say? "They're slenderizing, and look good on all body types. They remove bulk from the waist, giving you a leaner silhouette, and lengthen your torso, making you look taller and slimmer."

And the collective population, the same population that agreed that the pants were unflattering, now agrees that they are flattering. Near as I can tell, I am a very rare person indeed, with 1. a long term memory and 2. the ability to realize that both things cannot be true. When they go out of style, and I hear, "What were we thinking?" again, I will scream.

OK, I won't scream. I'll say something snarky about how my unfashionable, frumpy self knew that years ago.

I keep hearing that "high waisted" pants are coming back "in." Sometimes, I even see famous people wearing them. I'm not sure how much that I like truly high waisted pants, the ones whose top extends clear up to or over the rib cage, except that I like them a lot more than I like the low ones. They're more comfortable (I've owned those as well), and I think they look better. They're certainly more modest. I'm just waiting in vain for stores to carry pants whose waistbands aren't a mere three inches up from the crotch.

You know what I really don't understand? Pants that fit at the natural waist in back, but dip lower in the front. I understand that no one, least of all fashionable women, want plumber's butt, and that the lower front is probably an attempt to look like low rise pants, but whose bright idea was that? All it says to me is, "My stomach is too big to be contained by my pants." It's a dreadful look, on any age, size and shape.

Can I please, for heaven's sake, just get pants with a waist at the waist? How hard should that be? Really, are we next deciding that the heels of socks look better and "offer more support" on the balls of the feet?

Two of my pairs of pants are so old that the store that sold them went out of business years ago, and has since been demolished. Eventually, I will need new ones.

I hate clothing shopping.

I bought some pants the other day, unwisely not trying them on. They were a familiar brand at a familiar store, a good price and a nice fabric. I held them up, and the length seemed right. On my body, though, they were all wrong. They fit exactly the way they were made to - about six inches below my waist.

Now I'm growling and hunting for the receipt, so I can return them.

Do you think they'll accept "collective insanity, instigated by the manufacturer for the purpose of reaping obscene profits" as a reason for return?

Higher Ed

A friend recently wrote, poignantly, about her desire for a college degree and her regret at not getting one. Both of us can hold intelligent conversations with college grads on many subjects and neither has any reason to feel inferior. I wrote this years ago. I think the big difference between our attitudes is that I made a conscious choice not to seek a degree. I've taken community college and university classes. I may get that piece of paper one day. Looking through my daughter's course catalog, or the ones from the local U, has me saying, "OOOH, that sounds like fun!" frequently. I still can't justify spending too much money (and time) on personal fun at this stage of my life. So, I dabble. I pay for my kids' colleges - 2 down, 2 to go! And I am forever and always annoyed by people who think I'm living my life by default. I'm here because I wanted to be here when I made choices in the past. I want to be here in the future, which affects my present choices. Make no mistake, they are choices and I consciously make them.

One size NEVER fits all.

**********************************

I was always sure I'd go to college, from the time I was a small child. It was just a given fact. My parents, neither of whom had attended college, assumed all four of us kids would. They even had a plan to sell some of their property to pay for our educations.

Somehow, only one of us ever graduated from college, and it wasn't me. The land never did get sold, much to my relief. I know they were being good parents and planning ahead, but I hated the thought of whittling their gorgeous acreage down to a standard suburban lot.

All of us were bright. When you're bright, your teachers all simply expect you to do well in school and go on to college, and our teachers expected that of all of us.

I was a sophomore in high school before I ever questioned my path straight to the local university. I think it may have started with my rebellion against having my courses laid out for me. I'd always been in the accelerated classes in junior high, where kids were automatically divided by ability. That was fine with me; it struck me as the way things should be. I started to chafe when I entered high school, when theoretically I should have more doors open to me.

Part of getting older was getting to choose your courses. In junior high, they'd let us choose electives, but in high school we even got to choose our required courses. As long as we had the correct number of credits in each area, we could choose which courses we wanted to take. Did you want earth science or life science? Poetry or American literature? It was great. What bothered me was the automatic assumption that I would have the same taste as all the other smart kids; or worse, that my taste didn't matter.

It seemed that everyone, from my peers to my teachers to my guidance counselor, had already decided which classes I would take. My peers were the worst. Even in our freshman year, I'd get comments like, "You're taking Algebra 1 instead of Geometry?" in an incredulous tone. Well, yes, I was. It was accepted that The Smart Kids took a combined Algebra 1-2 class if they had to take anything "lower level;" otherwise they went straight into Geometry. Even Algebra 1-2 was too much for me to want to handle. Math was not my strong suit, and I didn't much enjoy it. My choices in other areas were equally suspect. "You are going to take (fill in the blank), aren't you?" When I didn't take Spanish – my elective slot was filled by a theater class, something that was nonnegotiable with me – people were aghast. "But you have to have four years of a foreign language if you want to get into a good university!"

By my second year of high school, I was tired of the flak. I was tired of hearing, "But you're so smart!" as though I had signed up for special ed classes or some such thing. I was sick of hearing that I'd "never get into 'a good school.'" I wasn't applying to Harvard, thank you very much.

In my junior year, I quietly decided that I wasn't going to college. I couldn't imagine my parents being able to afford it, sold property or no. I didn't think I'd get enough scholarship money to make a sizeable enough dent. Student loans rubbed me the wrong way - I hate debt. A full time student existence was not in my immediate future. The other Smart Kids kept expecting me to Get With the Program. They were continually astonished, or disgusted, that I wasn't taking trigonometry. Although I expected to hold a job for most of my life, I didn't really want a career, and I couldn't see knocking myself out to pay for something I wasn't going to use. I didn't say as much, to my peers, teachers or parents.

By my senior year, I was sure. When the other kids would ask me what scholarships I'd applied for, or remind me of filing deadlines that were approaching, I'd tell them, "I'm not going to college." If I thought I'd heard it before, I was now listening to a veritable, never ending chorus of, "But you're so smart!" People were horrified. One of my closest friends stopped speaking to me for over a week, he was so upset. He was far more upset than my parents were.

In both my junior and senior years, I took only one Advanced Placement course each year, and that was English. I could walk through that in my sleep, and on occasion practically did. Although it goes against my nature to do sloppy work, I was no longer vigilant about deadlines. The standard treatment for late papers was to shave off half a grade or a full grade (depending on your teacher) for every day it was late. Knowing I'd done an "A" assignment, I knew what grade I'd get for turning it in a day or two late. I was no longer worried about my grade point average. Occasionally I'd feel guilty about that. Once, my teacher wrote, "Why, oh why can't these be in on time?" on an assignment I'd turned in late enough that the "A" work had earned a "C." I liked her and felt I'd let her down.

I had no way of knowing ahead of time that my last two years of high school would be extraordinarily traumatic for me, for matters unrelated to academics. I've always loved learning for its own sake, but I left high school embittered toward teachers, administrators and school government in general. When I finally signed up for some community college courses a year and a half later, I was still so traumatized that I was literally sick to my stomach at the thought of walking back into another classroom. I cried for days. The courses were the fluffiest stuff I could imagine, too – art, local history and fiction writing.

I was annoyed, before classes even started, by the attitude of the student helping me register. They had a list of standard questions they were supposed to ask you, to help the school track its enrollment. "What are these for?" the student behind the desk asked as I handed him my schedule.

I was puzzled. "For?"

He looked mildly annoyed. I was supposed to know the script, apparently. "Yes. For. You know – going towards a degree? Personal enjoyment?"

Now I got it. "Personal enjoyment," I said.

He looked up from the desk, absolutely shocked. "All these?" he wanted to know.

It was my turn to be annoyed. "Yes. All these," I told him in a steely voice. It was three lousy classes, for crying out loud. I was tempted to snap, "Have you no personal interest in art, history and fiction?" but I didn't. I figured the answer to that was pretty obvious.

I enjoyed the classes. The worst problem I had was that my art instructor had a habit of doing things for me when I asked a question, rather than explaining it. I was having fun; I'd signed up in order to have fun. Success!

I disliked the tendency most people had to categorize. I did not like it when someone tried to console me about the school, telling me that, "Plenty smart students go to the community college first," or "You can always transfer later." I was not feeling insecure about the college or my place there. Why were others? I also disliked meeting students who hastened to let you know that they were only there temporarily, that soon they would be on to bigger and better things. I wasn't impressed, and I didn't care.

I was scheduled to get married toward the end of the semester. Just before the wedding, my soon to be husband was transferred to a facility three and a half hours away. We'd be moving to a new town as soon as we were back from our three day honeymoon. I dropped out of my classes, knowing that I would never make the commute to attend them, and too tied up in the wedding and moving to see if other arrangements could be made.

The next time I signed up for higher education, it was correspondence classes. By then, I had a husband, a mortgage and two small children. I was perfectly happy with the correspondence requirements. I had up to a year to complete any class. The work wasn't hard, and they actually liked it when I thought for myself. A lot of my high school experience had been spent regurgitating whatever the teacher said. The teachers seemed to like it that way. Quote the teacher's own opinion, and they were likely to feel that you were paying attention. Use your own ideas, and they thought you'd been ignoring them.

Maybe I'm just touchy, but I also disliked a great deal of the reaction to my education by mail. One friend tried very hard to convince me that I needed actual classes with a physically present teacher. "You really need the support, and the exchange of ideas! Nothing compares to the discussions you can have with a good professor." Well intentioned advice, of course. Really, though, I think the issue is that she needs to be surrounded by other people who share similar ideas, and she needs to be around a professor who validates her work and opinions. I really don't need that much outside validation. She always seemed to assume that I needed whatever she needed. After all, we were both Smart People.

I also hated it when someone thought I'd finally seen the light. "Now you can start using your brain!" they'd say. What did people think I did in my everyday life, drool on myself? Did they imagine that raising two toddlers could be done on auto pilot? Besides, even if I had a degree in my hand, I'd be doing the same things every day as I currently was. I wasn't trying to make a pre med program or design cities of the future. I just wanted to raise children and a garden.

I found that my best bet, really, was to not discuss it at all.

I also found that, in the absence of any statement to the contrary, people who met me as an adult assumed I'd graduated from college. I corrected them when they said something about it. I never thought I ought to be embarrassed by my lack of credentials. Of course, this brought on its own trials.

After we moved back within commuting distance of the city I grew up in, I went back to doing community theater. I'd spent two years working with the local university's repertory company before I got married, and it felt comfortable to go back to work there. The students got university credit for their participation, but the company was open to everyone in the community.

While doing repertory theater, I made friends with a funny, talented man named Mike. He was a few years older than I was. We had great conversations. I got along famously with him. We would talk for hours. During the course of several plays, we got to know each other fairly well. I saw him outside of the theater, even having him join my husband, my kids and me for holiday meals.

One summer, he went back to the state he'd grown up in. When he came back, we talked about the trip. It had been awkward being around old friends and classmates, Mike said. "Their world just seems so small. None of them went to college, and most of them are still living in the same town. We just had nothing in common anymore."

"You know what it's like, " he said, "when you've grown up and moved on and other people haven't. We couldn't even hold a reasonable conversation. Without the experience of college, they just don't have much to say or any way to relate to you any more."

I was actually very amused. "Mike! I never went to college!" All I had under my belt then were three dropped courses.

He looked like I'd kicked him. "You didn't?"

"No! And it doesn't bother my friends a bit. My best friend from high school is a lawyer, and we still have plenty to talk about." Silly me, I actually thought that he'd realize that he'd been judgmental. "Dan never went to college, either."

After that night, Mike all but stopped speaking to me. I found that I suddenly made him very uncomfortable. There were no more long conversations, no more visits outside the theater, no phone calls. He barely smiled at me anymore. It was aggravating, but what was there to do? I eventually just wrote off the friendship.

By the time we worked together again years later, he seemed to have mellowed. We saw each other only at the theater, but I was again included in his general conversation. I was treated the same way the other members of the company were, including the ones with performing arts degrees. That was nice.

I'll still correct erroneous assumptions most of the time, especially if it's someone I'll be spending a great deal of time with. Sometimes, though, it's just not worth the effort.

Recently, Dan and I were hired to photograph a high school reunion. One of the reunion committee members was talking to me after the big reunion dinner, explaining that he hardly ever saw any of his high school classmates any more. "I'm just not as close to them as I am to the people I went to college with. You know how that works." It was a statement, not a question. Now, I thought, was a time to spit out some of the pat answers I knew he expected.

"Sure. In college, they're there because they want to be, not because it's the law or because mommy and daddy make them go. They're spending good money to be there, too, so they're a lot more invested in what's going on. And, you're less likely to end up sitting next to some waste case."

His face lit up as he accepted me as a kindred spirit. "Exactly!" he responded.

There are a couple of people I grew up with who simply wrote me off as a traitor to the cause years ago. Some, I'm sure, are puzzled still. Most probably don't even think about me any more, much less assess my choices. And, there are at least a couple who, despite their constant talk about how smart I am, are sure that I took the course in life I did simply because I didn't know there were other options.

That kind of sentiment really irks me. I've known people to think that my self esteem was just too low; they're sure that I just didn't grasp the fact that I could go to college. One well meaning friend used to be very vocal, constantly saying things to me like, "You just don't realize how remarkable you are!" It was tedious. Here I thought the entire point of being smart was to chart your own course.

Luckily, most people with these opinions have stopped saying such things to me. I used to hear, "But you could have been (or done) anything!" as if I myself did not have that information. I know that I could have. I weighed the options, I chose, I channeled my energy into my choice. Isn't that what being smart is all about?

It was irksome, too, to deal with people who thought that I was somehow supposed to feel hindered, positively chained, by having been born into a financially strapped family, and I was supposed to see higher education as a way to rise above my station, so to speak. Unfortunately, I've never particularly seen the term "ambitious" as being complimentary. Most ambitious people seem to me to be miserable; they're always scratching, biting and clawing their way to their goals. I have a much more mellow personality. I also never feared being "stuck" in suburbia. Suburbia is a pretty nice place. My long range goals were never in conflict with a picket fence in the 'burbs.

I'm still good at the things I've always been good at (and lousy at the things I've always been lousy at.) I was never one to feel that my brain was atrophying or that I was being stifled by taking care of children and a house. What I do every day is far more challenging than anything I ever did as a paid occupation.

I also can see no sense in leaving my children in the care of other people while I went out to change the world. Why would someone tell me I was overqualified to spend my day with children? Do we want our kids to be in the care of people who are not bright, well read and capable? When my oldest children were small, I was quite aware that I needed to make a concerted effort to occasionally speak to adults, preferably about topics unrelated to parenting, but most of that was due to the realization that I could very quickly and easily lapse into an isolated lifestyle. Now, years later, I worry less about it than ever. If I end up in my own little universe, well, at least it will be one I created.

When I used to complain to one friend about feeling stereotyped, I'd end up feeling even more frustrated. Why couldn't people assume I was smart unless I proved otherwise, I wanted to know. Her answers tended to make me angrier than I already was. "Well, you have to understand that you're the exception," she would say. "Most people in your situation aren't."

"How would you know?" I'd end up snapping. She probably wasn't on speaking terms with half a dozen non college grads. How would she know what "most" of them are like?

I often read letters from highly educated friends whose grammar and punctuation make me cringe. I've had teachers send home notes with my kids that contain glaring errors of the same sort. I may be guilty of using too much slang in my speech and writing, saying things like "gonna" and "hafta," but by golly I know what the rules of the language are. Yes, I occasionally choose to ignore them. I'm sure speeders know the speed limit, too.

I enjoy education for its own sake. With luck and more than a little money, one day I may end up having taken enough classes to qualify for a degree. I won't feel any better about myself, and my career goals won't be any different.

I stopped years ago trying to convince this small, vocal faction that my self esteem is fine. I truly try not to worry about the people who fear that I've somehow been swallowed whole by mediocrity. It is not my job to worry about or change perceptions. If there is joy in being smart, it ought to come from knowing that you are doing with your brain exactly what you want to do with it.