Month: February 2017

The Truth Is Out There

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Staying informed these days feels like a full-time job. After one month of Trump, I was convinced it had been 100 days. Thank God for journalists and truth-seekers. When you hear someone say, “How do you know what’s real or not these days?” give them some tips. If you read something that appears false, try to find the same story elsewhere. Search for sources. If Trump gives you a list of media companies, tweeting that they are the enemy of the American people, try getting your news from them or all of them. He only dislikes them because they factcheck him. The truth is out there. It’s not hard to find, at least not now while we still have a free, independent press.

If you aren’t subscribed to some newspaper or legitimate online news source right now, I ask, what in the hell are you thinking?

As he so often does, Andrew Sullivan is providing an interesting take in his weekly posts at NY Mag’s Daily Intelligencer. Here’s something from nearly two weeks ago. It feels like two months ago.

Their [Putin and Trump] domestic politics also have disturbing parallels. Trump would love nothing more, it seems to me, than to be an American Putin, treating the country as he long treated his own corporate fiefdom. He once explained he admired the autocrat because Putin has “great control over his country.” Like Putin, Trump would love to control the media. Like Putin, he has developed a leadership cult, devoted to the masses. Like Putin, he believes in a government that has “killers.” Like Putin, he threatens his geographic neighbors. Like Putin, he has cultivated an alliance of convenience with reactionary religious conservatives, to shore up his power. Like Putin, he believes there’s no moral difference between American democracy and Russia’s. Like Putin, he is enriching himself by public office. And, like Putin, he has targeted a minority as a scapegoat — Putin targeted the gays to gin up support while Trump targets the Muslims and Mexicans. And as Putin has RT as his conduit, so Trump has the Murdoch empire.

Published

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What seems like two years ago, I submitted a short essay to the Denver Post. To my delight, I heard back from them. They wrote that my essay was being considered for online publication as a guest commentary. A couple months passed and I hadn’t heard anything from them so I emailed the Post again. They wrote back, saying that my essay was still in the queue and I would be notified if it was published. I maintained my optimism for about one more month and then, like all writers often do, I gave up all hope. I started wearing Crocs, drinking Folgers, and bought tighty whities in bulk at Costco.

Skip ahead to 2017 and I am half-heartedly looking for writing gigs when I do a quick self Google. I was curious if any of my writing was available on the web still. One of the top results was a Denver Post page titled, “Guest Commentary: Tiny hands change everything.” I clicked on the link. I confirmed that it was my work and noted the date. July 17, 2015. UPDATED April 24, 2016.

The photo with the commentary is of an adult hand, one finger of which is grasped by a tiny baby. This is not a photo of hands I know. I could have provided a better photo if they had told me I was going to be published.

Like this one…

IMG_2923

And then I read the words. Thoughtful, touching, but flawed. Like nearly everything I write, I only thought it was decent or, at best, good, at the time I wrote it. Now, almost two years later, it strikes me as insufficient, short, even a little cheesy. I would have been happier to link to it back in July of 2015. Linking to it now is anticlimactic. It feels like I am sharing a draft with you. Nonetheless, for it to appear on the Denver Post‘s website and for me to not share that on this blog does not feel right. Here is the article.

Have a great weekend.

 

At 3

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I look at London and whisper, “You weren’t supposed to be three yet.” It is just like last year when I whispered to her, “You weren’t supposed to be two yet.” And the year before that when at 1 she was 9 months old to me.

We were robbed. At least that’s how it felt for a long time after London arrived. Robbed of that anticipation. Robbed of what this pregnancy thing was supposed to be like, especially for Kate. I have written about it before.

But as time has passed, healing has come. More and more I think of London’s premature birth at 26 weeks not as robbery, but as getting to receive the greatest gift I will ever receive three months early.

Though her birth and the following three and a half months in the hospital have left Kate and I with scars and, at times, profound distress, the experience is slowly shaping into a larger blessing as we watch London meet and exceed our expectations and the expectations of every healthcare professional she has seen over these three years.

London is less and less defined by the story of her birth, but for her mom and I, as we move further and further from that night, we are made more aware of how that night has shaped us into the parents, friends, and professionals we are today. We are aware that the passage of time will not completely fade that night in the minds of others, but throws it into sharp relief for us.