Remembering Virginia Tech

During my second year at the University of Utah, I decided to participate in the National Student Exchange program. This meant that I could pick a state school anywhere in the country to attend for a school year, all while paying my own school's tuition.

It sounded like a perfect opportunity. I had never been anywhere farther east than South Dakota, and had never lived anywhere but Utah. The whole country was open to me. Somehow, I came across a little school in Southern Virginia called Virginia Tech. I can still remember watching their school video and how happy their students seemed, how pretty the campus was, how the small town surrounding it seemed like a nice place to live.

The year I spent at "Tech" (as the locals like to call it) was a year that changed me. I had never lived so far away from my family before. I learned about email, and spent almost every night writing long epistles to my mom and sister Amy. I made some really good friends who opened up their lives and homes to me when I was too far away to come home for holidays. I learned how college was supposed to be, complete with dorms, roommates, yucky dining hall food, spring breaks in Florida, Thanksgivings spent at friends houses. I lived the college life, participated in activities, actually had some school spirit. The Virginia Tech campus became more than a campus: it was my home. I walked its paths daily.

Main Eggleston Hall, the building where my dorm room was.

Burrus Hall, which was directly across the Drillfield (a large grassy area in the middle of campus, surrounded by buildings) from my dorm. When I looked out my dormroom window, this was the scene that greeted my eyes.

About a year ago, a young man decided he needed to take out his loneliness and frustration out on his fellow Virginia Tech students with a couple of guns and a lot of ammunition. Within a day, the news was full of Virginia Tech photos and stories, and they all showed images of places dear to my heart. While I didn't have any classes in the building where most of the shootings took place, I remember the area of campus that it was in. The residence hall where he began his rampage had housed a few of my friends and acquaintances.

For a few days, I couldn't turn on my TV without seeing something about my dear school. On the night following the shooting, the students all gathered on the Drillfield for a candlelight vigil. All I could think of as I watched the footage was my own gathering on the drillfield on the Sunday night before classes started. On that night, there were hamburgers and hot dogs and veggie burgers by the thousands for all the students housed in the dorms. There were kids playing hackey sack and throwing frisbees; other older students finding friends from previous years, while the new first year students sat in uncomfortable circles next to their RA (residence assistant) who plied them with questions of where they were from and what they would study. The feeling of camaraderie was there that night, and I knew a similar feeling was being created even through the sadness on the night of the candlelight vigil.

A few days after the incident, the whole school gathered for a convocation of prayer and song and healing. Thanks to the internet, I watched as leaders of many faiths from around the area offered words of comfort and praise to the students. I cried for the loss of innocence that had occured in a place so beloved to me, and to many other thousands of people who had walked its paths.

It's a crazy world we live in. I know that the shootings at Virgina Tech aren't unique; sadly, there have been many such events in the past few years. I'm sure others felt the same sadness I felt during Columbine, and the recent shootings at Northern Illinois University. But for me, the events last April at Virginia Tech were incredibly personal. You never think it can happen in your town, at your school, or to someone in your life. I am sad for everyone who has felt this loss of innocence.

I will end with an address from Nikki Giovanni's address at the convocation after the shootings.

We are Virginia Tech.

We are sad today, and we will be sad for quite a while. We are not moving on, we are embracing our mourning.

We are Virginia Tech.

We are strong enough to stand tall tearlessly, we are brave enough to bend to cry, and we are sad enough to know that we must laugh again.

We are Virginia Tech.

We do not understand this tragedy. We know we did nothing to deserve it, but neither does a child in Africa dying of AIDS, neither do the invisible children walking the night away to avoid being captured by the rogue army, neither does the baby elephant watching his community being devastated for ivory, neither does the Mexican child looking for fresh water, neither does the Appalachian infant killed in the middle of the night in his crib in the home his father built with his own hands being run over by a boulder because the land was destabilized. No one deserves a tragedy.

We are Virginia Tech.

The Hokie Nation embraces our own and reaches out with open heart and hands to those who offer their hearts and minds. We are strong, and brave, and innocent, and unafraid. We are better than we think and not quite what we want to be. We are alive to the imaginations and the possibilities. We will continue to invent the future through our blood and tears and through all our sadness.

We are the Hokies.

We will prevail.

We will prevail.

We will prevail.

We are Virginia Tech.

Introducing Squeegee

This is our new cat Squeegee. She is 10 months old and very sweet. Her name goes well with our other cat named Bucket, and not so well with our oldest cat Sianna. This also corresponds to the fact that they all still hiss and arch their backs when they see each other.

However, to her credit, she never cries and tells me that the other cats have hit or kicked her.

Today, if you asked me, I would say it is much easier having 3 cats than 2 kids.

Somehow, their crying is not music to my ears.

So, I should totally be cleaning bathrooms right now, but I have a- no desire, and b- no Comet, so I'm blogging instead. Yay for me, too bad for my bathrooms. Hoping this isn't one of the days that dh checks my blog.

My kids are sick today; Thomas has been fevering since Monday. In an effort to power him through the sickness, I finally sent him to schoool yesterday. My hoping that a miraculous recovery would occur during the hours of 10:30 & 4 was fruitless; he came home less bored, but still looking & sounding like crap. Now Ben is starting to cough and I just don't know what to do with them anymore. Looks like a nice visit to the pediatrician is in order. Yay for me.

I just realized that this blog entry is boring me to tears (and obviously my kids, too, since they keep coming to me crying over something or another) so I'll end.

What a pointless bit of writing. (It's okay to think, why did she bother? It's what I think.)

Review: The People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks

I want to start this review with a quote from the end of the book:

You know I am not a religious man. But Hanna, I have spent many nights, lying awake here in this room, thinking that the Haggadah came to Sarajevo for a reason. It was here to test us, to see if there were people who could see that what united us was more than what divided us. That to be a human matters more than to be a Jew or a Muslim, Catholic or Orthodox.

That being said, imagine your scriptures. Or even your favorite book for that matter. Imagine that your scriptures have been passed down to you from your grandparents grandparents. Imagine that you are an outcast in your country because you cling to the beliefs that are housed in your scriptures. Imagine that people are willing to kill you, just because of your beliefs.

And then imagine the gratitude you would feel if the person down the street put themself in harms way to save you and your scriptures.

A person who shouldn’t even like you, let alone want to save you. A person who you find recognizes that you are a person who has beliefs in the same way that they are person with beliefs and respects that innate similarity. A person who recognizes you are human and that each of us has our sacred records, and that none of us (including our books) deserve to be destroyed because of the beliefs housed in them.

While not exact, this is what Geraldine Brooks’ novel People of the Book is about. A 500-year old Jewish prayer book called a haggadah resurfaces after the Bosnian War in the late 1990’s. A young Jewish scholar is asked to rebind the book. In the process, she discovers artifacts within the book that will take you back in time to tell the story of the people who have, at great harm to themselves, sacrificed much to protect the book.

The stories are heartbreaking, (because who really wants to read a happy book?). The time periods covered include Sarajevo during World Ware II, Vienna during the 1890’s, and several locations in Venice and Spain during the Spanish Inquisition. In each case, individuals find themselves unable to destroy the haggadah, and their possession adds to the mystery and beauty of the book.

The best part about People of the Book? While the many of the stories are fictionalized, there really is a Sarajevo Haggadah. Geraldine Brooks has created stories about who could have painted the pages, and who wrote out the text, and who spilt wine on the pages, but her subject matter is anything but imaginary. The manuscript was smuggled out of a museum during WWII by a Muslim librarian. He gave it to another Muslim who hid it inside a home or a mosque during the war. Then it was kept in an underground vault during the Bosnian War to protect it from the constant shelling (thanks, Wikipedia!).

Depictions from the Sarajevo Haggadah of Moses and the Burning Bush and of Aaron's Staff.

The history of the Sarajevo Haggadah and the book The People of the Book is so inspiring to me. It gives me hope to think that in this crazy, violent world, there are real accounts of people who are willing to do the right thing, even when it will cost them dearly. Which brings me back to the quote I shared above. What a wonderful world it would be if we could all look past what makes us different and celebrate those things that unite us: books and love and friendship and family and faith. Because what else really matters?

Bits & Pieces

So, I’ve been really busy at work lately. But I wanted to put some random things that have happened lately. So here goes!

Ben turned 3 last Sunday. I can’t believe that he is really three. We had a party on Saturday night for him which was really fun. Usually we only have grandparents, but we had our friends John and Melanie come this year, and we had such a good time. On Sunday I made another cake so we could sing happy birthday to him on his actual birthday. He made us sing to him 3 times just so he could keep blowing out the candle. It was great fun.

On Friday we adopted ANOTHER cat. This makes 3! But she was just so cute, sitting there in the Petsmart, waiting for someone to take her home. I wish I had a picture, but she is a little nervous, and our other cats aren’t really nice to her yet, so she isn’t around much. But her name is Squeegee (which goes with our other cat named Bucket nicely!) and she is a tortie. Her eyes are orange, and she has a really fluffy tail. She loves to be pet. I am really hoping this doesn’t make me the crazy cat lady. I’ll post a picture soon.

I am reading the best book I’ve read in months, The People of the Book by Geraldine Brooks. I’m not done with it yet, but I’ll review it when I finish it. If you are at all needing something to read, pick this one up. Or put it on hold at the library (even if there are 100 people ahead of you; it is worth the wait!). Hurry! Do it now! Just kidding.

That will have to do for now. February is my busy time at work, so I don’t have a lot of time to post, but I get sick of seeing the same post come up on my page. And thanks to all of you who commiserated with me about the make-up counter. It should be a nicer place, shouldn’t it? I’m just glad I’m not the only one who feels make-up impaired.

Trying Harder…

Subtitle: Adventures at the make-up counter

Sub-subtitle: Where Becky shows her lack of sophistication and abundance of cheapness

If you know me in real life, you probably know I’m a wash-and-wear kind of girl. Most days I put my freshly-washed hair into a dampish ponytail and go on with my day. There have been whole months when my blow-dryer hasn’t been plugged in, let alone used.

So when I do try a little harder on my appearance, it’s usually in the hair department. My face? Usually naked of all the normal girly embellishments. I tried to remember recently the last time I spent money on make-up, and I came up with the weekend before I had Thomas, when I spent a few dollars on an extra tube of mascara at the grocery store. Even though I rarely wore it, I figured I couldn’t go to the hospital without some. Except for the 2 lipglosses I purchased last summer from the Avon catalogue, that had been the last time I actively made any effort to purchase cosmetics of any kind. Special.

So, imagine my surprise over the Christmas holiday when Thomas said to me, “Mom, I like it when your hair is down.” What? At six, you’ve noticed my appearance and found it lacking? I took note of it, and went on with the day. A few days later he told me, “I like that lipgloss you wear. It makes you look pretty.” (Debatable, but coming from a six-year-old, a prized compliment. He has to think I’m attractive by default.)

So, I decided to try a little harder. I decided I needed to do my hair in the morning more often than not, and also attempt to put on some of the aforementioned lipgloss. One day, my boss’s boss said something about my hair being down (he was trying to mask his shock, I think) and so I ended up telling him about Thomas’s little compliments. Before I knew it, I had two people expecting me to do my hair on a regular basis. Crap.

(I promise I’ll get to the point of this post eventually)

Last week, I got a flyer in the mail from one of the department stores, hawking their wares and announcing that if you spent so much at the make-up counter, you could get a free gift. Wow, free gift? I set it aside, but then later came back to it and decided, heck, why not? As my annual budget for facial products hasn’t been met in nearly a decade, I felt could spend the required $26.50 and come away with something that would show I was trying even harder. Here is a picture of the ad; I wasn't sure what everything was for, but heck, why not.






After deliberating a day or two, I figured that I was safe buying some mascara to fullfill the $26.50 requirement. The tube I bought in 2001 is pretty dried out, and tends to flake, so it made sense to start there. It felt safe, like I had warmed myself up a few years ago, so I could buy this product at least without displaying for all the cutesy make-up ladies to see 1- my inherent lack of make-up know-how and effort, or 2- my inherent cheapness at trying to stay as close to the $26.50 threshhold as possible.

Imagine me arriving at the department store, my determination unthwarted by the hordes of other people clambering for their free gift. Somehow I end up at the correct counter, find a saleslady, and state my purpose: I want some mascara. The attractively made-up woman helped me pick out the mascara flavor that I figured I would need, and I thought I was home free, because I generalized that it would be ridiculously overpriced and bring me to the desired total by itself. I casually ask, “Now, how much do those run again?” (As if I ever knew!) Her answer: $21. Panic starts to set in as I look around at the bewildering facial products in front of me, all deceptively pretty, all without a price tag.

Taking a deep breath, trying to be cool, I point to the lipglosses (because if Avon lipgloss can be $3 or less, these can be too, right?) and ask their price. The answer? 18.50. The eyeshadow? Ditto. The eyeliners? Same story (could have been more; the panic makes me forget the details.) My cool façade starts to break up as I search the counter for something I can purchase that gets me within a few dollars of my goal, while at the same time realizing I’m going seriously over budget. As I’m about to call the whole thing off (which would have been even more embarrassing), and as she sees her sale going down the drain, the kinder-than-I-had-expected saleslady offers up what seems like my least-expensive option: the mascara remover. Ah ha! The price? $15. Close enough for me.

So, I left the store, my purchases in my little bag, feeling much more sophisticated than I had when entering, and even a little less cheap, since I went the extra mile and allowed myself to go over the required amount. Heck, I even modeled it for Shane in the car on the way home. And, I’m proud to say, that each day this week has seen me leaving my house with freshly adorned eyelashes. Who knew?

So tell me: are you a fan of the make-up counter? Does anyone else feel the same sense of panic and doom at approaching its gleaming glassy surface?

A Snowy Day

I got a call at 7:42 am. It was my bishop/home teacher, telling me that our church meetings had been cancelled because of the weather. If it hadn't been the bishop, I probably wouldn't have believed him. Mormons usually persevere: snow storm? Put on your boots and go to church. Flood? Use your row boat and go to church. Superbowl Sunday? Set your DVR and go to church. A whole continent between you and your destination and thousands of people to transport? Put on your shoes and get walking along with the rest of your church.

Not so today. Apparently the tiny road that leads to our meetinghouse was too treacherous for even those most stalwart of all, the early-rising stake presidency, and they made the choice to cancel all church. Who knew this could happen?

So I find myself, not guiltily enjoying the storm while my more faithful neighbors attend their meetings, but enjoying the howling wind and driving snow from my kitchen while I watch said faithful attendees shovel their driveways. We are all in the same snowy boat today.

It gives me a good opportunity to pause and think about the past few days. I was saddened when I heard that LDS Church President Gordon B. Hinckley had died. I eagerly listened to the many eulogies that the local news gave of him, praising his openness with the media, his desire to reach out to all of God's children and focus on what is the same between us, rather than what is different. I watched the funeral and grave-side services yesterday, alternating between laughter at how unique this man was and tears that he had left us.

I don't know that I'm the most faithful Mormon in the world. I have gone through the cycles that we read about in the Book of Mormon, alternating between faithful observation of the gospel principles and all-out rebellion against them. Always in my heart I knew what I was supposed to be doing, but knew it wasn't the way I could live then and be true to myself. I am happy where I am at, and have reached a good balance. I know where I need to do better, but I also know how much worse I've done, so I try not to be too hard on myself.

Throughout these cycles of my life, President Hinckley has been the driving force in the LDS Church. If I ever thought about how I wasn't doing what the prophet taught, it was President Hinckley's face who stood for the prophet. In those "upward" cycles, it was President Hinckley's face I looked forward to seeing in the Saturday morning session of conference. I loved his humor and anecdotes. I loved that I felt that he loved me; a faceless girl, doing random things around the bedroom in order to have an excuse for watching TV. If I didn't hear a word of the rest of conference, I was happy just from those brief words of welcome.

I was sad to see President Hinckley's empty chair yesterday. I am sad for his family. I will be sad at conference, and feel his absence acutely. But I am glad that he has moved on, that he is with loved ones on the other side.

And most of all, I am glad that I was able yesterday to say good-bye to him from our accustomed spot in my room, in front of my TV, the beautiful Saturday-morning sun streaming though the windows. I didn't even pretend that I had things to do, I just watched and paid tribute, and said in my heart, "God be with you til we meet again."