I was standing with my mother in a grocery store line. I believe I was no older than seven, possibly younger. With the innocence and curiosity of a child, I pointed toward a man in the next aisle and casually said, "Mom, that man looks like my balloon."

The man behaved as if he had not heard. He just quietly stood in line, staring straight ahead. My mom, though, leaned down and quietly whispered, "Dianne, that's not nice. We'll talk in the car."

I knew these words to mean that I had said something wrong. I didn't understand: I loved balloons. Besides, the man did look like one; I hadn't lied. I remember being confused.

In the car my mom explained how the man most likely had a medical condition and that he probably felt badly about his weight. She explained how many people do not understand and sometimes tease or humiliate people who do not look like them. I recall thinking that this was stupid because God had made the man. Besides, balloons were nice. But I didn't say anything. I just listened.

As I went through grades K-12, I saw some teasing but did not really connect this to the classmates' weights. Looking back, it could have been a main factor. But I was quiet and shy and also sometimes got teased. I mostly stayed out of the way and tried to mind my own business.

In college, my mother's words of wisdom served me well. I had forced myself to come out of my shell and to make connections with people. I sometimes even initiated conversations.

I had an amazing friend. She was a graduate student while I was a junior. She reminded me of Snow White: her eyes were a vivid, sparkling blue; she had dark, wavy hair that framed her face; her lips were a cherry red against skin that was very light. But the resemblance did not stop here. Her smile could warm a room and her gentle kindness flowed out from her mouth in a soft, musical voice that revealed a deeper beauty. I could imagine her in a real-life scene with animals surrounding and coming right up to her.

This particular night we had agreed to eat dinner together. After paying for our meals, she went on to get us a table while I stopped at a counter to pick up some condiments. Two very thin, Barbie-doll girls soon set their trays beside mine. I recognized them as the same two girls who had stood behind us in line, complaining. They had piled their plates high while giving my friend the once-over. One of the two had scathingly made a highly inappropriate comment: "If I looked like that I would never put another piece of food into my mouth again!" The other girl encouraged this poor behavior through giggles and the accentuated nodding of her head.

These two girls had been responsible for my friend's quick retreat to a table. I glanced over at her to see that once again her food sat next to her as she wrote in an ever-present notebook. This notebook contained what would eventually become an award-winning thesis.

Memories of the grocery line flooded my mind. My mother's quiet wisdom rose to the surface. I, myself, had before been compared to Barbie.

I turned to the girls. Quietly, I spoke to them: "My friend has a medical condition," I began. "She is supposed to eat no less than five small meals per day. Yet this is the first meal that she has eaten today and still her plate holds less than either of yours. Some day your metabolisms might fail you. The difference is that my friend has an inner beauty that shines out, regardless of her weight. You two will be left with nothing when your outward beauty fades. But her beauty will only grow with age." I left them, stunned, and joined my friend at the table.

I dealt with teasing for being shy. Now I have gained an understanding of how it feels when you've done all you can but still do not meet the world's idea of normal. My husband struggled with his weight most of his life. My son plateaus at a set weight regardless of the effort he exerts. And I've gained weight. Please do not remind us of our struggles: sometimes weight is all we can think of; we are aware and we are working on it. Please let’s enjoy each other while we can.

Apostrophes

We possessives are a tricky lot...
Do we need apostrophes or not?
His and hers, yours, ours and mine
Plus her, its, your, and my are fine.
But the cat of the boy becomes boy's cat
While splat of the milk becomes milk's splat.
And it is raining is not possessive
Although it's raining might seem successive.
So careful with those apostrophes--
Their many uses sure can tease.

I found this statement from http://joy2meu.com/Personal_Boundaries.htm to be quite insightful:

"Judgment is saying, 'that person is a jerk.'  Observation is saying, 'that person seems to be really full of anger and it would be better for me to not be involved with them.'" --Robert Burney

from http://www.i-sis.org.uk/stemcells2.php

Dr. Mae-Wan Ho gives the latest score-sheet in the great stem cell debate.

So, how do ES (embryonic stem) and adult stem cells score at this point?

These latest results show that the ES cells need to be genetically modified and extensive manipulation in vitro before they can be transplanted safely. Direct transplant of ES cells are known to give rise to teratomas and uncontrollable cell proliferation. There is already evidence that ES cells are genetically unstable in long term culture, and are especially prone to chromosomal abnormalities. The risks involved in using the cytomegalovirus promoter to drive over-expression of the transcription factor are undetermined. To avoid immune rejection, the ES cells have to be tissue-matched from a bank of stem cells created from ‘spare’ human embryos. Otherwise, a special human embryo has to be created for the purpose, by transferring the patient’s genetic material into an empty egg, a procedure prone to failure and morally objectionable to many, including scientists.

By contrast, adult stem cells could be transplanted directly without genetic modification or pre-treatments. They simply differentiate according to cues from the surrounding tissues and do not give uncontrollable growth or tumours. The adult stem cells also show high degrees of genomic stability during culture. There is no problem with immune rejection because the cells can readily be isolated from the patients requiring transplant. And there is no moral objection involved. Better yet, research can be directed towards encouraging adult stem cells to regenerate and repair damaged tissues in situ, without the need for cell isolation and in vitro expansion. By minimising intervention, risks are reduced, as well as cost, making the treatment available to everyone and not just the rich.

It seems incredible, but I've finally reached an age where I'm beginning to think that I sound like my elders—the very elders that I had listened to as a child while squirming and asking myself, "Why me?" Take now, for example. I had been about to start this piece with the following statement: there was a time when America stood proud because she was different, but now I watch as she appears to be stumbling in her pride.

I've heard it said that America dishonors her differing cultures and that she does these cultures a huge injustice by claiming to be a melting pot. But still I write, possibly to be labeled as politically incorrect: the melting pot America was a far greater America—an America where we were a united front; we were all proud to be called Americans.

Let me explain. When I was in grade school, we celebrated cultures as what made America great. We had show-and-tell and classroom walls that celebrated the many amazing worlds that our cultures had come from. We even had walls that dared to display the many religions, all at once, Christianity included. We learned of our similarities as Americans and we were a unified front. Americans were just Americans.

I had friends of every color while I was growing up. We had our differing spiritual and religious views, and maybe even different life views. Yet we learned together, visited together, laughed together, cried together, played together, and yes, we even solved our conflicts—together. Most of these friends could be contacted today and we would still meet as friends—those who hold a high regard for one another. We grew in a world where people were just people; a world of unique individuals that united under one descriptive word—American.

Words of today most likely existed then: multicultural, tolerance, and diversity. Yet I don't recall such words being used during my childhood, at least not in the sense that they are thrown around today. We, as friends, and even as colleagues, accepted our differences as a natural part of life. We could talk about beliefs and religion and cultural differences freely, and without incident. We built bridges of understanding that were based on mutual respect. And we came together as Americans.

The buzz words of today exist as false cognates to the word respect. And the word respect has been watered down to mean mere acceptance. In the name of education and sensitivity, what it means to be an American has been weakened and nearly destroyed. My friends and I stood together in unity; we were, and are, Americans. Most today are separated out, differences emphasized, and similarities dismissed.

There was a time... yes, I remember it. We existed, ethnically different, all with varying amazing cultures within our separate homes, and we stood together. We looked past our heritages to our similarities and we overcame barriers with friendships that were built on respect.

We lived in a melting pot of cultures where the best of who we were came together to stand as Americans, each heritage adding further knowledge and understanding to the structure of our great country. We called ourselves Americans and were proud—proud to be Americans... nothing less and nothing more.

Hooray!

My friend, SB, wrote an email in response to a comment I had made about disliking the word housewife. I mentioned how I prefer to call myself a domestic engineer. She answered: I have never liked the term "housewife." You are married to your husband, not the house. I found this observation to be quite insightful and upbeat.

I have chosen to be a homemaker, a domestic engineer. I face endless hours of repetitive tasks. Just when I put away the last clean dish, new dishes pile into the sink. I fold or hang clothes, returning them to their places, only to view new piles building within the bins. I pay bills that I know I must pay again, and write letters whenever there's a dispute that must be addressed. Because life moves forward, the menial tasks never end. It can, at times, result in a feeling of hopelessness.

When such unending responsibilities seem to go unnoticed or unappreciated, it can lead to a woman believing that she lives in a world of disregard and disrespect. And this often breeds anger or resentment: why should we thank those who load the dishwasher once or twice a month or who throw in a load of laundry because a pair of favorite jeans is dirty? Does anyone ever thank us?

Anyhow, although housewife seems to find its origin* in the Middle English sense of a woman being the mistress of a household (not the "kept woman of a married man" that we tend to understand mistress to mean today, but instead "a woman who employs others or has authority over servants"), it occurs to me that my friend's take on the word makes more sense in the world of today. I am a domestic engineer and I am married to my husband, not a house. And I choose this life willingly, despite the sacrifices it often entails. For I have no greater joy than this, to hear of my children (or in my case, my child) walking in the truth (3 John 1:4, NASB).

* from http://www.etymonline.com

I have one, amazing kid. Yesterday afternoon we were making omelettes (for brunch) and he suggested filling them with the leftover bruschetta topping--delicious! Later I made fajitas for dinner. What a great food day we had.

And tonight? He made our final meal because I looked tired. We had spaghetti. Yum.