3.30.2013

riot for life!


Here's the news: I want to give birth at home with a midwife. After months of not even feeling sure how I felt about medicated v. unmedicated child birth, I want to take the most granola/hippie/new age option that anyone in my family has ever taken. It's a new development. I just received a letter in the mail from my insurance company stating that my future care at Mt. Sinai Hospital is all approved and ready to go. Pushed, by Jennifer Block is the culprit. It's not a book about how to give birth and the author has never had a child. It's basically just an investigative report about how in the US, women's desires and preferences in birthing circumstances are routinely undermined for a series of complex bureaucratic, industrialized reasons. Very seriously, I'm convinced that the reproductive rights of women should be focused on childbirth options much more than abortion. Did you guys know that midwifery is prohibited in 10 states and unrecognized in many others? I didn't.

Here's just one lovely passage from the book:

"[Dr. De Angelis], a solo practitioner, to maintain his standard of living in suburban Jew Jersey...and pay out an annual $90,000 in malpractice insurance, [has] had to double his case load. Which means halving the time he spends with patients in an office visit. And he's irate about it. "You tell me what other profession has to pay $300 just to go to work every day! The bottom, line, the bottom line is the care for the patients. And as a consumer...[she] gets 5 minutes in the office. And when the consumer is in labor? It's a vicious cycle. I can't sit with that patient. I have to go back to the office... This is not a way to practice medicine...Why do women put up with this? I have no idea. You know, back in the 80's when I was in residency, there was a feminist movement. The women back then wouldn't have tolerated this."

Let's start a revolution guys. Let's take to the streets.

I've still got to find a midwife. Wish me luck.






3.24.2013

natural woman.


In a dream three weeks ago, I was urgent to get from California from Utah. I didn't know why I had to go, but I did, and I had to get there fast. It was a big, life/death/family situation and I was panicked because I didn't have any money to buy a plane ticket, (I remember checking my account balance online and it literally said "$0") but driving was going to take too long and of course I don't own a car anyway. Luckily, my parents had just bought a crop-duster style biplane from a garage sale loaded with gasoline! (Problem solved, right?)

 There was only one seat in the plane, so all I could do was get advice about how to fly it from people who'd done it before. My mom kept saying "Laura, it comes more natural than you think. You'll know what to do." For a minute, I felt pretty excited. I was like,"Wow. I'm gonna see this whole western stretch of the country from a bird's eye view. That's gonna be amazing." And then those feelings would oscillate with other things like, "Wait. Up is down and down is up? Like on a video game? What about air traffic?"

 "Yeah hun. That's it. You've got it. And don't worry about traffic, it's not busy that low in the sky." "But how do I take off? How do I land? Couldn't I die?"

Yup. Childbirth has been freakin' me out lately. Every female in my family who's ever given birth told me independently and only when asked that they'd all done it medication-free (or at least made desperate attempts to). I knew the women in my family were really hearty and cool, but I felt just a tiny surprised that they were all independently united in this without banding together to put pressure on me to follow suit. So I've been talking and reading and watching birth videos online(!!!) and everyone, I AM SOLD. Seriously. If I can get away with it, I might wanna catch the kid myself. Although I have not yet run a marathon, one time I headed out on a Saturday and ran 20 miles just myself. I can give birth like any old farm cow, right? That's what I'm tellin' myself for now.

In other news, please read the book, "Black Swan Green" by my new favorite author, David Mitchell. Don't worry, the title is not representative of its genius. I miss it all of the time since I finished it last week because it's the best subway commuting companion I've ever had.

3.04.2013

21 weeks.



My mother is the most fantastic belcher in the world. She can really rip one if she thinks she's alone. I used to think it was at best, unlady-like, and at the very least, authentic, but now I get it because I'm pregnant. Those who haven't and never will house a human parasite won't get it, but burping (especially in the first trimester) saves you from throwing up. It's just mandatory. You feel sick until you do it right. I used to walk around in the crowded streets during my lunch break, trying to burp with all my might, hoping all the honking successfully sheltered passers-by from possible disgust.

Seriously though, get this: MY MOM WAS PREGNANT FOR ALMOST SEVEN YEARS OF HER LIFE. How can you blame her for burping? How can you blame anyone for anything at all who, without medication successfully squeezed seven solid bodies out of her uterus and into the sterile hospital air? And that's only the birth part, which is probably the easiest. My appreciation has certainly expanded as I gauge the details and complications of her achievement, divided by seven (.1428571). I say all of our moms get a free pass because this is all way harder than they made it seem.

Truth is, it makes me feel a pregnancy wimp.

I now require:

8-10 hrs. of sleep every night and naps every Saturday/Sunday

Endless supplies of yogurt, milk, mandarin oranges, and cereal
(don't make me eat or cook anything else, please.)

11 minutes to run just one mile

Hundreds of yards of fabric for my nesting plans that ever so slowly come to actual fruition

Daily chocolate

At least one whining session per day


Thank my lucky stars for Wayne, who takes responsibility for his part in this by facilitating all of my pregnancy needs in the midst of his horrific qualifying exam prep (and for putting up with the unlady-like burping).

12.21.2012

back with a vengeance.

Life changed enough that the path to repurposing my blog is now clear: Marriage to the atheist of my high school dreams provides endless supplies of new content if I can just spend some of my free time typing things out instead of cuddling him over episodes of Twin Peaks. Yes. Life is wonderful excepting for the stomach flu I contracted last night. But even then, I've successfully managed to keep down the following items: 1 glass of EmergenC, a bowl of cereal, 1 cup of Melograno special Italian tea, and an entire glass of water. I'll be better just in time to do some last minute Christmas shopping tomorrow, hop on a plane to Salt Lake the following day, lounge with the fam at a ski resort for Christmas, and make it to my own retrospective wedding reception a few days before New Year's. I'm not sure it gets much better than this.

3.25.2012

moving forward.


Ok friends and family,

It's official: This blog is through. All of my writing efforts will now be poured into a graphic novel style memoir that I'm taking way seriously. We'll see how it goes; I'm excited.

The good news is that I have a new blog as equally egocentric and revealing as this one and possibly even more immature: I will be joining thousands of high school students across the world by posting a picture of myself daily. You will find my visual diary here: socialexplosion.tmblr.com.
I hope to expose weather conditions, love affairs, scenery, events, haircuts, and weight variations throughout the years.

It's been fun guys. Thanks to everyone who's ever bothered reading.

1.04.2012

just a boring blog entry.


I cut my hair again. Big fat surprise.

People who've known me for years didn't even notice. My fresher Brooklynite friends were so excited to see my real self that they stopped singing momentarily to blurt their approval during branch choir practice when I walked in early for church the following day. It's great to have such overwhelming approval about peeling a layer back.

I don't know what to say. New York is a weird place. Brooklyn is a weird place. Everything in my apartment has been carried in by my arms. Except the stuff my roommate carried in. And the couch. I paid a long-haired smoker with an old van like the one my mom used to drive us around in $60 to move my lovely craig'slist purchase over the threshold and into my tiny abode. He was nice.

This hands-on lifestyle and obligation to forge my own sanctuary forces me to grow up. It juices out my maternal instincts. I've started cooking again. It's become my biggest hobby. I bake only for birthdays and work/church functions. Otherwise, I'm freezing soup, packing home-made granola bars, and pecking at the spinach salad I stuff into the same ikea tupperware I bring to work for lunch everyday. Oh, and oats. I'm obsessed with eating them raw and with jam and cinnamon and milk and honey and yogurt. I don't know why.

Running, on the other hand, makes me feel like a gangster. I own this place. Ask anyone who witnesses white puffs escape my mouth at 7 o'clock every morning. The numbers are few. I've pounded the gray gum sidewalk spots in every direction. I've battled the hills in jewish, chinese, and russian neighborhoods. The cold can't keep me in.

6.16.2011

hip-hop?


A recent paper for my English class:

There is no question about the ubiquitous infiltration of hip-hop in American culture. We've all felt it bang at our car windows during stoplights, seen boxer shorts protruding from low-hanging, oversized jeans, watched graffiti tags creep onto local train cars and bridges, and witnessed grade school girls imitate sexy, Beyonce-style dance moves.

However, despite its undeniable popularity, many latter-day saints seek to shut it out. It is no secret that many popular hip-hop genres are steeped in the glorification of sex, violence, drugs, and misogyny. Two of hip-hop's legendary stars, Tupac and Biggie, were both gunned down in the 1990's. It is rare to find a top-selling hip-hop album devoid of words like “ho” or unaccompanied by a parental advisory sticker for the use of far cruder language. The New York Times op-ed writer, Brent Staples wrote in response to Lil’ Kim’s plans to release an album while serving prison time: “When it comes to rap music, what's poisonous for the culture - and dangerous for minority youth - tends to be great for album sales (par.15)”.

Despite the fact that hip-hop culture seems diametrically opposed to LDS values, why are so many of our faithful youth drawn to it? While some are surely seduced by its rugged sense of invincible carnality, peeling back a layer to examine its origins reveals something of greater interest.

Hip-hop was born in the Bronx in the shadows of the 1970's economic bust. Automobile manufacturing and steel mill jobs moved overseas for cheaper foreign labor; social services were cut with waning budgets. Public spaces in black communities became governed by lethal drug economies. It was in the face of this that hip-hop emerged, piece-by-piece, from the economical social event known as the block party. DJs competed in percussion break battles, cleverly employing the only instrument they had easy access to: existing vinyl records. Dancers judged the competitions, and MCs eventually started rhyming to the beats. In many cases, hip-hop became an alternative to gang violence as battle rapping substituted guns and knives. But above all, the greatest victory of hip-hop ingenuity lies in the fact that it provided a voice for a destitute and marginalized population (Dyson 180-182).

“When hip hop began in the South Bronx, it was the voice of the voiceless. Hip Hop artists spoke to the despair and pain of urban youth and the poor who were often without a voice...It was legendary hip hop pioneer Chuck D of Public Enemy who famously called hip hop the 'CNN of the ghetto' (Muhammad par. 1).”

As Mormons, we know that almost anything can be uttered over a pulpit. Alongside the dark and hedonistic, many hip-hop artists' work brims with positive messages from sources of great authenticity and sincerity, often offering advice about how to overcome difficult circumstances. They pay homage to their hometown, friends, family, and ancestors, often boasting of their self-determination, ingenuity, and luck in surviving along the way.

Grandmaster Flash's “White Lines (Don't Do it)” released in 1983, warned its underprivileged Bronx audience of the dangers of cocaine, addiction, and drug smuggling. The Gift of Gab cautions against average contemporary idleness in his 2001 album, Blazing Arrow: “No more of that sittin' in a slump/ No more of that coulda-woulda-shoulda junk/No more of that waiting for the inspiration, innovation or a green light--now begin/No more of that lettin' all your time pass/No more petty illusions of the mindless/It's time to expand, power from within, you're takin' over this dominion/Green light, now begin”

While hip-hop is often used to promote filth, can it also be utilized to instill personal integrity?

It is an unfortunate phenomenon that sensationalism sells. It is even more unfortunate that the white record executives who eventually marketed hip-hop to the American public knew that fact, pushing the most lewd and sexually charged hip-hop genre--gangsta rap--to a pop stature that has shadowed socially conscious hip-hop from the public view. The scholar Michael Eric Dyson wrote, “Much of gangsta rap makes voyeuristic whites and naïve blacks think they're getting a slice of authentic ghetto life when in reality they're being served a colorful exaggeration...[and] many critics argue that since gansta rap is often the only means by which many white Americans come into contact with black life, its pornographic representations and brutal stereotypes of black culture are especially harmful (180-181).”

Although fully loaded with a unique history and culture of its own, hip-hop is a medium for expressing thoughts and emotions. Our familiarity with mediums like paint, books, rock n' roll, country music, and the internet all demonstrate that mediums can become vehicles for the good or bad, depending on what the author intends.

Roger Ebert wrote: “Rap has a bad reputation in white circles, where many people believe it consists of obscene and violent anti-white and anti-female guttural. Some of it does. Most does not. Most white listeners don't care; they hear black voices in a litany of discontent, and tune out (par. 8).”

Of course hip-hop music doesn't appeal to everyone. We certainly don't need to login to iTunes and hurriedly purchase the latest socially conscious hip-hop album to display our support. But as latter-day saints, we view ourselves as culturally open and diverse. We teach our missionaries to speak numerous foreign languages in an attempt to provide the greatest amount of respect and fluidity within numerous cultures covering the earth. We seek to reach out in love to people of all backgrounds whether inside or outside of our faith for the cause of a greater good. As much as our efforts for diversity extend overseas, a quick dismissal of hip-hop culture could cause us to overlook our immediate neighbors. It's a lose-lose situation. Like most marginalized groups—early American colonizers, concentration camp survivors, and our very own pioneers—hip-hop's survivors of urban devastation reveal inspiring stories of principled persistence and hope.

I think we can all agree with Mos Def in his song, “Sunshine”: “[I don't care] what type of brand you are/I'm concerned what type of man you are/What your principles and standards are.”