A sense of outrage

Last night's presidential debate got me fired up and I'm going to do something I rarely do—I'm going to write about politics. I realize that most of the people who read my blog (friends and family) are liberal, so I'm preaching to the choir. But I can't help it. 

I had a journalism professor who used to tell us, "Never lose your sense of outrage." It was her battle cry to rally us to serve as watchdogs of government, to illuminate social issues, to challenge the comfortable and give voice to the underprivileged. Did that make us part of the "liberal media?" Maybe. Is that a bad thing? I don't think so.

In the pre-Fox News days, were U.S. journalists too liberal? Not in my opinion. If they were guilty of anything, I'd call it being human. In the 1960s and 1970s, Walter Cronkite was considered "the most trusted man in America." Was he a liberal? You betcha. He opposed the Vietnam War and later criticized President Bush's invasion of Iraq. He advocated for campaign finance reform, sided with President Clinton during his impeachment trial and denounced the "War on Drugs" as a policy failure.

I would argue that anyone who is drawn to journalism, anyone who chooses to spend their days covering government leaders, wars and public issues like crime, education, health care and immigration are already more socially minded than your average American. I know I came to the job with liberal leanings and became even more so throughout my years of reporting.

Early in my career, I covered court cases for a newspaper in Paterson, NJ. I wrote about murder trials, government corruption, child abuse, sexual assault and juvenile delinquency. I loved covering the legal system because there was inherent drama in every story. It was where the lofty philosophical principles of our Founding Fathers met the messy reality of everyday people. Oh, the humanity.

I sat through hours of testimony by medical examiners explaining the entry and exit wounds of murder victims. (It was much less exciting than what you see on "Law & Order"). I watched as one gang member after another was sentenced to life in prison for shooting a rival gang member over a dispute about a dice game, drug deal or smack talk about his girlfriend.

Then I'd cover a hearing for a chiropractor charged with fraud for stealing hundreds of thousands of dollars from insurance companies by billing them for patients he'd never treated. As the chiropractor hung his head and told the judge his transgressions were the result of his need to support an expensive cocaine habit, I'd shake my own head as he was sentenced only to probation.

I rarely sympathize with insurance companies, but economic crimes like his hurt all of us through higher premiums. The lighter sentences repeatedly doled out in white-collar crime versus street crimes sickened me. It reeked of racism and social privilege.

So where am I going with this? Good question. Sorry, I got sidetracked reminiscing about the good old days. Now back to our regularly scheduled program...the presidential debate and my sense of outrage about some of the issues in this election:

Abortion: Obama and Romney didn't talk about abortion during last night's debate. That subject was well covered during the vice presidential debate when moderator Martha Raddatz asked Joe Biden and Paul Ryan how their Catholic faith influences their positions on abortion. Ryan said he would only support abortion in the case of rape or incest. Biden said he doesn't support abortion personally but wouldn't impose his views on other people (also known as women).

I just want to say that offering to provide exceptions for rape and incest victims is totally off point and frankly, maddening. The number of women who get abortions under these conditions is so small that even discussing abortion in this way is ridiculous. And let's say we did pass a law outlawing abortion except in cases of rape and incest. Can you imagine the lengths that women would have to go to to prove it? Would she have to file a police report? Undergo a forensic rape exam? Produce evidence to support her claims that her uncle is a pervert?

What if she didn't have these things? What if she went home and cried in the shower instead of going to the emergency room? What if she was too scared to tell anyone because she blamed herself? What if, as is the reality in so many of these cases, it's just a matter of he-said, she-said? AND WHY IS THIS ANYBODY'S BUSINESS? (Yes, I'm yelling.)

Abortion is about a woman's right to choose. Period. And I say this as a new mother who teared up when I saw the blob of future baby on the ultrasound screen at six weeks and heard the heartbeat— just like Ryan recounted doing with his wife while justifying his advocacy for "life" during the VP debate.

Here's a news flash: It takes another 34 weeks for a woman's body to create the bones, organs, muscles and all the other systems that turn that blob of cells into a squalling human. And at least an additional 18 years of feeding, housing, educating and mentoring that human to turn him or her into a contributing member of society. By virtue of biology and automatic default (when the father is MIA or unfit), these sacrifices fall to women.

That's why it should be a woman's decision whether to carry a pregnancy to term. Pregnancies happen under all kinds of circumstances. Whether those circumstances are conducive to child rearing is a woman's choice. Lord knows that conservatives don't want to fund public health care or other social programs that may help her. They don't even want insurance companies to be required to pay for contraception. Viagra? Yes, that's a medical problem. But the Pill? Sorry little lady.

Single mothers: Somehow when asked about whether he'd support a ban on assault weapons like AK-47s, Romney slipped in a comment about how parents should teach their kids that they should get married before having babies. Excuse me? Is the prevalence of single motherhood in this country really the result of a lack of parental guidance?

What about poverty? Raging hormones? Limited access to birth control? Or wanting to have children but not finding the right person?

As any woman can attest, some men are only suitable for a one-night stand or even a one-year stand but not a lifetime partnership. It's called the sexual revolution. And it really was an improvement over the sweaty backseat groping, shotgun weddings and quiet misery of the picture-perfect "Leave It To Beaver" families in the 1950s.

I'm not dissing marriage or two-parent households. I like being married and I am half of a two-parent household. And it's not because my parents told me to. If anything, my parent's marriage and subsequent divorce made me wary of the institution. Let's just say that forever is too long for some couples.

I just get uncomfortable when those with "conservative values" start pushing marriage as the answer to our social and reproductive issues. Life (and human nature) is much more complicated.

I remember seeing a poster on the wall of a bus during my morning commute of a couple gazing into each other's eyes with a slogan advocating marriage. I don't even remember what the marriage campaign slogan said, I just remember thinking, Have you seen some of the men we women will sleep with? Date? Reproduce with? You don't want to add marriage to that equation.

For women, having the wherewithall to get and stay married is a matter of socioeconomics, education, career opportunity, self esteem and luck. Having the time and money to do enough therapy to learn productive ways to communicate, manage emotions and resolve conflict doesn't hurt either.

Like most things worth doing, the path to partnership is a process of trial-and-error. It's not as easy as a poster on a bus or a sound bite during a debate. Just ask Cinderella.

Immigration, health care and the economy: I have more to say on these topics but I somehow lost track of time and got caught up talking about the so-called women's issues. For now, I'll give it a rest. My two minutes are up. Thanks for listening.

Owen's imperfections: A short love story

It's morning and I'm lying on the couch with Owen, my back propped up against the end of the couch holding him up by his hands, his feet on my belly. As I pull him toward me repeatedly to kiss his chest, his belly, his forehead and the tip of his nose — all of the places that make him smile, giggle and drool — I survey his bare body, covered only by his diaper.

Owen has a freckle next to his belly button. I love this freckle. It's small but stands out against the vast whiteness of his belly. There's something about it that looks so tender and vulnerable. I cup his feet in my hands and run my fingers over his toes. In between each one I find the fluffy residue of sock fuzz. When I'm really having an OCD moment, I clean between his toes with a Q-tip after his bath. With babies, it's the crevices that get overlooked unless you're really paying attention.

I study his face and note that his right ear does stick out more than the other. I'd never noticed this until Dave's Aunt Betty pointed it out a few weeks ago at Dave's grandmother's 100th birthday party. It's the ear he tugs at when he's tired. I joked with Betty that I would be sure to have it tacked back before his 5th birthday.

As I continue to gaze at Owen's face, I notice that the pigment on his left eyelid is still a darker pink than the other one. It was more prominent when he was born, almost red. When I looked it up in a baby book they said it would fade with time. They called it a stork bite.   

On his hands he has those baby dimples above each of his fingers. Sometimes I find little scabs there. I think it's from chewing on his fists. But he doesn't have teeth yet so I'm not sure what in his soft, moist, gummy mouth could cause tiny abrasions. 

As I run my hands down his chubby legs, I see that he's got bruises and rug burns on one of his knees. I'm guessing they are the result of him flipping over on his stomach in his crib, on his play mat and on the carpet. There's just no stopping him.

The most striking thing about Owen is his hair. It's the first thing strangers remark on when they see him ("Wow, he has so much hair!") But the other day I noticed that he has bald patches on the sides of his head, right above his ears. At first I thought he was starting to lose his hair like everyone has warned me would happen. But when I flip back through his baby pictures on my iPhone photo library, it looks like he's always had those lighter patches. I guess I just never noticed.

I flip him around and study him from the back. His neck looks like a block stuck on top of his shoulders. I've often thought that the back of the neck is one of the more vulnerable parts of the body, like the underbelly of a dragon. Maybe it's because it holds up our big brains. And when you're looking at the back of someone's neck, they may not even know that you're watching them.

I run my fingers through the dark hair at the nape of Owen's neck and uncover a patch of red skin on his scalp that may be a birth mark. He has another pinkish spot higher up on his head that is smaller, about the size of a raspberry. You can only see it if you look closely.

As I take this visual inventory, these are the things I want to remember about my son. These are the things I want to think about when he is a teenager, gives me monosyllabic answers when I try to make conversation and won't let me touch him. I want to remember all the bumps and bruises, the blemishes and cowlicks — all the things that make him unique and yet like the rest of us, so very human.