Remembering Carobel

This little gem made its appearance on my Kindle the day before Mother’s Day.  It’s a collection of essays by 31 women who reflect on the gifts their mother left them, both spiritual and physical.  I had heard about this book from one of the essayists, Lillian Daniel, who is a Third Culture Kid, like me.  I wrote a little about Lillian’s dad, Leon, and her mom in this post from 2011.  

Lillian’s mother, Carobel Calhoun Daniel, was a drinking buddy friend of my mom’s in Manila.  They met at our church, Holy Trinity Whiskeypalian Episcopalian, down the street from our house.  Leon was a UPI correspondent and they had lived in Japan, India and Thailand before landing in Manila.  Most of what I remember about these women is cigarettes and flowing caftans, big hair, lots of lipstick, laughter and dirty jokes.  At the time, Lillian was about 10 years old, a tow-headed, pig-tailed, freckle-faced ball of energy; she was always running, it seemed.  One time she fell and smacked her head on the concrete floor, and Caro had to watch her closely when she developed the symptoms of a concussion. 

My mom and Carobel being outdoorsy

Lillian and my sister Debi

Carobel and Leon had taken in their young nephew, Robert, who had, I surmised, run into a little trouble at home in South Carolina.  His parents thought a year in Asia might do him some good.  Granted, his older sister Lisa had lived with their aunt and uncle when they had lived in India, so it wasn’t a stretch to send Robert to Manila.  My mom and Caro thought it would be “cute” to throw a little “get to know you” party for Robert and me in our back yard, with a small group of kids from school.  I cringe when I think about that occasion, replete with all the awkwardness that 14-year-olds are prone to.  Tinny music played on a stereo and empty bottles of Chianti with drips of candle wax adorned the tables.  We swam in the pool, sitting afterwards, damp and frizzy, trying to break through the shyness and the silences.  Someone turned out the lights at one point (I’m not naming names) and a game of spin the bottle was organized.  The next day Robert took me to see “Serpico” and I fell for him, big time. 

Awkwardness ... ouch!

Together, our families went on beach trips to Batangas and Matabungkay, where my dad scuba dived (dove?) and the rest of us snorkeled.  Afterwards there were late-night car trips home in wet bathing suits and a sunburned state of exhaustion.  I have a vivid memory of Carobel in her pink bathing suit, smoking a Virginia Slim, fretting over Lillian, who had swum through a patch of jellyfish. 

The youngest in a family of sisters, Carobel was the mischievous one.  One of my favorite stories about the young Caro was when the bossy older sisters made her bring them drinks of water.  She repeatedly brought each of them a nice cool glass with a smug smile and a toss of her head.  After all the sisters had drunk their fill, Caro sassily chanted, "I got it from the toilet!!" I can only imagine the hilarity that ensued.  I bet she was a fast runner.

Aunt Caro (as I called her) and Leon were only in Manila for six months; in December UPI transferred them to Hong Kong.  (It’s so strange how events in one’s young life seem to have transpired over a very long time, when in reality it was over in a flash).  We saw them off at the airport, me sad about losing my first crush, but equally sad because I really loved Aunt Caro.  She was like that: her laughter, her bawdiness, her hilarious facial expressions, well, you couldn’t help but love her.  She didn’t dismiss Robert’s and my relationship as “puppy love”.  She got it: that first rush of teenaged love was real and powerful.  That was the first time that an adult had acknowledged me as important and as a real, living and breathing person.

My mom and Carobel stayed in touch over the years.  We visited them in London where they were posted in the late 1970’s.  Caro, after she and Leon divorced, ended up living in Washington DC, where she worked for ABC News, an assistant to anchorman Steve Bell.  When Bill Clinton was inaugurated in 1992, mom won a lottery to go through a receiving line to meet the new president, and she took my sister Debi along for the ride to DC.  They, of course, looked up Caro.  While visiting ABC studios one day, Mom and Carobel were waiting for an elevator.  The doors opened and the majestic Peter Jennings exited right in front of them, saying, “Hello Caro!”  My mom, a longtime fan, nearly fainted.  Caro arranged for Mom and Debi to be interviewed by Spencer Christian on Good Morning America the day of the inauguration.  My sister was playing hooky from her teaching job that long weekend, telling her principal that she was ill.  Unfortunately for her, the power had gone out at her school, classes were cancelled for the day, and the principal was home watching at the very moment she appeared on national television. 

That was the last time mom and Caro saw each other.  As sometimes happens, life goes on and we forget to write a note or make a phone call.  Years pass.  Just when you think, I really should get in touch with so-and-so, you learn that it is too late.  Caro died in the 1990s at an entirely too young age.  I was devastated when I heard, and a rush of colorful memories came over me, making me smile through the sadness. 

Lillian today.

Little Lillian, the perky little girl of my memories and the spitting image of her mother, is now a national speaker and writer, a minister at First Congregational Church in Glen Ellyn, Illinois.  I can’t say I wasn’t surprised to hear that Lillian had gone to divinity school; her mother had been such a colorful character.  I’m sure Caro herself saw the irony in it.  Lillian writes about her mother exactly the way I remember her.  This story that Lillian wrote in "What My Mother Gave Me" sums up Caro in all her glory, a perfect example of the energy and humor that made up her persona, the "hostess with the mostess" at a dinner party:

"(S)he came out of the kitchen more than an hour late, dressed to the nines in a sparkly outfit a couple of sizes too small, red high-heeled shoes clicking across the floor, and she was holding – on another giant Japanese pottery tray – a magnificent roasted duck.  It was a brand new recipe for her.  We had waited a long time for the meal, but it was hard to see the duck on the plate, for in her enthusiasm for her project, she had gone heavy on the garnish.  It was like a parsley explosion of culinary enthusiasm, a product of a long day’s work, cheerfully given.  But then, the combination of the greenery, the grease of the duck, and a fold in the carpet just underneath her high-heeled shoes all came together in the perfect storm.  As she tripped, the duck she had spent the whole day preparing went flying across the room.  The bird landed where once it had had its tail feathers and skidded across the floors, only to stop on the muddy doormat in the front hall, a brown trail of grease, gravy and parsley garnish in its sad wake …

“(S)he pulled her little shoulders back and marched over to the defeated duck on the doormat.  As she stooped down and picked it up, she announced to the group, ‘Let me just throw this duck away in the kitchen, and I’ll be back in just a minute with the other duck.’”

It’s the nature of the expat life, that friends are made quickly and deeply, and the relationships are long-lasting.  We remember the times and the places we shared, and upon reflection we are transported back to a tropical house, to a dinner shared, a voyage taken together.  Some of these friends make more of an impression than others, and we smile and laugh to ourselves at some of the audacious memories.  While we may be sad that those times are over, we can celebrate that they happened, and that we were lucky enough to know and love truly extraordinary people.  

Lillian touches on being a Third Culture Kid in her book "When Spiritual But Not Religious Is Not Enough".  She co-wrote "This Odd and Wondrous Calling" with Martin Copenhaver, in which they address the ups and downs of the ministry.  She also co-hosts a show on Chicago PBS channel WTTW  called "Thirty Good Minutes" which covers faith stories and ideas from different faith traditions. 

Third Culture Books

It was inevitable that I ended up studying Library Science.  I have loved books since the dawn of (my) time.  When I was in 5^th grade, I pasted call numbers on the spines of the books in my room and made little pockets inside to keep a record of people who might want to “borrow” them.  I don’t think anyone ever visited my homemade lending library, but I was nonetheless prepared.  My mother must have instilled my love for books somehow; she was always reading, and our family bookshelves were filled with classics.  For some strange reason I was compelled to climb up in a tree behind our house with my favorite book, perhaps seeking solitude or to commune with nature.  After I was espied by the neighborhood bully, he taunted me: "Liz climbs trees and read books!"

 When we moved to Japan when I was five, Mom set out to immerse me in the culture.  I had picture books about “Urashima Taro”  the Japanese fisherman who rescued a turtle, visited the sea god and returned to find that three hundred years had passed.  There was the story of “Kintaro," the young dragon slayer, and Momontaro who came to his elderly parents by way of a peach pit.  Hans Christian Anderson was boring compared to the Japanese.  

The Five Chinese Brothers was a favorite (not Japanese, but Asian) although in later years it was excoriated for promoting Asian stereotypes.  The Story About Ping was another classic set in China.  I guess Mom wanted me to love Asia as much as she did. 

Don’t even make me think about the book “Hachiko” about the dog that meets his dead master’s train every day, waiting for him to return until he (the dog) died of old age.  I get choked up just thinking about it.  I happened to catch a sappy Lifetime movie once, loosely based on the original Japanese story.  Richard Gere played the master, and George Castanza Jason Alexander was a shop owner near the train station.  I found myself sitting on the floor blubbering and sobbing in front of the TV.  Good grief. 

There was the story about the little girl who had survived the atomic bombing at Hiroshima, only to die of leukemia.  There is a Japanese legend that folding 1000 origami cranes would make a wish come true.  This girl’s classmates tried (in vain) to save her life by doing so.  I learned very early the meaning of heartbreak. (And I can still fold a perfect crane).  

I had a book about an orphaned Japanese girl who was sent to live in New York City.  I don’t remember thinking too much about it when I was little, but the back-story must have been interesting.  Why would a small Japanese girl be sent to an old lady’s brownstone in Brooklyn?  Maybe there was a tragic love story, perhaps a marriage between an American soldier and a Japanese geisha?  For the life of me I can’t remember the name of the book, but I can still see the cover and the illustrations.  The girl goes to public school and is taunted about her Asian eyes, but eventually comes to befriend her classmates.  I'm sure the book is at mom’s house somewhere. 

When I was in the third grade, we lived in Westport, Connecticut, where I attended Saugatuck Elementary School.  It was the quintessential "little red schoolhouse" with creaky wooden floors and a real bell in a steeple.  There was a book fair once, and Hardie Gramatky, of "Little Toot" fame, was there, in person signing copies of "Little Toot on the Grand Canal".  I still have my copy, signed by Gramatky himself, with a little ink illustration of the little tugboat.

In Brussels I was in a fairly serious car accident when I was 11.  (I wrote about it here).  I was at a slumber party thrown by a classmate, and the girl’s governess drove us all to the movies. On the way home there was a terrible collision.  I was in the hospital for a week with a concussion (so THAT is my problem!) and mom brought me a copy of “Little Lord Fauntleroy” that I devoured to pass the time.  It was in this book that I learned what gout was, and came to realize that, Holy Cow, too many children’s stories are just plain tragic. The poor kid lost his beloved mother and was sent to live with his crotchety old grandfather, the formidable Lord of the Manor, who didn’t like the boy at first because his disowned daughter had married beneath her.  It wasn’t long after that that I read “The Little Princess” about the little English girl whose wealthy father is killed in the Boer War and she is banished to live in an attic because the family fortune is gone.  It all made my life seem a little more tolerable in light of these sad stories. 

Mom used to go to London with her friends for ladies’ weekends.  She brought me copies of the Little House on the Prairie books from W H Smith, the series my 6^th grade teacher had introduced to me.  I think I have read the entire collection more than 20 times.  I was devastated to learn that Laura had died almost ten years before I was born, as I wanted so badly to meet her (as if that would happen!)  The stories were enchanting.  Many years later, in my early 20’s, mom and I took a road trip to Mansfield, Missouri, to visit the Laura Ingalls Wilder home and museum.  Even as an adult (well, chronologically anyway) I cherished those stories and marveled at being in the same place where Laura had once lived.

Maybe it was the long hours spent alone as we traveled to new places, moved into new houses, when the new friends hadn’t been made yet, or the long Pacific crossings on a ship before the invention of the VCR or the video game.  I’m not sure exactly what makes a young girl a voracious reader, but it sure happened to me.  Books were my passport to other worlds; an introduction to many of the cultures in which I found myself living.  Books were a panacea, as they helped me escape the grief that comes with so many transitions and changes.  They were my safe haven, to which I could run while my own reality was filled with flux and inconstancy. 

Some women collect shoes.  I collect books.  

The Lions of Judah

I was recently invited to a luncheon hosted by a Jewish women's organization called “Lions of Judah”.  (Reminded me a little of the Women’s Missionary Union in the Baptist Church):

"The Lion of Judah program has brought together women of all ages and from many walks of life in order to play an essential role in creating social justice, healing the sick, feeding the hungry, preserving human dignity and building Jewish identity."

As I am hopelessly WASPy, being raised in the Episcopal Church, I felt a little (okay, a lot) out of place.  I have to say, though, that in a previous life I must have been Jewish, because Judaism has been a part of my life since I was a freshman in high school. 

My first best friend in Manila was Susan Roth.  I spent a lot of time at her house in Parañaque, and by process of osmosis, learned a lot about her family’s faith.  It was never an issue to me; most TCKs are accepting of others’ differences, and, indeed, curious about them. 

So it wasn’t strange to me that one of the first boys to show an interest in me in Manila was actually Israeli.  He had a ridiculously cute accent and his English was filled with mistakes that I thought were adorable.  He had dark curly hair, and taught me how to say, “I love you” in Hebrew.  He talked about the fact that he would probably be required to serve in the Israeli army someday. It was a reflection of our school’s “internationality” that the group he ran with included Arab and Jewish kids alike.  When his family moved back to Israel, another Jewish family in Manila took him in so he could finish high school.  It was remarkable to me how the Jewish community in Manila took care of its own.  Later on in life I read about how many Jews from Germany and other place in Europe sought refuge in Manila in the late 1930’s, only to find themselves in the clutches of the Japanese.  The hardships that the Jews experienced during the war were indescribable.  Deplorable, tragic, incomprehensible. 

In the first frenetic, exciting days of college in San Antonio,Texas, I met a cute boy who was from Staten Island, New York.  We had both ended up at a school that neither wanted to attend; he had been wait-listed at Stanford, and I had desperately wanted to go to William and Mary in Virginia.  My parents were in Singapore, his in New York.  The attraction was immediate and powerful.  And yes, you guessed it: he was Jewish.  I fasted with him on Yom Kippur, and listened to his stories about being Bar Mitvahed in Israel.  We bonded over our common (gefilte) fish out water-ness.

We dated for nearly 2-1/2 years in college, then for another year after we graduated.  It seemed inevitable that we would be together always, but he broke up with me so he could concentrate on his medical career.  In a very long, anguished letter, single-spaced and double-sided, he wrote that “It wouldn’t be fair to make you wait for 10 years while I finish my training.”  (I thought it was because I wasn't Jewish, but that wasn't the case).  Heartbroken, we continued our lives without each other, never forgetting our bond and our connection.  Today, due to serendipity and fate, destiny, kismet, whatever you call it, we are married and ridiculously awestruck at this fact.  His mother once joked about the “not making me wait 10 years” comment.  “It’s not fair that you should make her wait ten years; but it’s okay to make her wait THIRTY years?” 

After college, I moved back to Baton Rouge, where my parents had settled after their international days were over.  One of my mom’s good friends, Beth, who was closer to my age, became my friend as well.  Beth came from a Jewish family in New York; she was a self-proclaimed Jewish American Princess.  Beth and Mom used to host the most amazing (and delicious) Passover Seders.  Mom celebrated and respected Judaism as if she had been raised in the faith.  After my sister died, Mom had given up on God and religion: the whole matzo ball.  In her job as an editor at the Graduate School at LSU, Mom met a lot of people.  One of her clients was the daughter of the Rabbi at Beth Shalom Synagogue, as she, the daughter, was working on her Masters’ thesis.  One day, for whatever reason, the Rabbi himself appeared in her office, and, they began to discuss faith.  Mom said, “Oh, Rabbi, I gave up on all that ‘god’ stuff a long time ago.”  The wise Rabbi replied, “Well, you should come join us then!” 

When I married my first husband in 1987, Beth was one of my bridesmaids.  I can only imagine how she felt, standing in the huge Episcopal Church, surrounded by Christianity in all its glory.  But she was my friend, and I wanted her to be there for my big day. 

Over the years I made several Jewish friends; we seemed to bond in a mysterious way that I never understood, but which I celebrated.   

It wasn’t until I attended the Lions of Judah luncheon the other day that I got it. 

The speaker at the luncheon was a lovely, dynamic woman named Susan who is a convert to Judaism.  She is also an ordained interfaith minister.  I had heard about her from my in-laws and have long wanted to meet her.  She talked about a 613^th commandment (and you thought there was only ten!): “And now, write for yourselves this song, and teach it to the Children of Israel. Place it into their mouths, in order that this song will be for Me as a witness for the children of Israel.” (Deuteronomy 31:19). Susan elaborated that while many Jews see this as a literal writing of a Torah scroll (and many do have actual decorative scrolls written and illustrated), it can also be a commandment to share your own gifts, to contribute to your own community, to preserve the Jewish identity for the generations to come. Susan asked each person to reflect and then share what our personal “gifts” are that we can contribute to our community, to write our own figurative Torah.  (Ugh, I thought, I’m only a guest here!  Does she really expect me to talk in front of all these strangers?)

When it came my turn, (and thanks to a glass of champagne to calm the nerves) I said that I had grown up moving internationally often and had never really had a true home; that I felt my gift was to reach out to others who grew up like me, homeless, in a sense, to reassure them they are not alone.

Then she said something amazing.  She said, “Like the Jews who wandered for 40 years in the desert, without a home to speak of, you offer that sense of ‘home’ to others who have wandered like you.  That is your contribution to your community: by sharing your experiences, you share your meaning of home. Your community is your home.”

I would never in a million years pretend that being a TCK should in any way, shape or form, be compared to the tribulations of the Jewish people over the millennia.  But going back in history to those days when the Jews lived in the desert, wandering from pillar to post, waiting for a new generation to evolve before returning to the Promised Land, I can see a parallel.  It wasn’t the Jews’ choice to be in the desert.  What sustained them all those long, dry years was the sense of community, and the continuity of their People.  Their community was their home, even if their physical “home” was non-existent. Like the Jews, TCKs find their sense of “home” in the community of others like them. 

It all makes sense now.  

Help A Young Kazakh

It makes me sad that once again Kazakhstan is in the news, but not in a good way. ("Borat" was only the beginning!) Two friends of the Boston Marathon bomber are in custody, not just for being friends with Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, but for failing to attend classes pursuant to the requirements of their student visas. I came across this piece about a Kazakh high school student who has the opportunity to go to summer school at Cornell to study hospitality. If you know anything about the Kazakh culture, it's all about hospitality. I was back in Kazakhstan in 2006, where I visited the home of the interpreter we had had in our adoption trip in 2004, Aida. Her mother put on such a spread I felt like a visiting dignitary!  This opportunity will give Yerkebulan a huge step up if he ever returns to Kazakhstan, and even if he remains in the US.  I am hoping that if any of my friends and readers has a few shekels under the cushions on the sofa, they can send them on to this guy and help his dream come true. Thanks ... click on the link to learn more about Yerkebulan and how to donate to his cause:  

Help a young Kazakh realize his dream to study Hospitality | Tuition - YouCaring.com

The Road Home - The Professional DVD

Several weeks ago I talked about the Oscar-shortlisted independent film, “The Road Home” produced by fellow TCK Rahul Gandotra.  More recently I had the opportunity to see the professional version of the DVD.

I would like to think that every international school has a kindly staff counselor whose main focus is the adjustment of its students.  (If they don’t they should!)  Kids at these schools are mostly transient, moving in for a year or two, and then leaving.  They are Third Culture Kids, with their own stories, their own personalities and their own struggles for identity and belonging.  Each of these hypothetical counselors should have the professional version of “The Road Home” as an integral part of his or her reference library. The DVD, which is available for purchase on the website www.roadhomefilm.com, offers commentaries by two of the most renowned scholars and authors about Third Culture Kids:  Ruth Van Reken, a co-author of “Third Culture Kids: The Experience of Growing Up Among Worlds” and Heidi Tunberg, a licensed psychologist who has worked for 15 years with TCKs and has written several articles about their journeys.

The first commentary is about the film itself.  The two women take us deeper into the mind of Pico, the young Indian boy who grew up in England.  They clarify what is happening to him on a deeper level, why he is behaving the way he is behaving.  They explain his reactions, his confusion and his dilemma, looking Indian on the outside, but being English on the inside.  They talk about each of the peripheral characters in the film, and how they add to the narrative.

In the second commentary, also played with the film running in the background, the two women discuss in detail the TCK experience and its mantra: “[A] sense of belonging is with others with shared experiences.”  They each touch on their own personal stories; Heidi talks about her experience as a freshman in college, back in her passport country, and the dreaded question: “Where are you from?” She also relates the story of a young man in college, a TCK, who gained a reputation as a “player”.  He connected on a deeper, emotional level with many girls, many of whom were under the mistaken impression that he was their boyfriend. The truth, however, was that he, like many TCK’s, had learned to connect with others quickly and deeply, because they grew up knowing that many relationships are temporary and short-lived.  For obvious reasons this was received very differently on his American college campus.

Filmmaker Rahul Gandotra

The professional version offers password-protected access to a comprehensive list of resources for educators and parents of TCKs: books, websites, articles and children’s books covering topics such as moving overseas, and raising children internationally.  Each category is color-coded to designate the audience for which it is useful.  Furthermore, the purchase of the DVD also includes public screening rights to groups of any size.  Add to all this a discussion sheet for students, parents and educators, and you have a one-stop, invaluable resource.

When you consider that a textbook or scholarly journal may run in the hundreds of dollars, at $79.00 the professional version of “The Road Home” is more than worth its cost.  It would behoove all international educators and college counselors to consider adding this short but powerful film to their collections.  It will pay for itself tenfold in the valuable insights it brings to the TCK and those who care for them.

Extraordinary Running

I’ve been watching the news coverage of the explosions at the Boston Marathon.  I was outraged when I saw the horrible photos of Jeff Bauman, on the ground, his legs blown off, surrounded by too much blood.  People cried “FAKE!” and “Photoshopped!” I suppose, because their brains couldn’t wrap themselves around such awful reality.  The photos of him being wheeled to the hospital by a bystander, whose own son died in Iraq, and whose other son, bereft by the loss of his brother, committed suicide.  The young man, bent over the prone body of another victim, possibly the young restaurant manager who was one of the three fatalities.  The pictures of the young boy, Martin Richard, who died while watching his father finish the marathon. 

Recently I was a spectator at the Austin marathon.  (Actually we were coincidentally downtown when it was happening).  I remember the electric atmosphere, the loud bass of the enormous speakers, playing enthusiastic music; the paper cups strewn everywhere, thrown aside after the runners took a quick swig before they carried on their journey; the police, the medical personnel, the splashes of color in the sponsors’ advertisements.  I’m sure that these snapshots were present in Boston as well.

A few years ago my husband and I stood on that very corner in Boston, taking pictures of the little church that stands on the corner across from the Boston Public Library.  Mitch is an architectural aficionado, and loves the intricate details.  As I was a library student at the time, we spent a great deal of time wandering through the buildings of the BPL, starting in the modern annex at the back, then moving to the classical front, admiring the majestic marble lions and the statues representing Art and Science.

Why do people run?  Is it the flush of endorphins that induce the “runner’s high”?  Why would people force their bodies to such lengths, punishing their feet, exposing their knees and ankles to constant injury?  Can it be good for the human body to run for that long?  What does it do to the heart, the lungs?  For those of us who don’t run, it’s a mystery.  After all, didn’t Jim Fixx die while he was running?

Many years at the Great River Road Run

My dad, Bill, was an athlete and a runner.  After a long career as an international businessman, (in which he ran, figuratively, to the corners of the globe) he focused on his physical fitness.  There is a picture somewhere of him in the mid-1960’s on an exercise bicycle at Clark Hatch’s first club in Tokyo, way before health clubs were de rigeur.  (Clark Hatch was described as “a cross between Marco Polo and Jack LaLanne”, opening fitness clubs all over Asia after serving as the Recreation Director at the Tokyo American Club).

Dad had that runner’s body: lanky arms and legs, not an ounce of fat anywhere.  He went to bed very early at night, and was up before the chickens.  He “only” ran half marathons; he was in his late 60’s and early 70’s when he started.  He took part in many of the events in Baton Rouge, including the Great River Road Run and the Thanksgiving Day Turkey Trot.  One year my two oldest sons participated, aged six and four.  When the starting gun went off, the crowd surged forward, but my younger son stood rooted in his spot, crying piteously and traumatized by the multitude and the gunshot.  So much for his running career! (Although he did run cross-country when he was in high school). 

Dad was a NCAA Track & Field Official, and would travel with two of his buddies all over the Southeast to referee at meets.  One of his favorites, he being a Texas-Ex, was the Texas Relays at the University in Austin.  Back at his old stomping grounds, his life had come full circle. He later refereed at the Junior Olympics and also volunteered at the Special Olympics.

He was a popular employee at a local women’s health club in Southdowns, where he opened up every morning at 5:00.   Which meant, of course, that he was there around 4:30.  He was “Mr. Bill” to the patrons, loved and appreciated.  He got the job because no one else wanted it.  Before he was diagnosed with Non-Hodgkins lymphoma, he was studying to be a certified personal trainer.

So many mornings we dragged ourselves out of bed to go watch Daddy run.  It was usually dark when we got out there, and as we yawned and stretched, sipping on coffee, part of us felt a little resentful, longing for the warmth of our beds.  But at the same time we were proud of him.  Many a time I recounted the story of my dad, and his commitment to running.  He tried, unsuccessfully, to get me involved in fitness by presenting me a membership to a health club.  He sent me copies of running programs.  I once ran a 5K in Baton Rouge, following behind a platoon of police officers as they sang their cadences.  I do love to run, but my arthritic spine won’t allow it any more.  And I never got to Dad’s level. 

So when I hear about some maniac, lunatic, fanatic, planting bombs at such an event as the Boston Marathon, an event filled with happiness, enthusiasm, encouragement, anticipation, family! my mind just cannot grasp “why”.  What insane agenda is served by killing and maiming people who are there to support their loved ones in their quest to run in a road race?  My jaded mind wandered for a bit to the people who live in Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan, for whom this is a daily occurrence.  Not much media coverage there. 

I am certain that God created this world with certain physical laws, which can’t be broken.  You can’t drive a car into a brick wall without dire consequences.  Human bodies get diseases.  Yes, people die needlessly.  How can we possibly try to understand the nature of evil?  God is grieving, weeping, right along with us.  We have to accept that there are so many things we will never understand.  

Dad with all of his grandchildren, 2007

Chechen Men **Edited**

I woke up this morning to the news that one of the two Boston Marathon bombers was dead, and that his brother was on the loose.  Many of the channels on my TV are showing the coverage of the shoot-out that took place overnight, with scenes of SWAT teams fanning out on streets, yellow crime-scene tape everywhere.  People are told to stay in their houses, schools are closed, public transportation suspended.  I can’t remember anything this gripping, so terrifying in recent memory.  I’m sure people are scratching their heads, too.  Russians?  Too many people were quick to jump to the conclusion that the bombings had been carried out by Muslim Jihadists. 

Do the names “Beslan” and “Chechnya” ring a bell?  In September of 2004, this happened: 

On the opening day of school in a small town of Beslan, in the Caucasus Mountains of Russia, Chechen separatists (many wearing explosive belts and underwear) seized a primary school.  Not only were there teachers and students there, but also parents escorting their kids to school for the traditional “Knowledge Day”.  Nearly 600 people were held captive in a gymnasium that had been wired for explosives.  Executions took place, including that of a newborn baby.  The prisoners were kept for four days, with no food or water.  No one is sure what happened on the fourth day, but there were explosions and a fire broke out on the gymnasium roof, causing it to collapse on the hostages below.  It is theorized that a terrorist on the roof had his foot on the “dead man’s switch” of a bomb; the Russian authorities shot him, resulting in the bomb’s detonation.  There are conflicting stories, however, and no one was sure if the inferno was caused by the Chechens or by the storming Russian military, or the combination of both.  In either case, the horrifying result was more than 380 people dead.

I could go into the history of Chechnya, but suffice it to say that in the case of Beslan, a local warlord was intent on Chechen independence from Russia, and recognition by the UN of its status.  Why anyone could think that taking innocent men, women and children hostage would accomplish these goals is beyond comprehension. Conflicts continue in the area to this day. 

The area is geographically on the fringes of the Middle East; the population is predominantly Muslim.  When you look at a map of the area, you’ll see that Turkey is just southwest across the isthmus from Chechnya.  Azerbaijan is south, and below that, Iran.  If you head east from Grozny, the capital of Chechnya, you cross Daghestan to the Caspian Sea, and across that, is Kazakhstan.

The Beslan siege happened in September of 2004.  In late October of that same year, we headed to Kazakhstan to complete the adoption of our daughter, Melanie Karina.  There seemed to be a pattern forming: we had traveled to Kazakhstan in 2001 to adopt our older daughter, Lisa, right after 9-11.  We seemed to constantly travel in the shadow of international unrest. 

After we had completed the adoption process, Melanie’s dad traveled back to the US to be with his mother and father, who had moved into our house to care for our other children while we were away.  His father had had a fall, fracturing a vertebra, and David was needed at home.

Susanna, Liz and Melanie in Almaty

I remained in Almaty for the final steps of bureaucracy required to take Melanie home.  My mother had flown there to be with me, to help with the practicalities of caring for a two-year-old.  In between consulate appointments and passport photos, we shopped and visited museums, trying to absorb as much of my daughters’ native country as we could.

We were driven to a local museum, which also housed a merchant who sold rugs; exquisite Kazakh, Persian and Indian rugs.  I wrote this entry on my blog at the time:

(Vitalik was the driver assigned to us.  He was a quiet, but imposing man: over six feet tall and nothing but muscle, with a military haircut.  He told us later that he had formerly been on President Nazerbaev’s security detail.  As a parting gift to us, he presented us with a military officers' hat that he had worn while in the service).

“Today we woke up to rain. For having been here nearly 34 days, we have had only a day or two of inclement weather. It's actually kind of pretty, with the yellow fall leaves everywhere, and the shiny slick streets. Okay, the traffic jams kind of take away from the picturesque flora, but hey, you can't have everything, can you? This morning we were up at the dawn of crack ... Melanie had an early wake-up call, so I think I have committed the first parental taboo: I took her into my bed to go back to sleep. Will she ever sleep in her crib again?! I was semi-comatose when she woke up (had already been roused once by the barking dogs) so I was on auto-pilot. I have no idea what time it was, but it was near to o'dark thirty, and she did go back to sleep. The phone woke me up at 7:30; Charlotte calling.

Susanna and Mel, Almaty

"Then it was up for the day!
 Dilnoza from the (adoption agency) office called, and we had to be there at 11:00 to fill out some paperwork for the US Embassy on Friday. Vitallik drove us there; and then once again, we went to the Ramstore (the local department/grocery store). It's becoming our second home. Vitallik apparently has some kind of discount card that he uses every time. I haven't figured out how much it is.  We then paid a visit to the apartment of "Silk Road Sasha" who has started a little business of Kazakh rugs, dream quilts and paintings on silk fabric.

"After that we set out to a rug dealer. Everyone who has ever spent time in Kazakhstan knows about the great deals you can get on Oriental rugs ... from Afghanistan, Turkmenistan, and many of the other "stans". We pulled up to the museum of art, where a very nice young guy named Azamat had a store. It was a small shop, and Azamat enthusiastically pulled out rug after rug. So many to choose from! Where do you begin? There were some made of wool, some of camel hair, some of llama. There were rich dark burgundies and greens, rusts and oranges. 



Fruit vendors, Almaty

"While we were looking, a motley group of scary-looking men walked in, bearded and wearing Muslim 'caps', felt shoes and long coats. They started asking questions of Azamat, not waiting for us to finish. I figured, well we're just women, to heck with us ... After looking at some rugs, they walked out. A moment later they walked back in. One of them asked Azamat, in Russian, where these women were from. (I can understand Russian a heckofalot better than I speak it!) Being the cheerful friendly sort I am, I answered 'Amerikanska' but mom said, 'Canada!'  Behind the Muslim man I could see Vitallik motioning to me not to talk, and making the shush signal.  Frightened, I didn't say any more ... and the men walked out yet again.  Vatillik, speaking  in a low and serious voice, said, 'Chechen Men!' Chechen men?  The ones that blow up schools with small children in them?  Yikes almighty. And I just told them we were Americans! Good grief, can't I shut up once in a while? Last I heard Americans were not on the Chechen's 'friendly' list. We could see them milling around outside the shop, and I was scared to leave.


"We finally made our selections and haggled with Azamat. While we were talking, the men started to come in the shop again, and Azamat gruffly told them to wait outside. I was scared to death about leaving the money with Azamat, wondering if the Chechens were going to rob him or something. There was a policewoman sitting at a table in the lobby of the museum, which made me feel a little better. I hoped they weren't lying in wait by our car ... but much to our relief, when we left to leave, they were nowhere in sight.
  [I nevertheless felt that their eyes were somehow on us.  Thankfully we were insignificant people, not worth bothering with.] 

"You read about these things on the news ... about the school in Beslan, the planes going down in Russia; as horrific as those incidents were, they may as well have been on Pluto to us suburban US housewives. Granted, these guys were probably just tourists in Kazakhstan to buy rugs, I don't mean to make hasty generalizations and jump to conclusions. However, when you're up close and personal with Chechens, and reality hits a couple of feet away from you, your blood tends to run just a little cold. And the fact that Vitallik and Azamat were on their guard about them makes me realize that there is an element of "prejudice" against Chechens in Kazakhstan. 

So now we're home, having a quiet afternoon on a rainy afternoon. Melanie is down for a nap, and I'm right behind her. I'm washing a few clothes, and otherwise practicing my domestic talents. I am very ready to be home; to sleep in my own bed, hug my other children, and introduce them to their new sister! This has been a long and difficult trip, but I wouldn't have traded it for anything.”

Many people today woke up to learn that the alleged Boston Marathon bombers were from Chechnya.  I’m sure this was unexpected; people probably haven't even thought of Chechnya in a decade.  So often in this day and age, it is easy to think of the usual suspects: Al Qaeda. Granted, historically there has been a connection between the Chechen rebels and Al Qaeda.  However, we need to try to control ourselves from jumping to any conclusions about associations. Evil is evil, regardless of any religious affiliation.  We need to keep our mental paintbrushes clean, and not try to paint anyone into a judgmental box.  

There are no words to describe the cold sick feeling in my heart.  For an optimist who believes in the inherent goodness of humanity, it is a crushing blow to see that evil keeps rearing its disgusting head.