A Mile Wide, An Inch Deep

“In writing this message, Jesse Christopherson displays just the kind of cronyism that has led to the developmental and racial segregation (gentrification) that he is actually promoting. … Perhaps it is his own inferiority or a sense of cronyism that has led him down the destructive and divisive tone that his endorsement of my opponent takes.” -- Charnette Robinson, candidate for Mount Rainier City Council 2015 writing to the Mount Rainier community listserv in response to this (pretty innocuous) endorsement of Tracy Loh, candidate for the same seat A previously-unforeseen downside of having my husband called a promoter of "racial segregation" on the community listserv is that it thoroughly enraged my very petite Indian American neighbor, a woman in her 60s who can nevertheless be absolutely terrifying (per her seasoned career as an educator) and who was extremely passionate this morning in Jesse’s defense.  Very, very early this morning. I shared her disgust and appreci

James is too sick to go to school, he informs me while jumping on the couch and singing a song. It's a fight to get him into his uniform, into his shoes, into his jacket, so by the time we leave I'm still in my pajamas -- a combination of too-short gym shorts, too-small tank top, old nursing bra, and house slippers. I tell myself it’s a short walk. There are three small African-American boys walking to school ahead of us, a couple of first-graders and a preschooler who’s at least a foot shorter. It’s a reminder that what we call “free range parenting” or “child neglect” -- depending on your viewpoint -- in the rich, white county next door is what we call “Tuesday” in ours. (For better and worse. But that’s a topic for another day.) They’re halfway down the block when they abruptly turn around and head back our way. “If we’re gonna be late,” the oldest says to the others, “we might as well just go home.” Well that is every bit as ridiculous as James being “too sick”

My youngest is an ardent practitioner of attachment childing. He wants me to "come be my friend"  beside him in the bed while he falls asleep, and I am usually happy to comply. As a working parent I cherish these nighttime moments and the sweet, informative conversations that bubble up out of children trying to procrastinate sleep. Mid-day queries to my oldest of "How was your day?" are typically answered with a curt "nuffink" as though he were a British hooligan trying to avoid interrogation with conversationally-incorrect answers. Bedtime discussions of the same question, however, yield all kinds of enthusiastic answers, usually now about whales and sharks much as it used to be about dinosaurs and trains, but also about his friends and what books he likes to read at school and what he does during "circle time." My youngest likes these conversations too but goes far beyond requiring that I simply exclaim interest in his stories. He demand