Mommy, why am I the way that I am?

Why am I a liberal?

I can go into a long diatribe about the inequalities of a capitalist economy and the importance of individual liberties, but these explanations don't explain why I'm a liberal.

1.) Is my liberalness a part of my biology? My dad is pretty left-wing, but we never discussed politics in-depth when I was growing up. A smattering here and a smattering there, but only on rare occasions.

Yet I see a correlation between the political leanings of parents and the political leanings of their children. My friend Amanda has two very liberal parents. Her mom and dad are card-carrying members of the Democratic Party and are proud to proclaim it. Unsurprisingly, Amanda is a Dem too. Conversely when I lived in Utah, I met a lot of people who were Republican because their parents were Republican.

But there are anomalies too. My friend Allison is one of the most liberal friends that I have. She joined the Peace Corps after college and taught health education to Armenian women. Her parents, on the other hand, are among the few remaining Marylanders who still support Bush. Why did Allison become a liberal if she grew up in a conservative household?

2.) Is my liberalness a product of my geography? I was born and raised in Maryland, a bastion of the Democratic Party. Presidential hopefuls don't bother coming here because they know our electoral votes will go to the Democratic candidate---even if the candidate is a 90 year-old man named Poncho.

Maybe my home state's liberal tendencies seeped into my blood.

But then again, I spent some of my formative years (age 17-22) in Utah, which is probably the most conservative state in the union. Why didn't my liberalism fade when I lived in the beehive state?

3.) Is my liberalness a product of my youth? I've heard many times that the younger generation is prone to liberalism but as they grow older they turn to conservatism.

But I encountered numerous young Republicans when I was at BYU. I mean, my entire campus is populated by Reaganites. Why haven't my fellow Cougars been infected by the liberalism bug? We're young after all! We should trump such ideologies.

* * * * *

I think my liberalism stems from something inside of me. Just as some people are born with a tendency for art or a tendency for science, I was born with a tendency to lean to the left. I don't know why this happened. I don't know why my innate self has such an appetite for liberalism.

If I was born a liberal, then there must be people who are born conservatives. But then again, there are some people who switch sides or bounce from one side to the other.

I'm talking in circles. My eyes have gone cross-eyed.

Finally...

When I was in high school, I was constantly bombarded with wonderful literature in my English classes: To Kill a Mockingbird as a freshman, The Martian Chronicles as a sophomore, The Great Gatsby as a junior, Tess of the D'Urberville's and One Hundred Years of Solitude as a senior. It seemed like in every direction I turned, I was faced with another stunning work of fiction.

The tradition continued in college where I read The Lovely Bones, Possession (work of art), and Cat's Cradle. As a history major, I didn't get to read as much fiction as I would have liked, but it always remained a peaceful outlet for me when my history texts became too taxing.

Since I graduated from college a year ago however, my well of good fiction has seemed to run dry. I don't know if it's me or if it's the books, but I can't seem to find any fiction that just pulls me in and shakes me. I've read a few novels that I really admire, like Lolita and The Old Man and the Sea, but I have yet to recreate that euphoric feeling I got when I finished Mockingbird and Gatsby. This was the kind of feeling that made me want to run through the streets and pass out copies of these books to perfect strangers. It's the kind of feeling that made me want to shake their shoulders and yell: "You've got to read this!"

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that there is a dearth of good fiction in the world---because there is plenty. I'm only saying that it's been a really long time since I've read a novel that has held me from cover to cover and has left me feeling breathless. I need to read a book that makes me feel, that makes me think, and that is written like a masterful tapestry.

Luckily, the rains have come again and the drought has ceased!

How?

The Things They Carried. Written by Tim O'Brien.

Call the Fashion Police!

I saw a man on the Metro yesterday wearing powder blue crocs. A grown man in a nicely pressed polo shirt and khaki shorts wearing nasty and ugly crocs.

Crocs are not proper footwear for the office nor are they proper footwear for the home. The only people who are allowed to wear crocs are young children who are skipping along at the beach. Anyone who is not a young child running in the sand is committing a dire fashion no-no.

Here is a rule of thumb: if your shoes resemble a block of swiss cheese, then throw them away. They are not trendy and they are not cool. They are ugly.

The world would be a better place if it were not for plastic shoes.

Can you still be proud of me, Betty Friedan?

(I apologize for the long delay in writing. Hopefully, this entry can explain why my blog has been so paltry for the past few weeks.)

A few months ago my roommate Charlee said to me: "I'm so glad I live with such a liberal feminist."

I was a bit baffled. Me? A liberal feminist? Sure, I am a champion of women's rights and education. (I am a woman, after all.) And sure, I am an avid supporter of women's equality. (Shouldn't we all be?) But I wasn't some raving feminist lunatic who believed all men should be quarantined and shipped out to Neptune. I wasn't that kind of a feminist.

In the end, I took Charlee's statement as a compliment. I am a feminist. I love being a woman and I abhor the unequal treatment of my sex. I believe women should be pushed to go to college, to attend graduate school, and to pursue a career. I believe a woman is just as capable as a man to become a successful surgeon or to lead a Fortune 500 company. And yes, I wholeheartedly support Hillary Clinton's bid for the White House. I'm a feminist and I'm proud of it!

As a member of a conservative (and some would say patriarchal) church, I have reveled in my feminist streak. I cheer for Mormon women who are able to balance a career and motherhood. I do a jig for female BYU students who apply to graduate school. I am a card-carrying member of the Relief Society and I think more of its members should speak during General Conference. Perhaps some would label me as a black sheep, but I embrace my feminism and my Mormonism.

For the past few years, I have tried to prove to the world that I can be a feminist and a Mormon. I wanted to show people that my future did not revolve around a kitchen and a minivan. Rather, my dreams included getting a PhD and teaching at a liberal-arts college. In my free time, I would travel the world and write best-selling novels. And so, to kick off my celebration of feminism, I planned to move to Europe for a year and get my MA from the London School of Economics.

And then I met a boy. Classic story. We started dating and the question swirled in my mind, "What if I deferred for a year?" At first, I panicked. Deferment wasn't an option. I had planned on grad school in England for a year and a half. I had already signed up for classes and paid my deposit for a flat. This would be a great opportunity for me---how could I give it up for a boy?

I also became concerned about what other people would think: my best friends from high school, my PhD-toting co-workers, my relatives, my parents. They would all look down on me for sure.

I fretted for a week, bouncing back and forth between going to London and staying home. Justin refrained from swaying my opinion either way. "This is your decision," he told me, "You have to make it for yourself and not for anyone else."

I took his advice to heart. What did I really want? Both choices were good ones, but which one did I want more? In the end, I chose to defer. I knew if I went to London, I would always look back and wonder "What if?" I didn't want such a regret. With this idea in mind, the decision came easily.

Of course, I still have bumps in the road---like finding a new job---but I am perfectly content with my deferment. Granted, I will miss eating Hobnobs (wonderful British cookies) and I will miss out on the chance to see my friend Lindsey and her new baby, but I know I've made the right decision for myself.

Slowly, I have realized that my choice to defer graduate school is an exercise of feminism in its own right. I was not pressured by my boyfriend or my parents to make this choice. Quite the opposite. I was the only person who made this decision and I am the only person who controls the outcome of my life. Ironically, my choice to defer has helped me to realize that I don't have to travel across the world to prove my feminism to others. I could do it right here at home.

I am not deferring grad school for a boy. I am doing it for me.

***If you are wondering, I am not engaged. Just to be clear. :o)

LB 4Ever

Shame of all shames: I am addicted to Laguna Beach.

I tried to resist. I really did. But I got sucked in and now I can't wait for another episode to air.

Why do I love you, LB? I don't miss being in high school. I didn't even like high school all that much. I mean, it was OK, but I was really ready to graduate when the time came.

And it's not like the LB cast is full of lovable and heart-warming characters. Rather, it's filled with mean girls and stupid boys who fret about clothes, cars, and hooking up.

My sister, who is 14 and thus in the age demographic for the show, even thinks the show is dumb.

"This season is going to be stupid," Kristy says.

"But we're going to watch it, right?" I ask.

"Yep."

So why do I love Laguna Beach? I don't know. I'm just another victim of MTV culture.

Random Musings at Work

One of my co-workers just gave me her lunch of kung-pao chicken. Yummy. She discovered while she was warming it up that it has peanuts in it---and she can't eat peanuts because she's breast-feeding. I wonder why you can't eat peanuts when you breast feed? Maybe her baby is allergic. Maybe peanuts make breast milk taste bad. If I knew any babies, I would ask them.

I'm currently editing my third oral history this week. Thus far, I have edited over 300 pages of oral histories. I only have about 100 more pages to go! After this, I will re-type an edited oral history. And after that, I am sure I will tackle something that is related to oral histories. Ah. My life is grand. Haha.

In the Washington Post and in the NY Times last week, there were numerous stories about Pluto and whether or not it should be a planet. An international council of astronomers will vote on Pluto's planet-ness next week. My boss, who is an astronomer, is currently in Prague at this conference and will cast a vote. I think every human being should vote on this topic because, after all, it is our solar system too!

I've decided to write a novel. I've always wanted to write a book---it's been a lifelong goal since I was a kid. I'm pretty good at starting novels, but awful at finishing them. I have maybe three in the works, but they're all in the beginning stages. So, I'm going to try to force myself to write a lot in the next few months. Wish me luck.

Well, after eating all of that kung-pao chicken, I am quite thirsty. I'll be back later.

A Few Reasons Why I Haven't Posted for Awhile

I apologize for the long delay in writing. It's not that I don't want to update my blog, but certain events have prevented me from posting in the past few days.

1.) Illness --- I'm sick. Right now, I just have a bit of a head cold and a cough. But on Sunday, I felt like I had malaria or something. I was cold, then really hot, then cold, then really hot. My little sister was gracious enough to plug in a fan by my head. Thank you, Kristy. I really did try to mumble a thanks to you, but I was kind of loopy on Nyquil. The next time you're sick, I will be nice to you.

2.) Busy-ness --- That's right. I'm actually busy at work! My boss gave me over 350 pages of oral histories to edit. I'm kind of grateful for this assignment. I've been bored for the past few weeks so this is a welcome change of pace. Unfortunately, listening and editing oral histories definitely cuts down on my blogging time. Alas!

3.) Laziness --- I really could write a few more blog entries a week, but sometimes I find the task daunting. I always spend way too much time on my blogs so the entire endeavor is kind of time-consuming. Egads! I am lazy. I apologize.

4.) Thinking-ness --- There has been a lot on my mind lately. Rather than write about it, I just ruminate over it in my mind. Subsequently, my brain is a disheveled mess. I'm in the process of cleaning it out.

I promise to post a real entry soon! I already have two in the drafting process...we'll see if they can make the final cut.

To Choose or Not to Choose

I applied to eight colleges during my senior year of high school. Over the course of four months I mailed out eight transcripts, sixteen letters of recommendation, and a plethora of college essays to various corners of the country. By March, I headed to my mailbox every day after school to check for any responses.

I got into five colleges, one of which was BYU. I was rejected from the rest: UCLA, Rice, and Duke. Ironically, these were the three schools that I would have chosen to attend before BYU. In fact, I took it as a sign from heaven when I received my last rejection letter from Duke University. (This sort of reasoning eased the pain of my wounded ego...)

But I've never regretted my decision to attend BYU. Deep inside my seventeen year-old heart I knew that I wanted to go to there. I denied it to my parents and especially to my friends, but I knew BYU was the right place for me. If I had to do it all over again, I would choose Brigham Young in a heartbeat.

Yet I often wonder what my life would have been like if I had chosen a different school. Or if I had gotten into UCLA, Rice, or Duke. How would I be different? Would my ambitions still be the same? Where would I be right now?

I entertained this thought this past weekend when I visited Duke University with my boyfriend. Justin graduated from Duke in 2005 and I thought it would be fun if he showed me around campus. We drove around East Campus where the freshmen live. We walked in the Gothic library where I marveled at the stone steps and the arched doorways. (It reminded me of England.) We sat in the gardens where I smelled the pink and white roses.

Duke University has a gorgeous campus full of green trees and grassy lawns and gray stone buildings. It's much more quiet than BYU; and in many ways, it fits me better than my alma mater ever will. But I know I followed my heart when I chose BYU and I will never regret that decision. I can admire the architecture and the landscape of Duke, but I will never have ask to myself "What if I went here?" I'm sure I would have had a lot of good experiences at Duke or at UCLA, but for some reason I belonged at BYU.

Six years ago, I chose the route that led me to the greatest amount of happiness. And now, I'm faced with another big decision. I feel like I've been plopped down into the Robert Frost poem where two roads diverged in a yellow wood. Currently, I'm standing at the fork in the road and wondering about which passage I should take:

One path is well-groomed, lined with birch trees and flooded with sunlight. The other road is a bit more rugged and a tad messier. I cannot see very far down this path, but I feel something great could await me at the end.

I cannot stand at the crossroads forever. I need to take my first step, but which path do I take? I can only hope that I will choose the journey that will lead me to the greatest amount of happiness. I can only hope that when I reach the end of this road, I will never look back and wonder: "But what if?"

The Death of the Bookworm?

A couple of weeks ago I flew from Salt Lake City to Washington, DC and I found myself sitting next to two kids from a small town in Utah. Ten year-old James occupied the seat by the window while his sister Andrea, age 8, sat next to me in the middle. The duo was flying to visit their father and Andrea proudly stated that they had flown to see their dad---all by themselves already---last Christmas.

I made small-talk with Andrea and James for awhile, asking them about airplanes (they wanted to see the cockpit) and about their family (their stepdad went on a business trip to Japan not too long ago). Inevitably the conversation drifted to school and I asked Andrea about the books she had to read for class.

"Oh, I don't like to read," Andrea said matter-of-factly. "I like cartoons."

"Don't like to read?" I was a little surprised. "Not even Harry Potter?"

"Nope."

"The Harry Potter series is really good. I think you'd like them."

"Those books don't have any pictures in them."

I nodded. She was right after all, but I wanted to spark some sort of literary interest in this little girl. How can a childhood be complete without a few good books?

"You know," I said, "when I was in the fifth grade I read a fantastic book called Maniac Magee. Have you heard of it?"

Andrea shook her head.

"Well, it's about a boy named Maniac Magee who runs away from home. He lives in a zoo and then he unties this enormous knot that nobody in town could untie."

Andrea stared at me blankly.

I scrambled for more enticements. "And he can run on the railroad tracks! Not besides them or close to them but on the top edge of the tracks."

Andrea's face was still. "I like SpongeBob."

The rest of the flight was uneventful. Andrea and James played solitaire on my laptop and I taught them how to play minesweeper. When the plane landed and the passengers deboarded, I waved goodbye to the two and wished them well. By now they're probably on their way back home to Utah and have long forgotten about me, but for some reason I can't seem to forget the conversation I had with Andrea. Part of me wonders if I'm crazy: why should I care if a little girl from Utah doesn't like to read? But the truth is that I care very much. I wanted to give Andrea copies of Matilda and Shiloh and Maniac Magee and usher her into the magical realm of books.

When I was in elementary school my nose was often stuck in a book---not because I was at the top of the class or because I was particularly smart---I just liked the feeling of losing myself in a story. I loved falling into a book and running around its pages, chasing the plot and main characters to the finish line. My love of reading probably stems from my father who often took me and my little brother to the bookstore. On our excursions, my dad would nestle himself in a chair and read a magazine while my brother and I wandered through the long aisles. On one trip to the store I picked up E.L. Konigsburg's From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler and immediately sprang for my father.

"Oh, can I get it?" I asked him breathlessly. "It's about a brother and a sister who live in a museum. Oh please can I have it?"

My dad smiled, pulled out his wallet, and I went home that day as the proud owner of a new book. I still own this copy of From the Mixed-Up Files and I even read it last year for nostalgia's sake. Even as a 24 year-old married woman, I felt a surge of excitement when Claudia and Jamie see the Angel statue for the first time.

I don't think I'll ever get tired of kid's books. Whenever I go into a bookstore I often drift into the children's section. I love how the walls are painted a happy yellow and how the carpet bursts with energetic patterns. And there's nothing cuter than a little rugrat scurrying on the floor, pulling a dog-eared picture book behind him. I find so much comfort in surrounding myself with the beloved books of my past: Ramona Quimby and Harriet the Spy, the Sweet Valley High and Babysitter's Club series, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of Nimh and The Giver.

These books deal with the same issues as adult ones---love and hate, happiness and sadness, figuring out life and messing things up. The only difference is that the kid's books are infused with a wonder and a hope that I rarely find in adult fiction. These books seem to say: "Sure, life is hard, but we just have to look on the bright side of things. Look at that flower over there! Look up at the sky. Aren't we so lucky?"



I don't know what will happen to Andrea or her brother James. I don't know if they'll ever fall in love with reading as I hope they will. But I do hope that one day they will have one of those life-changing teachers. And this teacher will gather her students around her desk and pull out a well-used copy of Maniac Magee (or any other childhood favorte).

"We're going to read a story now," the teacher will say. "It's a fantastic story and I know all of you will love it."

"But I don't like to read," someone will cry.

"You will," the teacher says. "Just wait and see."