I wish I’d had a notebook (or a better memory) the day I heard a news story on women and fear.  Googling failed to provide me the source or the statistics cited, but the article reported that the majority of women surveyed reported they felt fear daily–compared with a much lower percentage of men who regularly experienced fear.

I wondered what women were so afraid of.  Are we talking fear of having lipstick on our teeth, or fear of being found in a dumpster?  Was this specific fear of things like identity theft or generalized fear of economic uncertainty.   Was it the fear that something bad would happen or fear that we were unprepared to deal with bad things?

Women generally feel more vulnerable in men, in part because we are usually not as big or strong as them, but also because we have been inculcated to believe we are defenseless against men and vulnerable without them. We expect men to protect us from the dark, being alone, strangers and things like bugs or spiders.  Ironically, men are statistically more likely to be the victims of violent crime, yet women’s fear of violent crime is disproportionately greater than men’s.

The information age has had the effect of magnifying risks, making them seem larger than they are. The publicity given to breast cancer has caused women to be more afraid of dying of breast cancer, than heart disease, which poses a greater risk. With each week bringing news of more food safety risks, like recalls, toxins, pesticides, carcinogenic compounds, or the unknown effects of genetically modified foods, it’s a wonder women still struggle with weight–which incidentally is one of the things women fear.

Sensationalist journalism, media hype, internet urban legends and legitimate news provide us a steady source of new worries.  But even without the modern-day horror stories, many struggle with irrational fears.  Some fears may have a  reasonable foundation, like the kind of post-traumatic fear that can haunt a women who has suffered an assault or rape, many of our fears are not as reasonable.

We tend to fear the unfamiliar.  Car travel is more dangerous than air travel, but the mysterious physics of air travel cause more people fear to flying.  From unfamiliar bathrooms, to ethnic foods, what we imagine is is scarier than what we see. What we imagine causes us to fear familiar things like spiders, dogs, or mice–even those which are harmless.  Avoiding risks because of fear can be harmful, as it is when those who fear of dentists, doctors or needles, forego getting needed care.

Everyone experiences fear. Being afraid, doesn’t mean we are weak or gutless, it is a natural part of our survival instinct.  However, our response to fear determines how much power it has over us.  The well-known quote, “the only thing we have to fear is fear itself ” was followed by a lesser known line, “nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance.”  The feelings of anxiety, uncertainty often cause more discomfort than the things we fear.

Fear can be tremendously helpful, if we use it to prepare ourselves for legitimate threats.  Most of us don’t think our house will burn down, but  having smoke detectors, a fire extinguisher and insurance provides a sense of being prepared for such an occurrence.  However, for some fear becomes a comfortable way to buffer themselves from risks or facing the reality of life.

According to one source, top women’s fears include:

Unplanned pregnancy
Illness
Fear of losing a man
Fear of losing beauty and/or gaining weight
Fear of losing a child

We can do our best to prevent these things, but there are some things in life we are powerless to change.  If we allow fears like those listed above keep us from loving, being loved, getting married, having children, or if we allow worst-case scenarios to limit us, we are doomed to live small lives with limited satisfaction.

Some time ago, I had to do something I didn’t want to do.  The fear set my heart racing.  My throat was tight, my stomach nervous, but I knew it was something I had to do.  It would have been easier to back down, but I didn’t.  That single experience uncorked more strength than I though I possessed.  Like the Cowardly Lion after receiving his medal, I wasn’t more courageous, just more confident.  I think of that day as the day fear got small, because afterward it was easier to face  my other fears.

A sweet girlfriend had a similar experience after finding the courage to leave an unhappy marriage.   As she ended her marriage, she wanted to begin a better, bolder life.  She had always been afraid of the Ferris Wheel, but was tired of allowing small fears to affect her life. Riding a Ferris Wheel may not seem brave, but taking back control of life is. I was with her, when she finally had the courage to do it.  Afterward, she was exhilarated and empowered by having taken the first step to seeing the world from a new perspective, and ready for bigger challenges.

She knew it was silly to be afraid of a kiddie ride, and she knew that to have the life she desired would require her to be brave enough to confront the changes and challenges of living a new way.  She was tired of living timidly, as you may be if you know you are being held back by small things.  There are some fears we may not be able to eliminate without professional help, but if there are fears you think you are ready to conquer, here are some tips.

• Assess the real risk of what you fear.  Be realistic in asking if what you fear is likely or unlikely.  Ask yourself if the risk is greater than the cost of being held hostage by fear.
• Though you may not feel strong enough to face fears alone, trusted friends or family can serve as cheerleaders to encourage us or guide us through the baby steps needed to face our fears.
• Be prepared to experience discomfort. Discomfort is a natural & helpful response.  Remember the fight or flight response is our body’s way of preparing us to face threats.
• Don’t feel like you have conquer everything at once.  Take small steps before giant steps.  A fear of dogs is more likely to be conquered by getting exposure to poodles than pitbulls.
• Finally, remember that heroes and cowards both experience fear, but it is how we handle what we fear that determines whether we will be victorious over our fears, or victims of them.

Less than a century ago, women in The United States hadn’t yet been granted the right to vote.  Though it was allowed in some states, it wasn’t until 1920, when the constitution was amended, that women were guaranteed this right.  Without the ability to voice their viewpoints via the voting booth, perhaps our country would be different today.  I shudder to think of the improbable possibilities for laws [bad] men might have tried to pass.  Would there be a Barefoot & Pregnant mandate?  A Mall Prohibition Act?  Failure to Chill Beer ordinance? Tax deductions for men who wished to claim both their wife and mistress as dependents?

Fortunately, women have made amazing strides and this  country is one of the better places in the world to be female.  Despite this, women still struggle, because there are some things even progress can’t change.  It is possible to update our wardrobes, refurbish our furniture, restore old cars, or remodel old homes, but men are always AS-IS.

Which is why, while most of us like having a man in our lives, finding one that doesn’t make us crazy or worse, can be near impossible.  Lest people mistake this for a diatribe from a man-hater, I wish to assure readers that I am a BIG fan of men.  Women are almost always more and better company, but I still find the company of men irresistible.  I especially like them, because they are different than women, but the more manly they are, the stronger the urge to change them.  It’s like this:

I want a man who works hard enough to sweat, but I’d prefer not smell the sweat.
I want a man who knows how to use a gun if he needs to, but dislike men who need to remind others they know how to use a gun.
I want a man who can and will fight, but not a man who wants to fight.
I want a man who shows skill in the bedroom, but I’d be really turned on, if he were as eager to show off his kitchen skills.
I would like it if my man looked like one of those attractive gay models, but if I were to find out he was gay, I doubt I’d still find him attractive.

Men think women are hard to please, but it’s actually quite simple.  We want manly men, who are sensitive, soft, gentle, and sweet, like women.

Women like me, have succeeded in confusing men.  Are they supposed to be he-men or metrosexuals?  Are they supposed to open doors for us, or just leave us a key?  It’s all about balance, as we struggle to eliminate the confusion over who wears the pants and who wears the panties.

Blame feminism, because as women gained more equality in the workplace, they sought more at home.  Women were changing, and in the process they were inadvertently changing men.   This made me wonder if more powerful women, meant less powerful men.  Was the Great American male becoming an endangered species, teetering on extinction after having been emasculated by well-meaning feminists?  Had The Great American man become as frail as the California Coastal Sand Gnat, struggling to survive in the face of environmental change?

Women would love it if men were more like girlfriends, sharing their enthusiasm for things like cashmere and Italian shoes.  If we had our way, men would learn to enjoy long meandering conversations and realize the joy of shopping, but while there have always been women who wanted men who were as easily controlled as children, the majority of us still want a man with a nicely defined backbone.  There are men who enjoy shopping or grooming as much as women, but most men are simply not interested, because despite everything, they are still men.

Nevertheless, the metrosexual is often exhibited as evidence that men are becoming feminized.   I’m not buying it.  It’s just the latest incarnation of “The Sharp Dressed Man.” It’s not like men don’t care about their image, but image is different things to different men.  For some image is grooming, for others it may be a car, a fat paycheck or a perfectly manicured lawn.  The term metrosexual may be new, but his type is not.  A hundred years ago, a man who embraced fashion and a refined lifestyle, would have been called a dandy.

Some argue that feminism has diminished our respect or the strength of American men.  Many point to the examples of television fathers–like the difference between Ozzie Nelson and Ozzie Osbourne as evidence, that our view of men has been diminished.  The  media often portrays men as bumbling incompetents, relying on women to guide them, but this is nothing new.  Literature is full of hapless henpecked husbands.  Even during The Golden Age of Radio and early television men were often the brunt of jokes.  It makes for good comedy, and men are surprisingly good sports about jokes made at their expense.  Make fun of a woman, and you’ll likely regret it, but men are easy targets.

Why?
Because in the war between the sexes, there is no cease-fire.  Women will fight for every hill, to make sure that their wisdom, competence and superior taste in almost everything is acknowledged, but men will easily surrender or  declare victory, if they get respect, appreciation and regular demonstrations of affection–AKA sex.

Feminism changed sex and the economy of sex, because it enabled women to move between supply side and demand side.  Women now had demands and were controlling the supply through a kind of rationing and price-fixing.  As the supply began to change, men sought new suppliers, and there were always more suppliers.  Promiscuity became common and porn became mainstream.  Wives no longer held the monopoly on sex, and men were suddenly contenting themselves with the kind of cheap, easy, readily available women they’d previously disdained.  The one woman one man ideal was outmoded, as men began sharing their pulp princesses with countless other men, and women found  themselves competing with mens’ make-believe mistresses.

It simplified things for men, as they no longer needed to please a woman emotionally or sexually just to get a little, but it was hardly the brave new world.  Pleasure-seeking and erotica have always existed, and it isn’t as if internet porn destroyed the sexual utopia that existed before feminism.  Marriage took some hits,  and intimate sex between people who loved each other fell victim to friendly fire, making some wonder if sex within marriage or would soon be obsolete.  Doubtful, as long is there is one person alive who remembers that the solo, is nothing compared to the duet.

Men still need women, and women still need men.  Feminism changed our world, but it has yet to change men into women or women into men.  The war between the sexes continues, because some things never change, even in the face of progress.

The New Year’s celebration is one of my favorites.  Though my own celebration of New Year’s eve is minimal, I am very fond of this holiday which starts loudly in one year and winds down quietly in the next. It isn’t a religious or memorial holiday, yet it has a thoughtful profundity and an illogical optimism.  Like Fat Tuesday, it is a day when we absurdly indulge in things we hope to give up.   It is a  mile-post on life’s  journey, a point at which to assess how far we’ve come and speculate about what lies ahead.

Then first newspaper of the New Year is my favorite.  It usually features the best and worst of the previous year– including reminders of all the famous people who died.  It often features predictions for the coming year and an abundance of ads for stuff to help us keep our resolutions, like work-out equipment and organizers.  Perhaps there are folks who wake up the morning after drinking too much champagne, raring to buy a treadmill, the latest pair of New Balance, storage bins or shelf units, but I suspect most are more like me, who wake up thinking about stuff like mimosas and Eggs Benedict.

Regrettably, most of us meander through life with little thought of how our time is passing, but like birthdays, anniversaries, illnesses and deaths, each New Year provides another measure of how quickly our lives pass.  It is a  valuable reminder not to squander what will be gone too quickly, whether it be our vitality or our time with those around us.

We need those benchmarks.  There was a public figure the same age as I, whenever that person accomplished something newsworthy, it reminded me of how much a single individual can accomplish, but more importantly it reminded me of how little I had accomplished.  That person died a few years ago, and now serves only to remind me  how suddenly life can end.

However, like those times when it isn’t feasible to remodel so we settle for new paint or new curtains, sometimes overhauling our entire life isn’t practical.  Though there are many things I’d like to completely redo in my life, I content myself with making small changes I can manage, like setting the tone for the one to come.

Started the year with a new manicure and pedicure.  Nothing unusual about that, except since I tend to choose the same polish, month after month, I let my mani-pedi girl pick for me.   I would have never have chosen what she chose for me, as a result, I left her shop feeling like I was wearing someone elses’ fashion.  Two colors of glitter polish, may not sound that radical, but to me it was symbolic of being open to the whims and advice of others–especially those with more experience.

Though I am a naturally lucky person, I rarely gamble.  It seems gambling is a pastime which makes more losers than winners.  Nevertheless, I bought a lottery ticket.  Had it been a winning ticket, I could have told myself it was a fortuitous omen for the coming year, but since it served only to make my pocket lighter, I discarded it along with the many other disappointments of 2011.

I bought myself a new coffee maker, a sort of Christmas gift to myself, but in keeping with the “out with the old and in with the new” thing, I waited until Jan, to try it. Trying to figure out how to disassemble and reassemble it, the first time, could almost fill another blog post, but this first challenge of The New Year, was a good reminder of how important it is to be open to change and ready to learn new ways of doing familiar things.

As I drank my coffee, I reflected on the past year, a Christmas season in which I gave myself a vacation from the expectations of others and allowed myself to do things to restore my sense of self.  I replayed events in a year, including many dealings with tradesmen and tenants.  Reflecting on those experiences inspired me to make a single resolution.

Having been often taken advantage of by those to whom I was too nice, I resolved to be meaner.  Not more assertive, not more aggressive, just less nice.  I don’t like mean people and certainly don’t want to become one, but  people take advantage of nice people.  I can’t help being kind, it’s in my nature, but after having too many experiences in which I felt I shouldn’t have been so nice, I decided to try harder to be mean.  Chances are I’ll fail, but I’m guessing I won’t be the only one who doesn’t keep their resolutions.

‘Tis the season, the season which ushers in that other season…

There are two times of the year, when invitations are too plentiful.  The first occurs between spring and summer when end-of-the year recitals, picnics, and awards banquets are followed by graduations, weddings, BBQ’s and usually a baby shower or two.   The second is the season beginning in fall, and lasting through the last pretzel of the Superbowl–guaranteeing that the already-too-busy holiday season will be even busier.

Parties are fun–at least they are supposed to be.  Unfortunately, they aren’t all fun, and even when they are, not everyone enjoys them.   There are those who live for the next party and those who dread them all.  Most of us are somewhere in between, but even the most sociable can find it challenging to enjoy a party.

The invitations we receive are supposed to be optional, but many come with obligations or implications, which cause us to attend things we’d rather skip.  As a result, we may find ourselves wearing clothes we aren’t comfortable in, talking to people whose company we may not enjoy, on evenings when we’d prefer the comfort of  home, a bathrobe and Conan O’Brien.

Women seem to be able to muster more enthusiasm for social gatherings than men.  This shouldn’t come as a big surprise, considering we enjoy talking and dressing up more than most men.  That’s a broad generalization, but try to imagine men using home parties selling stuff like car care products or grill accessories as an excuse to socialize.  (In my head I’m trying to picture Beloved Soul Mate at a buddy’s house for a a home demo of Turtle Wax.)

Even if it is true that women are socially more at ease, more than 40% of adults consider themselves shy, and even those who would call themselves extroverts can experience anxiety in social settings.  For those who dread the inevitable social functions, here are some obvious and simple tips;  because enjoying a party isn’t supposed to be hard.

1.  The most important thing is remembering you are not the only one who may feel self-conscious in social situations.  If you are uneasy, it is likely others are too.  Though it is natural to internalize the discomfort, don’t be consumed by worries about what others are thinking of you.  The others are most likely just as anxious about making a favorable impression–or not making a bad one.

2. If you wait for other “shy” people  to break the ice, it could be a very long chilly evening.  By being the one who takes the initiative, you will quickly make the environment more friendly.  It is as simple as introducing yourself, and while this will feel like a huge risk, it will put others at ease and cause you to seem more socially confident than you probably feel.

3. Once introductions are made, there is the inevitable small talk.  Small talk is awkward, until you establish something  both parties can talk about.   Talk about the season, the decorations, the food, how the other person knows the host, or how long they’ve been with the company.  You can even talk about how awkward it is to make small talk.  Kids, dogs and sports are also easy fallback subjects.

4. Lighten up and have a sense of humor.  The point of a party is to have fun, so if you make a gaf, don’t let it spoil your evening.  Having a sense of humor is almost always a good thing, except on those uncomfortable occasions when someone makes an offensive attempt at humor.  In those situations, you may want to quietly excuse yourself to refill your punch cup (or your shot glass).

5.  Speaking of shot glasses..even when alcohol is served, you don’t have to drink it.  Drinking is more acceptable at some parties than others.  While passing out on a couch may be fine form at a reunion of the fraternity brothers,  professional functions are a good time to practice moderation.

6. Every social function has unspoken rules.  If  you try to get a read on what kind of atmosphere the party hosts intend, you won’t feel like the only one who missed the memo.  Be considerate of the hosts, by following suggested dress codes, contributing food or drink if asked, or complying with the parameters of the inevitable holiday gift exchange.   While you’re at it, pick up a little something for the party host(s).  This isn’t required, but it doesn’t take much effort and conveys thoughtfulness.

7.  While you’re being so thoughtful, remember to R.S.V.P.   Later, if your plans change, be sure to inform your host(s).  If you’re expected to attend, do your best to show up, preferably on time.  Being late may seem fashionable, but it is very inconsiderate, if it causes others to wait on you.

Parties are supposed to be relaxing, not stressful.  If you’ve been invited, it is because the host or hostess is hoping you’ll enjoy the occasion.   Showing your appreciation can be as easy as enjoying the food, company and atmosphere.  In a season that is often frantic, do yourself a favor and have a little fun.

In my last post, I wrote about DNA and race.  I would have liked to have written a long expository post on the science behind the piece, but instead opted for “readable”.  However, there was still more I wanted to share about my own experience with DNA testing.  I hope it will be of interest to anyone who has ever admired a baby, attributing traits like curly hair, skin color or temperament to  race and breeding.

My father’s family came from Scotland, my mother’s from Mexico.  When I wanted to know more about my roots, I thought DNA would provide some answers.  Perhaps the tests would reveal a proud lineage going back to Glasgow, Camelot, or some other tea-drinking place in the U.K.  Maybe I would learn I was descended from Mayans, Incans or Aztecs.  It seemed so simple. Send some cells, watch the mailbox, wait for the “big reveal.”

To trace one’s family lines, two different kinds of DNA are needed. Male lineage (paternity) is traced through the examination of DNA from the Y-Chromosome, carried by males.   Maternal DNA samples are taken from mitochondrial  DNA, which is passed through females in a line.  Since my father is no longer living, my brother provided DNA to trace my father’s bloodline.  My husband also sent a sample, because he was anxious to know about his Italian heritage. We were all eager to find out who we were.  Finally, the envelope arrived, providing  us with more questions, than answers.

Back then, I proudly thought of my burly kilt-wearing ancestors as a distinct race. I had yet to realize they  were an amalgam of peoples including Vikings, Picts, Brits and Irish who had formed warring clans dating back to Medieval times–so much so that their European migrations and later migrations throughout the United States were usually the result of disagreements with the people around them. What I thought of as a unique bloodline, was actually from many places.  Now that I know more of Scottish history, the most accurate thing I could say of my Scottish roots is:  I come from a long line of people who don’t play well with others.

Answering questions about my nationality was easier before DNA testing.  Because many assume I’m Native American, I’m asked often.  It was convenient to say, “I’m Scottish and Mexican”.  I don’t look typically Mexican, but I always chalked that up to Mexican features made more interesting by the addition of Celtic genes.   In fact, with my height and angular features, I barely pass for Mexican.   Still, I wasn’t expecting what the tests revealed.  Instead of a tidy report of racial mix and geography, I got migration maps and a print out of DNA mutations, unique to our lineage.

It took some research to begin to understand the results, but here’s the short report.  DNA tracking is based on variations and migrations.  Each mutation becomes it’s own subdivision, called a haplo group.  As ancient people migrated, their mutations left a kind of genetic trail.  Turns out, my “Mexican” DNA is from Asia.  It was brought to Mexico by the same people who became American Eskimos and other North American tribes.  As it turns out, I have more genetic similarity to Mongolians than Mayans.  This went along way to explaining the high cheekbones, wide faces and “Asian” eyes that show up on the “Mexican” side of the family.

Certainly, my husband’s DNA would be less confusing, because his family came from a more closely confined part of Italy. The migration of his DNA had a shorter path, out of Northern Africa, through the fertile crescent to Europe.  His haplo group is still common in the Mediterranean, Middle East, and Eastern Europe–especially Albania.

Then there was my paternal line.  We had  a few ideas about who we might be, but they didn’t include being Finnish or Spanish. It turns out that my father’s DNA was as common to the Mediterranean and Italy, as we would have expected my husband’s to be.  The DNA also showed up in often in populations of Sephardic and Ashkenazi Jews, making it probable that my Calvinist Baptist roots, were preceded by Jewish roots–something we‘d suspected.

So what does it all mean?  It means what we call “race” is really more complicated (or more simple) than most of us think.  We aren’t people of distinct races, but representatives of  the groups with whom we live and breed.  In fact, all the people of the world have beginnings in Eastern Africa.  Geneticists say we are all born of an “Adam” and an “Eve”, being cautious not to suggest they might not be the ones you know from Sunday School.  The qualities we associate with race, like body type, skin color or hair type, are not indicators of race, but rather evidence of dominant genes repeating or best suited-genes surviving.

In Dr. Thomas Spelsberg’s book, The Myth of Race, he explains people who live in places like Scandinavia are not light-skinned because they are Scandinavian, they are light-skinned because those with lighter skin are more apt to survive in Scandinavia.  In the same way, those whose skin is too light for regions with harsh sunlight, will not fare as well as those whose traits are better adapted.  This causes a slow evolution, by which geography influences traits.

DNA is tracked by following mutations from the original line off the alpha couple, Adam & Eve. In other words, we are all just mutant branches of the same family tree.  Asians may have different DNA from Africans, but it isn’t because they are a different race.  The traits we associate with race are result of genetic combinations, not racial variations in DNA.  Recessive genes like blue-eyes can become a dominant trait, when the more dominant trait for brown eyes, becomes less frequent in a given population.

Just like the Scots in my ancestry, we are all just the products of migrating clans.  It will be some time before DNA becomes the standard by which we define who we are, but it seems probable that in the future, questions about race and nationality, will be replaced with conversations about DNA haplo groups.

Deb’s Note: The cost of DNA testing is becoming more reasonable than it was a few years ago, at about $150. per person. National Geographic and Ancestry.com both have registries intended to help people find people who could be related. To learn more about DNA and race, check out  The Myth of Race, by Thomas C. Spelsburg.  

Sometimes when I’m watching politicians, I wonder if they’re really actors.  It’s confusing, because  actors think they’re politicians–doing their best to tell us how to vote. The politicians must be confused too, because they often think they’re scientists or scientists and social engineers. I took Civics, but don’t remember anything entrusting the government with responsibility for interpreting science or re-engineering society for us.  I do however remember being taught about Hitler trying that.

When did it become government’s job to interpret issues for us?  When did they become responsible for legislating what we should think in regards to religion, science or sociology?  It seems legislators are doing their best to make sure we all walk the same dogma, as they purge history books of history, in order to make room for more politically advantageous things.  We are supposed to believe they know best, that they are smarter than the great collective of American thinkers. Whether the issue is climate change or diversity, any person who refuses to embrace the groupthink is deemed an uneducated moron.  Take for example the controversy regarding Evolution vs. Creationism comes up a lot.  I know what I believe, but I’d never be so arrogant as to suggest it’s the only viewpoint or the only thing that should be taught.  It takes neither faith, nor intellect to believe something, if you’ve only heard one side.

It’s not just science or history, the government wants to tell us how we should feel about those around us–how we should view people of other lifestyles, religions or races. It is easy for those, like myself, who live in diverse communities with little racism, to deny it’s existence, but racism is alive and well.  Unfortunately, the most insidious form of racism is that which disguises itself as the progressive effort to eradicate racism.

In the most regrettable era of United States history, Africans were treated as subhuman. Wise leaders, struggle and bloodshed abolished slavery, but even a hundred years later, many still refused to acknowledge African-Americans as equals. Every minority in this country has faced their own struggles, but none have suffered any more than “Black” citizens.

Black–I think that means all those with brownish skin who are not Asian, Native American, Pacific Islander Caucasian or Hispanic. Not sure, but I think the current politically correct term is African-American.  That’s a silly term, considering there were Africans here before the British-Americans who wrote the constitution.

I’ve  lost track of all the terms  used for “blacks” in my lifetime, but never mind that, I’m part Mexican and I can’t even figure out what they want me to call myself.  I hear terms like “Mexican-American” will soon be changed to American-Mexican.  It’s semantics, but why are those who want us to stop labeling and embrace diversity the biggest purveyors of labels?  I’m part Super Taco, part Big Mac, in other words, I’m American!   Want an affirmative action?  How about we stop classifying people by race?

The smart people are doing their best to make sure the rest of us think right, but it’s time for them to dust off their biology books.  Here’s a little lesson for the smart people, coming straight from a good ol’ girl educated in a pre-progressive public school smack-dab in the center of the oft-maligned state of Arizona.

There is no such thing as race.

My entire life, I was always aware of my skin color and sometimes wondered if  it made me a less desirable specimen of humanity, but I was still raised to be as proud of my European and Hispanic roots, as I was of my American heritage. However, I wanted to know more about where my family came from, so I turned to DNA testing for answers.  I’ve always been fascinated by how  the sequences of four nucleotide bases combine to make each of us–even those who are one of a set of identical twins, unique.   However I was very surprised by what I learned in my latest look at DNA.  My quest to find out about myself, turned into a lesson about the human race.

Notice I didn’t say human races?
That’s right kids, there is only one race. We don’t all look alike, we may not come from the same continents, but we are all the same race with variations.

Those who are still making distinctions between Asians, Blacks and Hispanics may think they’re progressive, but they’re actually very behind the times.  They might as well be back in the 1850s or 1950s, because their view of race is anything but progressive.

Previously, I wrote about the new addition of a dog to our house.  At first I was convinced he was some kind of German Shepherd mix, but as he’s grown, it’s harder to figure out what he is, because he’s an indecipherable mix.    There are DNA tests for dogs, but they wouldn’t tell me much more than I can guess looking at him. My dog, like most Americans,  is the magnificent product of many generations. His breeding is like most of ours–indistinct.   He is a mutt, but he’s not a lesser dog.

No matter what external traits we exhibit, we are all the same species of the same race.  We may have different hair color, eye color or skin color, but we are all the same race.  See, in a lab, even the brightest and best of geneticists can’t identify race.  It’s not that they haven’t figured out how, it’s that there isn’t any genetic difference.  Traits associated with race are the result of adaptations and subtle changes in the DNA.  It doesn’t matter whether you take that as proof of evolution or evidence of intelligent design–the DNA shows every single person on the planet comes out of the same lineage started in Africa.

That’s not politics, not religion, not dogma–it’s science.  Those who believe that the genetic matter of an Asian,  Black, or Hispanic is different than that of a white person, are as naïve as children who believe an egg dyed green will taste different from one dyed pink. Most of the traits we have used to define race are no more substantial than the difference between a brown egg or a white one.  Whether you prefer brown eggs or white ones, once you remove the shell, they’re all just eggs.

Deb’s Note:  In the next edition of de blog, more about DNA, including my own discoveries and explanations of why the use of race labels is an outdated practice.

Shoshona Hebshi is a–a 35-year old suburban housewife and an American.  In this case “American” means half-Saudi, half Jewish.  When she chose to fly on  9/11, she probably realized it was a day on which  many were apprehensive, but she never expected what she experienced.

Seated between two men who appeared to be of Indian descent, the three strangers, became the object(s) of suspicion, after the gentlemen both used the lavatory.  It is reported that the men both visited the bathroom (sequentially) and spent too much time there.

As the grounded plane was rolled to the far edge of the tarmac, fighter jets were scrambled. Shoshana wondered what was going on, as she watched a swat team, equipped with dogs and machine guns outside the plane window.  Only when the armed men stormed the plane to handcuff and remove Shoshana and the two gentlemen, did she realize, she and those seated with her had been racially profiled.

Recently, I was out, when I got a call from my son.  He wanted permission to ride bikes to a nearby store with his friend.  At 12, he‘s very responsible, so I stifled my misgivings and gave consent, reminding him to be careful of traffic and cross with the lights.

I was convinced he was mature enough, but still I worried about possible mishaps.  If he were to be struck by a car, I’d never forgive myself.  My mind considered all the possible things that could happen, except the one which actually occurred, the thing that seemed least plausible.

The boys weren’t hit by a car. They weren’t approached by drug dealers or abducted by strangers, but as my son’s friend fumbled with the lock on his high-end bicycle, he was approached by a policeman.  The policeman remarked on what a nice bike it was, then proceeded to ask where he got it and who it belonged to.  Meanwhile, the cop paid no attention to my son or his bicycle.  This might be a good time to tell you my son‘s friend is sort of black and happens to own a very good bicycle.  It might also be a appropriate to tell you, the nice bike my son was riding also belonged to his friend.   In other words, the African-American was profiled.

Before you start thinking there was probably a good reason, let me describe this kid.  He’s a nice boy, quiet, unassuming and always well-dressed–not in an attention-getting gangster way, but in the all-American kid-from-the-suburbs way.  His Navy veteran parents have raised  him to always say, “excuse me“ “please” and “thank you”.  He’s a good student who would never address an adult without using the proper title of Miss, Mr. or Mrs.

Later, I retell the story to an associate and am appalled to hear them suggest it’s completely reasonable for a cop to stop a black kid on a good bike–after all, everyone knows how many crimes are committed by blacks.

Excuse me, but it seems the only thing the boy was guilty of was revealing the prejudice of this particular police officer.

Shoshana Hebshi and I are both astounded by what appears to be little more than racial profiling.  Profiling is illegal, but what is often overlooked is the responsibility of any officer charged with protecting others, to do his best to detect, anticipate and evaluate potential threats or suspects.  So, while Californians are looking smugly down their noses at Arizona for the use of profiling to try to stem problems with illegal immigrants, TSA is lamely patting down grannies, afraid to be charged with racial profiling.  It’s a no-win situation.

According to a paper written by Russ Leach, a Riverside County police manager, a common-sense definition of racial profiling is: “the use of race as the “sole” basis for a stop…the practice of detaining a suspect based on a broad set of criteria that casts suspicion on an entire class of people without any individualized suspicion of the particular person being stopped. “

By that definition, profiling is an abhorrent practice, but profiling has long played an integral part in good police work.  Long before 9/11 and the debates over “profiling“, law enforcement officers have been trained and expected to develop and use their instincts.  The best cops turn what they’ve learned from experience, into a database of reference material upon which they base their hunches.  It’s a kind of “if it looks like a duck and walks like a duck” expertise, but problems arise when what appears to be a duck, turns out to be a goose or swan.  What was once following one’s instincts, is now labeled “profiling”.

Like Shoshana, I am not happy about he the racial aspect of the incident, but race isn‘t the only thing at play in either event.  The passengers on her flight reported that both men visited the plane’s bathroom, one for more than ten minutes.  On an auspicious anniversary of the single worst terrorist act in American history, this made passengers nervous.  With TSA’s new campaign, admonishing air travelers with the slogan, “If you see something, say something” those passengers believed they were doing their civic duty by reporting what seemed suspicious to them.

So somebody has to make the call…whether to risk the safety of a plane full of passengers or to risk targeting someone who hasn’t done anything.

In the bicycle incident, there are any number of circumstances that would have legitimized the cop’s actions…a report of two high-end bicycles reported stolen; a description of a dark-skinned 14-year old, suspected of stealing bicycles, provocative behavior by one or both of the boys, or maybe just seeing a kid who seems to be struggling to get a bike off a rack.

I’m not happy about what seems to have been mostly a “race” thing, but I believe citizens, as well as every single individual entrusted with enforcing  laws must use common sense to figure out who the good guys are.

Read Shoshana Hebshi’s story on her blog:
http://shebshi.wordpress.com/2011/09/12/some-real-shock-and-awe-racially-profiled-and-cuffed-in-detroit/

At an age when a girl has hardly known the joy of walking or running, both her feet are broken.  To those of us in The Western World breaking the feet of a small child would be justifiably called child abuse but to deliberately break the feet, then purposely stop them from healing, is unthinkably barbaric, yet the custom was practiced in China for hundreds of years.

The agonizing life-long process of foot-binding was performed to make women more attractive to men, giving them better marriage prospects and insuring they would spend their lives closely tethered to the home.  Also guaranteed were a lifetime of pain, the stench of rotting flesh and maimed feet which would impair the ability to walk.  Once the  weight-bearing and balancing properties of the feet were altered, a girl with bound feet would never enjoy more mobility than a horse with hobbles.  Like livestock branded and penned, husbands need never worry about their wives wandering far.

As the Chinese practice of foot-binding became an integral measure of desirability, the deformed foot and it’s accompanying odor became integral to the erotica of the age.  The men of that era were even convinced foot-binding strengthened and enhanced a woman’s sexual response.

Eventually, foot-binding was banned, mostly because, in the age of communism, the women’s role as laborer superseded her role as sexual vessel.  Women who had been the property of men, were now property of the state.

To us in The West, the practice is repulsive, cruel and bizarre, yet it is just one of many culturally-based beauty practices of unnatural body modifications and/or mutilations practiced in the world.  Unusual practices like the lip-stretching of the East African Mursi tribes or the use of metal coils to elongate the neck by The Karen tribes of  Thailand and Myanmar, seem strangely primitive to us, but are they really so much different from the practices of our sophisticated use of silicone and other materials to change the shape of our faces or bodies?

Nips, tucks, lipo, piercings, gauging, tattoos . . American women are no longer strangers to body alterations–with one big difference…we alone decide what we will do to be attractive.  Whether budgeting for Botox or choosing a tattoo, the decision is our own.  While our media and culture may indoctrinate us with ideas of beauty, we are not under an edict to conform.

Nevertheless, it is almost impossible to determine how much of what we do for ourselves is really a response to those who will see us or evaluate us.  The need to be accepted, the hope of eliminating perceived flaws or the choice to conform to an ideal, fuel our decisions, but they also express our desire to be desirable.  Even powerful women, who reject being subjugated by society’s expectations, may not realize the extent to which external messages become part of innermost feelings.

I know of what I speak, for as I write this, my mouth is filled with inconvenient metal and wires.  Though they will eventually correct legitimate alignment problems, I’d by lying like a bad hairpiece if I didn’t admit, only the prospect of a better smile, makes the trade-off, worth the discomfort.

For more on the history of foot-binding: http://www.angelfire.com/ca/beekeeper/foot.html

You are the sum of a unique equation.

Sometimes I have an idea, but as I put it down it begins to morph. Such was the case recently, when I started to write my reaction to the verdict of the Casey Anthony murder trial.  Before, I had even gotten to my opinion, I had veered off on tangents about juries and parenting.

I didn’t follow the case, but the few minutes of testimony I heard told me everything I needed to know.  It’s a good thing I wasn’t on the jury, because after that isolated bit, I was ready to make new indictments, convinced of probable cause, and had no interest in hearing more.

The testimony lead me to believe that this was indeed a case of negligence and child abuse, that the parents of Casey Anthony were complicit in a crime with more than one victim.  The question was who would pay?

Before I became a parent, I had ideas about parenting. Society, educators and other parents had lead me to believe children were raw material, like Play-Doh, which could be pressed into a mold, then extruded perfectly formed. They had succeeded in convincing me that doing certain things would produce a certain result.  But kids aren’t all the same, and parenting is an inexact science, based on experiments which draw conclusions from very small samples.

There are great parents who can make almost any child behave well, but there are also children whose traits can defeat the efforts of the very best parents.  Parents of those with learning disabilities, emotional and/or behavioral problems, or any number of physical or mental disorders will attest, there are some things good parenting can’t fix.  Those parents often make heroic efforts for children who may never be like other children.

Then there are the rest of us. . . kids are the unpredictable result of their personalities as affected by those who raise them, but we do our best to raise good kids.

Which brings me to Casey Anthony’s mother, Cindy…maybe she read all the parenting books, and did everything right, but still ended up with a sociopath for a daughter.

The evidence suggests otherwise.

On Day 26 of the trial, I heard a snippet of Cindy Anthony testifying in her daughter’s trial. Despite being under oath, her answers were preposterous.

The prosecution had questioned the numerous searches about “chloroform” and how to make it found on the family’s home computer.  Cindy told the court those searches were made by her–despite time cards which indicated she was at work when the searches were made.

She claimed that she was actually searching for chlorophyll.  Apparently, she was so preoccupied with the lethargy of her Yorkshire Terrier, she had to leave work to determine if the compound, found in every single green plant, might also be in bamboo.

When she was questioned about searches for “neck breaking” and “chest injuries” she claimed she was looking them up because of a friend’s recent car accident.  Seems to me if she knew of someone who had suffered chest injuries and a broken neck, she’d have been better served to be searching Hallmark for an appropriate card.

When questioned about the inconsistencies in her testimony, she blamed medications she had been taking. This was the only lie  that seemed remotely plausible.  Had I been on that jury, the bailiff would have had to remove me, for getting in the witness’s face, while  exclaiming something like,  ” Are you high?  You can’t really believe this court is that stupid!”

It isn’t a big surprise when parents say they would die for their child, yet I am appalled that Cindy Anthony would lie to save hers.There was speculation, she had agreed to testify for the prosecution in an attempt to help her daughter avoid the death penalty, but it was still a death sentence case.  Unfortunately, it was already too late for Mrs. Anthony to save her Caylee, from the sentence  her daughter should have received.

The judicial system is blamed for failing to hold Casey Anthony responsible for murdering her daughter.
The prosecutors are blamed for failing to present the necessary evidence.
The defense did the job they were hired to do, even if in doing so, they aided a murderer.

The jurors take the heat for inherent flaws in our justice system.

I put the blame on the mother who closed her eye to her daughter’s evil, the mother who let her daughter get away with murder.   Sometimes kids are bad despite their parents, sometimes they are bad because of their parents.  I blame the mother who perjured herself in an attempt to protect her child from harm.

If only Casey Anthony had been as committed to protecting her daughter.

This week, in addition to my other obligations, I’ve been summoned for jury duty.  I  don’t like being called for jury duty, but I feel a responsibility to serve.  So far, I haven’t been required to report, providing me a huge sigh of relief,  by keeping both my schedule and my conscience unencumbered.

Theoretically, jury are intended to insure justice, by determining wrongdoing.  By hearing different sides of an argument, they are expected to figure out which is right.  It sounds simple, but jurors who fail to determine who is right and who is wrong, become a party to injustice.

In a courtroom, lawyers hope jurors will draw the right conclusions, even if they are intentionally suggesting conclusions which are  wrong.  Jurors are hoping they can see through deceptions to make the right decision, but the evidence of isn’t always clear. What is right or wrong can become blurred.

The recent murder trial of Casey Anthony is a perfect example.  For three weeks 13 individuals sat listening to evidence of guilt or innocence.  When their verdict was announced, the public was outraged.  The public believed the jury got it wrong, that justice was not served.   The media fires were fueled by outcries this was a case of jury nullification.

But jury nullification implies that jurors have some sympathetic reason or motivation to ignore their legal obligation or instruction. That wasn’t true of the Casey Anthony trial, in fact most of the jurors believed Casey Anthony was guilty, but they weren’t sure of exactly what it was she was guilty of.   Their instincts and common sense told them she was guilty, but they didn’t feel it had been proven to them.  They didn’t want to be wrong.

Though they knew laws had been broken, and wrong committed, the jurors had an obligation to uphold their oath to try to do right by upholding the laws that govern the courts.  It was a very bad example of how The United States justice system is supposed to work, or a very good one of why it does.  We should be grateful for a system that offers protections when the evidence fails to prove guilt.

The American philosophy of jurisprudence is based on innocent-til-proven-guilty.  That principle is the best virtue and the worst flaw of American justice. By putting the burden of proof on the court, it is intended to protect the innocent from being wronged.  Unfortunately sometimes it has the de facto effect of protecting the guilty from being prosecuted.

My worst fear is having to serve on a jury charged with such a grave matter.  In matters of right and wrong, a juror hopes to get it right.  There there have been plenty of times I was wrong, while convinced I was right.  I don’t have a problem being wrong, but sometimes it’s impossible to know.  A courtroom is one place I wouldn’t want to be wrong.