VintageBerryWine's Open Salon Blog

Parents as teachers: What Obama learned

Mon, 17 Nov 2008 18:11:45 -0500

Will electing a black man to the highest office in the land somehow atone for the sins of a nation? Will having President Barack Obama in the White House make up for 246 years of slavery?

Maybe not, but it certainly should be a nice start. It would be helpful if people would at least see it as such, for then the two sides might move toward the middle. Blacks might not be as angry at whites; whites might not be as fearful of blacks.

What is it about Barack Obama, the man, that inspired a nation to elect the first African-American to the presidency? Surely it wasn’t just the culmination of a bad economy, a bad war, and an unpopular sitting president?

I don’t think so. The historical, epic even, November 4 moment when President-elect Obama stood on a stage and spoke to the American people, provides a clue. Not only is he charismatic, he’s humble.

But it’s more than that. Since I don’t watch much television, I nearly missed it. But being home sick, I happened to catch a newscast about the death of Obama’s grandmother, Madelyn Dunham. The pictures of a young black Obama shown surrounded by loving white maternal grandparents, provide what I believe is the bigger clue to his success: Obama received unconditional love from his family.

How does that happen? How does a black child growing up in the sixties and seventies come to have that unconditional love and acceptance from his white kinfolk? If scientists could find the answer, produce it in tablet form and put it on the open market, we might not have the high rates of child abuse, juvenile delinquency, and crime that currently exist.

Most parents would give their right arm to have a child who would become President of the United States of America. But most parents won’t do what it takes to see that their child is filled with the capacity to reach such levels of greatness. We might think we will, but we don’t.

Really, when it comes right down to it, we don’t.

Sometimes, when we think we’re helping them, by way of “constructive criticism,” we’re simply being critical of our children. Other times, when we let them dictate what they will do, rather than set limits for them, we are not teaching them healthy rules and boundaries. (Did you know experts now say today’s parents are afraid to parent their children? Yep, that’s from a press packet, compliments of Liz Claiborne, Inc., about teen dating and sex. “The authority figures in the home are no longer parents, but children ages 5-18,” Dr. Jill Murray said.)

Most of the time, we fail to teach our children, because we’re too embarrassed, afraid or clueless about what we think they know. Only then, we really are teaching them—that they can learn on their own, without our help. (“Despite the finding that slightly more than a quarter of parents think kids are having oral sex, only seven-percent of parents think their own child has gone further than kissing and making out …” Dr. Mary Muscari said.)

Then there are those times when we don’t realize we’re teaching them: We make racist remarks, we call other drivers names, we belittle or use sarcasm toward our loved ones, we run red lights or ignore stop signs, we don’t say “please,” “thank you,” or the dozens of other little thoughtful remarks that indicate good manners, and we ask our children to tell the bill collector or the telemarketer we—the parents—aren’t home, or can’t come to the door, when really we are and we can.

I don’t know how Obama’s family treated other mixed race children, or what they said about interracial couples; I don’t know what his white relatives said about his black ones or vice versa, but I do know this: Media photos show Obama was loved unconditionally, without regard for his race, his intelligence, his bloodline or his abilities or lack thereof—and that’s why he’s shown himself to be grace under fire, an involved and attentive father and devoted husband, and able to do what he’s done thus far.

As parents, we could do no better than learn from those photos, and begin today to treat our own children and grandchildren the same way. To give them the same equal opportunity that Obama was given—to reach their own potential and achieve their own levels of greatness.

Three easy steps to stave off the foreclosure buzzards

Sat, 15 Nov 2008 02:11:46 -0500

I don’t, as a rule, like attorneys. I’ve learned through personal experience that too many of them rely on their oratory skills inside a courtroom, instead of hard work and research that would better serve their clients.

That being said, I believe the time has come to pick up the phone and dial 1-800-GET-LEGAL. Obviously, family crusaders or aviation legal experts wouldn’t be your first choice, but still, if you have the Yellow Pages, there’s an attorney there for you.

We’ve prevented our consumer-first, friendly small-town banker from foreclosing on our house. Not once, not twice, but three times. And it’s all because of a lawyer named Mike.

To back up, though, let me share with you a story about someone else who wasn’t so fortunate: After seeing her husband die from a tainted blood transfusion during the 1980s and being left to rear five children single-handedly, “Lea” spent the next 14 years picking up the pieces of her life and saving the family farm. Lea literally saved the only thing besides her children she had left—a humble home on a small plot of farmland.

Two years ago my daughter called to tell me Lea, her mother-in-law, was having her home auctioned off on the courthouse square. By the time my daughter, who holds a bachelor’s degree in finance and who studied accounting simultaneously, realized what had happened, it was too late. Lea’s house, the only place that held memories of my son-in-law’s late father, was gone. It was a victim of the current housing crisis facing too many families around the country. (See the Nov. 3, 2008, Tampa Bay.com article about Dean Rivett, a Florida homeowner; he’s suing the bank that foreclosed on his home.)

My daughter told me that when she finally saw Lea’s financial documents, with the tiny text and lengthy legalese, she realized her mother-in-law had been had, a victim of a refinanced mortgage gone awry. The terms were far beyond what Lea could have ever hoped to repay—and the bank knew it.

About that time, I took an out-of-state job and left my husband in our 5,000 square-foot house, which he and his first wife, Shirley, custom built. (She passed away after a 10-year battle with cancer.) Fresh out of college with a business management degree, I found I wanted to do the same thing I always had: pursue and report the truth for the public in a journalism setting. To do that, I had to leave the area.

So my esposo, Kinsey, God love him, still facing Shirley’s medical debts and a few of my own, decided to refinance our home, leaving us with a $3,000 monthly mortgage. From a distance, I inquired if it was something we could afford. If it was a good idea. If the bank was engaging in predatory lending. If the appraiser (who set the value at almost $400,000) was in cahoots with the banker.

Yes, yes, no and no, he said, assuring me he knew what he was doing.

But he didn’t. Not unlike perhaps millions of other homeowners, he couldn’t even comprehend, much less read, the fine print. Whether that was his fault is a debate for another day.

In the meantime, just before the August foreclosure date, Attorney Mike threatened to file an injunction if the bank went through with its plan to auction off our home. The bank countered with its own claim, that it only had to get about half of what the house appraises for. “I don’t think a jury is going to look too kindly on that, if you’re planning on selling the house for (so much less),” Mike said. The bank backed down and we won Round One.

Round Two, which we also won, came and went in October. Round Three, however, just played out. This is how: We are filing bankruptcy. The November 12 auction was cancelled and we have 60 days to do what we have been trying to do ourselves: sell our home, which is too large now that our children are grown and gone.

Yes, it’s a stop-gap measure, a way to buy time. But, given what we now know—the appraiser was a little too friendly with the bank, the banker knew we couldn’t afford such an outrageous house payment, and now they are scared to death of being sued—I’d say we’ll be okay. (See the Nov. 11, 2008, San Francisco Sentinel.com story about California Attorney General Edmund G. Brown Jr., who “uncovered (a firm that) was soliciting hundreds of homeowners with mail flyers offering to help them stop the foreclosure process on their homes” and is going after predatory lenders. He's one of many such prosecutors.)

And remember: Just because the buzzards are circling, doesn’t mean they get the prey—especially if you don’t just lie down and die.

Watch West Virginia turn blue

Mon, 3 Nov 2008 20:11:01 -0500

I’m not usually a political pundit, but will go out on a limb here at the eleventh hour: West Virginia, a Republican state now tagged as favoring Senator John McCain, will instead cast its five electoral votes for Senator Barack Obama.

Several highlights during this historical election have caught my attention, among them the way life has imitated art: Who could have predicted “Plumber Joe,” also known as Samuel Werzelbacher, would do for this presidential race what the character Bud Johnson did for the fictional race on the big screen in "Swing Vote?" (In other words, the nation’s attention was focused on one man while more serious issues went by the wayside.)

Just three days after pundits and media personnel everywhere were shocked when Alaska Governor Sarah Palin was selected as Sen. McCain’s running mate—the Governor confirmed she was to become a grandmother. And the world learned her 17-year-old unmarried daughter was pregnant.

Those were just two of the more memorable events to capture the country’s attention in recent months. Closer to home, though, something not easily captured by the news media has been brewing. Here in West Virginia, more and more people have been leaning towards electing an African-American president.

I’m not sure why Senator Obama is called African-American when he’s half white, which I think makes him biracial. (Like most Americans?) Regardless, it’s not a secret that West Virginia’s history contains ugly elements of racism. I even wrote about it in an Oct. 14 post at my web site. (Racism in West Virginia? Does the Pope wear Prada?)

But three days later, something happened that shocked me: I drove down to Mingo County, in the southern part of the state, home to the 1920s coal strike and the Hatfield-McCoy family feud. That’s when I saw Obama-Biden signs on the lawns. This is why I think they’re there: “This is the first time in history a tremendous voice has been given to the disenfranchised people in this country.”

That’s not me talking; that’s a friend of Senator Jay Rockefeller speaking. She also saw the lawn signs in Mingo County, and says she’s talked to people who don’t want to admit they’re voting for a black man for president, but that’s what they plan to do tomorrow.

Even here, in West Virginia. A Republican state.

Drunk drivers: We all lose

Fri, 31 Oct 2008 08:10:33 -0400

They say you shouldn't speak ill of the dead.

I've no idea who "they" are—but I think speaking the truth outweighs saying anything that might cast a dead loved one in a bad light.

Especially when it could help someone else, shed light on a dire problem, or provide dialogue for a long overdue solution. That being said, I offer the following disclaimer: I loved my father, who died in 1999, after a long battle with alcoholism. His doctors didn't say the booze killed him, but I can—and do.

And in light of the most recent development in the Brian Stone case, I think it's important to state the facts. WBOY television station reported Oct. 20 that Stone was just sentenced to another one to three years for third offense DUI. But Stone is already serving 41-56 years for his part in the deadly July 8, 2007 accident in Morgantown, W.Va.

For anyone unfamiliar with Stone, he’s the man police found to be very drunk after the horrible crash near Pierpont Exit on Interstate 68. The Pennsylvania resident had six—that's SIX, one more than the number of people who died—previous DUI charges in two states: West Virginia and Pennsylvania.

Earlier this year, WDTV television station reported March 21 that Stone was found guilty of “five counts of DUI causing death, five counts of leaving the scene of an accident with DUI causing death, seven separate charges of DUI with injury, seven counts of leaving the scene of an accident with DUI causing injury, and of one count of DUI third or subsequent offense.”

For months, police, politicians and outraged citizens pointed fingers and asked how something "like this" could happen, and today the debate continues over the fatal flaw that left Stone with driving privileges. On that note, I’d like to take the podium.

My father—God love him—probably had just as many, in his lifetime, if not more. Not long ago, I asked my mother about the nights he spent in jail, for I remember an outstanding one when I was 12.

That was the same year I learned how to drive, when my drunken father pulled over to the side of the D.C. Beltway, told me he was seeing double, and put me behind the wheel. He gave me my first driver’s lesson that night, in a Ford Pinto, as I tried to coordinate the pedals and the gear shift while driving on the highway and then, on a curvy, narrow road that led to our Berkeley County home.

It was a lesson I never forgot—forget about my father's pie-eyed condition and the wisdom of him driving—I nearly drove us into a big old iron bridge, as I narrowly missed a curve in the road.

Later that same year, my father didn't come home one night. For the next several years, he literally drained the family's finances as he fought to keep his driver’s license, by hiring some high-powered Martinsburg attorney to fight his case all the way to the state supreme court.

He lost. We lost. Our family lost.

Then my father set the precedent for Brian Stones everywhere: He simply packed up and moved to Texas, where he managed to trade in his West Virginia license for one from the Lone Star state. When he died several years later, that license was still in his wallet. So was something else—a photocopy of his federally-issued pilot’s license.

It didn't take a detective to realize what had happened. My father, who said he quit flying when he was diagnosed with cancer, instead had one of his most prized possessions pulled—the Federal Aviation Administration took it when they learned about his DUIs. (For many years, my father had also been a flight instructor.)

Stone’s three-car, five-fatality accident on I-68 last year calls to mind an equally tragic and senseless one from 2003. It occurred when the drunk driver of a tractor-trailer tried to make a turn at a city intersection—but instead plowed into a vehicle that was stopped, waiting for the light to turn green. The only reason there was only one death that day is because the young mother inside had, just minutes earlier, dropped off her little boy at pre-school. She never had a chance, as her vehicle was pushed into an embankment, and flattened by the big rig.

I’ve driven through that intersection hundreds of times. It is one where, if I am stopped, waiting for the red light to turn green, I still think of that young mother. Of her motherless son. Of her widowed husband.

Just as I think of my family and my friends, who live within a minute or two of the exact spot where police found Stone that night. It is a spot I have crossed myself, many times, while going to visit them, or going shopping, or out to dine. It is the spot I crossed again, less than a week later, when I couldn't help but notice the large dark stains that remained on the highway, or the marks going through the grassy median.

It is precisely because of such utter, unnecessary loss of life that I write these words. It is because of fear and love and concern for my family and friends, that I think it's time to take a hard look at drunk drivers. Because of how I was raised, because of my father's influence on me, I don't have any tolerance for people who choose to drink and drive. That's why, sometime after I began working a police beat in 1988—thereby seeing firsthand the damage done by people who do so—I reported my father to the police.

He hadn’t come home and my mother was worried, so I decided to go looking for him. It wasn't too hard because I knew all his haunts from when he used to take me with him as a kid. Still, I couldn’t find him: until we passed each other on a city street.

I turned around and followed him, watching as he swerved back and forth, nearly hitting another car. That's when I stopped, put a quarter in the payphone, and called the local police. “My father's driving drunk and he's headed down (such and such) a street,” I said, giving them his exact location.

It wasn’t until my father died that I realized something I had been too angry to see while he was still living. My father drank because he was in pain. Whether it was growing up poor during the Great Depression, losing his father when he was just five, being raised by relatives when his mother then had a nervous breakdown shortly thereafter, or something else—he drank to escape that pain.

So let’s stop fooling ourselves. The craving for alcohol will not go away when someone goes to jail, or when he has to breathe into a device just to drive, or even when he kills someone else because he gave into that craving.

If we really want to stop the senseless deaths—yes, even those of the drunks who eventually die from their self-induced, medicated state—then we need to find a way for them to heal their pain.

Kit can help us do more than commiserate

Thu, 30 Oct 2008 15:10:35 -0400

Who knew? That is, who knew the movie “Kit Kittridge: An American Girl,” would foreshadow our current economic crisis, with its humane message about the Great Depression.

It’s rated G, so many people my age might not have seen it. But it has a powerful story, and one that may just make it easier to ride out what looks like quite a bumpy ride.

I saw the movie when it was released in July but this past March, while living in Western Maryland, where the weather was still quite cold, I knew we were in for problems. That’s when I asked an elderly friend if she was keeping warm. It was a casual inquiry, and I was unprepared for her response.

“Yes, and I had to use all of my savings just to buy fuel oil. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I have to order more for next winter. It’s never been this bad before.”

“Joyce” is a widow in her eighties, and she was clearly worried. I know her family won’t let her freeze to death, so that’s not what worries me.

It’s the notion that someone who has lived that long shouldn’t have to ask for help. By the time you live a full life, you would think that one of the fringe benefits would be having enough money to make ends meet, if nothing else. But these days, in town after town, the elderly are having a tough time just getting by.

Not only have record-high oil prices depleted their life-long savings, they find themselves being forced to choose between heat, food and medicine. This isn’t a new story, but it’s one that people didn’t really think about until recently. Now, more and more people are finding themselves going without.

I am not elderly—far from it. But I have heard elderly men and women in line at the pharmacy counter bemoan their situation: “Do I buy fuel oil, groceries or medicine?” They ask this question as they shell out $100 co-pays or worse, several hundred dollars for a single drug because they have no health insurance at all.

And I have family members whose lives are worth living because they take (expensive) prescription drugs; without that medicine the quality, if not the quantity, of their life would be questionable.

Today the dilemma over the quality of life is affecting younger people, too. Take Wanda Dunn, the 53-year-old Pasadena, Calif., woman who killed herself before setting her house afire. The Los Angeles Times reported on Oct. 15 that neighbors knew Dunn was facing eviction—and was terrified of losing her home. The quote by Steve Brooks, one such neighbor, is especially poignant.

“We knew it was going to happen,” he said. “It was nobody's fault; it was everybody's fault.”

Watching the fallout from the world’s financial collapse, my thoughts have returned many times to a story I heard on National Public Radio. As people struggled to make sense of disappearing Individual Retirement Accounts and staggered to catch their breath with each fell swoop of the Dow, something else was happening on the world scene: The Monaco Yacht show, held Sept. 24-27.

My income bracket puts me nowhere close to the boat lovers who would attend the luxury water event, but it didn’t take much imagination to see the scene painted by that NPR audio segment. Aside from the sheer size and multimillion dollar price tags, the interiors were decked out in precious metals, marble, and leather (including crocodile skin, in one case) and the exteriors were fitted with helidecks (yes, a helicopter landing pad) and motorized water toys.

My favorite was the personal sub—not the sandwich, mind you, but an actual submarine. It’s a recreational vehicle designed to impress your closest friends, and an accessory no self-respecting yacht owner should be without.

Right now there’s a growing debate about whether sharing the wealth amounts to Socialism. Who cares? Personally, I thought that sharing the wealth amounted to no more than embracing Christianity. You know, that “equalizing” effect Paul spoke to the Corinthian people about?

Maybe that’s why I’m not wealthy: I’ve spent too much of my life trying to equalize that of loved ones, who have done the same for me when the need arose. But I’ve also covered stories about food banks and soup kitchens and homeless folks who had to partake of both. I’ve watched as these places had to limit the number of people they served, and I’ve reported on their efforts to raise public awareness about the growing shortage of donations.

As I think about the fears of my friend Joyce, and try to understand Dunn’s decision, I’m faced with intermittent pictures of the fabulously rich strolling around Monaco, trying to decide on which yacht they want. Some things really make much less sense than others.

So, whatever your views on sharing the wealth, Socialism or Christianity, it might be good to rent a DVD about a fictional character (played by the very real and talented Abigail Breslin) who really got what the Great Depression was all about.

Perhaps she can help us put things into perspective as we sit and watch, and wait for the other shoe to drop.