Mad PROUD Skillz, Mad DISAPPOINTMENT, Part I

Starting about two months before I got pregnant, every Wednesday night, Beau and I would attend a three-hour Beginning Maori language class at the local RSA (Returned Service Members Association -- Veterans). It started out interesting -- a class of about 40 people, all from the local community, of all ages (though predominantly women). It was taught by a grandmotherly woman who loved to joke and would frequently throw her head back and let out huge guffaws, exposing her many missing teeth. It was weird, but it was like all those missing teeth looked CUTE in some way. I thought she was a total delight. We'll call her "Kata."

Sadly, as time went on, the class dwindled dramatically, particularly the younger people who evaporated with each class. By the end, we had a steady number of about seven or eight people (including Beau and I). There was an advanced class that ended up with about half that. Beau would grumble every now and then that THAT was why his students were the way they were, they were mimicking the same behavior as their parents -- begin something with gusto, and then just shrug, say you can't be bothered, and quit. A LOT of activities at his school end up that way.

But admittedly, it was a tough class to stick to. It was NINE months long, and sometimes those three hours in the evening were tough to get through, especially for those who worked during the day. Also, the more pregnant I got, the more draining the class could be. But we stuck with it. We really wanted to learn the local language, even if we didn't need to, and besides, with NZ being obsessive about certificates and qualifications, it would be great to have an official Maori Language certificate at the end of it all.

It was important to Kata that there was a strong emphasis on the local culture as well as the language. She frequently went off into tangents and I think Beau and I counted four times that she went into the story of the returned Maori soldiers from Italy in WWII. Basically, the men (who survived), returned heroes and spent the next 20 years boozing their nights away. Since the community was so proud of them and were so happy to have them home, they were given total free reign to let loose when they got home. It's just that no one ever said, "Hey, that's about enough now."

But we did learn more about the people and traditions, aspects of all sorts of local land features, and especially, the beautiful maraes -- small compounds which features several buildings including the main meeting house, cooking and eating house, and the sleeping house. And we did lots of singing. LOTS and LOTS of singing.

Unfortunately for Beau and I, Kata didn't focus too much on the actual LEARNING of the language, and the many books and workbooks we had were practically skimmed through. We still adored her and enjoyed being in the class. One feature was the near hour-long "tea" in the center of class time where each night we had a giant potluck, sat around and shot the shit. It was very enjoyable, and as the months went by, the time of this break seemed to increase.

But there was one thing we learned, and learned well: our Whakapapa. (pronounced: fah-kah-pa-pa). It's basically an oral version of your genealogy. Maori recite it back to their original canoe. In Maori history, seven canoes left "Hawai" or "Hawaiki" (no, not Hawaii), a Polynesian island they all came from, though no one quite knows exactly which particular island it is today. And similar to the American focus on the Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria, Maori know not only the NAME of each one of the seven canoes (Aotea, Arawa, Kurahaupo, Mataatua, Tainui, Taakitimu and Tokomaru), but also which one(s) they descend from.

There's two ways to do it, the long version where you actually say something like "John slept with Beth and they made Tom" until you get to yourself or the cool short version, the "pepeha." The pepeha involves reciting your connection to your family, your people, and the land you come from. You recite each one like this: "Arawa is my canoe, Tinangahua is my river," etc. Oh, and in Maori, of course. The typical list includes most or all of the following:

- your canoe (or "waka")
- your mountain
- your river (or lake)
- your marae
- the name of the land you were born on
- your "iwi" (larger tribe)
- your "hapu" (local, family clan)
- your main ancestor
- your "whanau" (family name)
- your mom and your dad's name


Now, this is easy for Maori, especially rural ones, who still live amidst all these things. For Beau and I, this suddenly became a unique challenge, especially for me who was born in the Midwest, but after age five was raised in the desert. Then I returned to the Midwest for my university degrees. I was much more familiar with my desert topography, but apparently, it was the Midwest landscape I was supposed to be acknowledging.

Obviously, I don't have a canoe or a marae, and what exactly is my ancestor, tribe or clan? So, after some discussion in the class and the example in our workbook that one Scottish person used, I decided to go with my last name (Norwegian) for my family, went back to the first ancestor who immigrated to America for my ancestor, Vikings as my tribe, and Norwegians as my clan, and used the local land in the Midwest for my mountain, river and the land I was born on. Yeah, it's not an exact science, true. It felt both a little silly and also kind of cool. And though Beau and I brought smiles every time we did our strange pepeha, it was still unconditionally accepted. People don't fuck around when it comes to bloodlines here.

To this day, when Maori get together, even in very official and/or government meetings or in business dealings, they spend a great deal of time introducing themselves, and this almost always includes reciting their pepeha to the group. It's a way of identifying who you are and connecting to others around you who may be closely or distantly related. It's really not so different than our own introductions when groups first get together for a meeting, it's just that instead of the focus being on your job, position, or maybe your university, it's on your family and land.

And in the future it would be very useful and important to me in several situations. I'll share one of them in my next post. :)

Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt

Since I began driving at 16, (18 years ago). I've been pulled over by the cops three times in my entire life. All three times were on major interstate highways amidst a long, laborious road trip of some kind. All three times I was speeding. The one that killed me was on my return from NYC - Madison, non-stop 14 hour trip, where I was JUST reaching the exit to my home at about 3am, exhausted and relieved. Then, flashing blue and red lights! Fucker.

Beau and I have lived in Missoula for 2 1/2 months and we've each been pulled over once already. Cops are everywhere here and though I've never found myself having strong feelings one way or the other about cops or tickets, I find myself growing more and more upset. Big surprise, it's Missoula!

I first started getting irritated, naturally, after Beau got his $81 speeding ticket for doing 35 in a 25 mph zone. It's hard to argue with a ticket when you're speeding. You just are. Doesn't stop me from being annoyed by all the circumstances surrounding it though. For one, we live in a nice apartment, but basically in a pretty depressed area of small, unkempt houses where the front yards often feature a doberman, rottweiler, or something else large-jawed and fear-inspiring. A somewhat major (busy) road road runs along the outside of these neighborhoods near where we live. The other side of the road consists of industrial lots, or just dirt lots, or the cemetery. On this road to our home, right before you pass these neighborhoods on the right, you have to cross a short, yet surprisingly steep bridge, since underneath it runs about ten lines of railroad track. I have to kick our little Honda into high gear to make it up the little bridge, and then of course, to keep me from getting a ticket by going over 25 mph, lean heavily on the break the whole way down. That's where Beau got nabbed, coming off that bridge.

Nearly every single day when I'm driving to and from work, I see a cop and some unfortunate victim pulled over on the side of the road, right in this area -- I did again just this morning on the way to work. You can imagine how that inspires a stately crawl every time I enter the neighborhood. I guess it just seems so unfair that again and again I see people getting that $81 ticket, and I KNOW these are, for the most part, blue-collar families in small homes with not much money. Whenever I've been in the wealthier sections of Missoula (like where I park my car every morning for work), I have seen ZERO cops. Not one. $81 is a LOT of money to pay when you don't have it. Trust me on that one.

And though I've been driving through this area for about 11 weeks now, and have seen daily police pull-overs in this tiny area, I have never seen anyone racing by me in their car. I've never seen an accident, I've never seen anything even remotely reckless or strange warranting such blanket attention. I don't get it. It's not even that busy of an area, traffic-wise. People here tell you that the police are so rabid because of Montana's no sales tax law. I hear this as an excuse for anything that is ridiculous or expensive. We haven't gotten a new car title yet, but we're afraid to, since we hear "It'll cost SO much money, hundreds of dollars, since there's no sales tax and this is how they get their money." I've already mentioned how angry people are about their sky-high property taxes too. Yet, every time it's put to a vote, people want to keep their no-sales-tax way of life. Okay.

The only thing I've seen that should stimulate police action, are the idiots who drive their stupid trucks up the side of a very steep hill lying underneath I-90. These idiots deserve a little Cop Smackdown, or to just die from their dumbassness. It's either teenagers or men in their 30's or 40's who drive their cars straight up the hill, like they're just taunting the hill and the laws of gravity to fling them off. I watched from my window in disbelief as a man went slowly up up up the hill in his Bronco, and then began to slowly slide back down. The teenagers in the station wagon didn't even make it up that high before their car stalled. I'm waiting for the day when something truly tragic happens. Of course, though this is about a half mile from the speed trap area I mentioned -- the hill is literally in view -- I have never seen a single cop nab one of these brain surgeons. I guess you can't get a ticket for being crazy.

It also bothers me since it just rips up the ground. This must be some kind of common pasttime here, because there are several paths just chewed out of the hillside shooting up and down and circling around. Those are not real roads by any means. They're just guys driving around in the dirt. I took a picture of this guy last weekend. I was pretty bummed that the photo doesn't allow you to really see the dramatic angle this hill (and car) are on. Maybe it's because I took the picture from where I live on the third floor. But just use your fantastic powers of imagination to picture this hill as very very steep.

As for myself, changing gears now to a different story, I had MUCH better luck, and an experience that somewhat redeemed my opinion of Missoula cops. After coming off an eight hour shift at Shop-n-Smile, exhausted and just DYING to get home, I get pulled over. JUST GREAT! It couldn't be a worse time to get a ticket since, as usual, we're broke, and our Shop-n-Smile and my university paychecks haven't started rolling in yet. I thought, maybe he'll see my Shop-n-Smile dork nametag and take pity on a poor, working slop like me. He had this giant, bright headlight on the side of his car that he kept shining into my rearview mirror rendering me paralyzed in fear and confusion. He did this about three times, rolling the light around a bit. I felt like there was something I was supposed to do, but had no idea what. Finally, a young male cop came to my window and said, "Could you please move your car farther off the road so I don't get hit."

- 'Oh, oh yeah, sure" *sheepish*

Then he walked over to the car, leaned down and said, "How long has your headlight been out?"

Oh crap.

Now, that stupid headlight has been going out for about a month now, but like a bad sitcom, what happens is this: Beau turns the car and headlights on, only the left headlight will shine, he then gets out and smacks the right headlight forcefully. The right headlight then obediently snaps on in cheery brightness. He gets back in the car and we drive off. I had punched it on myself two weeks earlier and it had inexplicably just kept coming on every time I turned the ignition thereafter without my Mafia-like ass-kicking persuasion. So, since it had been working for awhile, I had forgotten to threaten it that particular night.

I looked at the cop and said, "Um, can I get out and show you?" He said yes, I got out and timidly stepped around to the front of the car. I raised my arm and brought down the side of my fist onto the light.

*bam*

Nothing.

"Oh fuck oh fuck," I thought.

I hit it again, a little harder.

Nothing.

I hit it about five more times. "I can't BELIEVE this!" I thought in rising panic. Like he was going to believe me now! I gave it one more smack.

*blink* *shine*

I muttered under my breath that the light was DEAD, you hear me, DEAD, when we got home. Okay, that just went on in my mind. In reality I looked up at the police officer with hope and triumph in my eyes.

"What, is it just loose?" he asked.

- "Um, I don't know," I said. "It's stayed on for the past couple weeks so I thought it was fine now."

"Okay, let's see your license and proof of insurance then."

So, I got back in the car, frantically digging through the glove box (the overhead light in the car wouldn't turn on EITHER!), and gave them both to him. Again, snag. My license is still out-of-state and the insurance, though totally valid, is under my mother's name until April. And of course, like previously mentioned, the license plate and registration itself is still Wisconsin.

"You new to the area?" he asked.
- "Yes," I replied cheerfully, "We just moved here two months ago."
"You work at Shop-n-Smile, do you?"
- "Yes, I just started there."
"M'am, once you are gainfully employed, by law, you are required to get a driver's license from Montana."
- "Well, you see, I have a story about that..."

Which is true, I do, and it's a totally honest story. I can't reveal right now what it is. It's nothing that interesting. Still, even though everything I had said to the cop was true, even to my own ears it just started to sound like story after story, excuse after excuse. I braced for impact.

"Well, you make sure to get that new license and fix that light. You have a good night."

- "Oh. Oh? Oh! Thank you! Yes, okay!" I spluttered. I was stunned. I had never been let off of a ticket before. The three previous cops had all been big fat meanies to me. I was so relieved that I teared up. He went back to his car and I sat in mine. What made this comical, is that I didn't want to drive off before him. To add to all the other problems, the muffler on the car had just recently started to go, and though it had not yet reached epic noise pollution levels, I'm sure he would have noticed it, and the only "story" I had for this one is that we didn't have enough money yet to get it fixed. So, I sat there for a moment, nervous, but it was obvious he was waiting for me. So, very.....slowly....I began to drive off. I heard the engine growl, not too loudly, but still louder than normal. I bit my lip and continued on, my eyes darting to the rearview mirror every few seconds. No more flashing lights.

I drove home like a senior citizen. In one piece. No ticket.

Glory hallelujah!

Shame of the Senate -- The Bankruptcy Bill

I am so totally disgusted by the Bankruptcy bill that is making its way through Congress, passed in the Senate 74-25. Being a person teetering on the brink of financial disaster at all times, to find that the Republicans have puckered up, once again, to kiss the fat ass of big business, and flip the bird in the face of the poor once again, makes me feel an overwhelming rush of rage, sadness, nausea, despair, and disbelief.

The Republican dummies, (speaking from the ventriliquost lips of the credit card companies) state that bankruptcy is used by people to run up big debt on vacations and toys and then a way to escape paying. Give me a fucking break. Look, EVERYTHING has its abusers -- extremists who make the vast majority of any group look bad (just ask any Muslim). Like welfare, there are those who abuse, but the majority are those who truly need it. To try and pretend you're passing this bill because most people are abusers just makes the Republicans look either like cold-blooded liars, or absolute complete fucking idiots snowed over by big business.

Personal anecdote: I was raised, along with my aunt, by my grandparents. My grandfather was very ill and was "medically retired," which forced him legally to stay at home, collect his meager pension from 20 years at the Wisconsin Gas Company, take his nitroglycerin, do chores, smoke his Benson & Hedges Light 100's (soft pack), and watch the Cubs play on WGN. My grandmother worked in the snack bar of a local high school cafeteria. Can you imagine how much money we were taking in? When I was around 13 years old, they declared bankruptcy. At the time, I didn't really understand what it meant, though I did see that it changed things. No more credit cards (no credit at all for at least seven years, as they told me), Christmas' were even bleaker (as was the food), etc. Was it a major change in our lives? No, we kept our TV and aging, constantly-breaking-down car. We left the house with the pool (pools being fairly common in Arizona), and moved into a modest apartment (with a pool somewhere deep within the "complex"). We never had enough money to take vacation, purchase a new car, or buy lots of "toys," so it's not like that suddenly stopped. Once in awhile we "took a drive" somewhere in Arizona to gaze at flora and fauna, including one memorable 6-hour round trip to the Grand Canyon, which lasted all 'bout 5 minutes at the site itself, since my aunt had developed a toothache, which forced us all back into the car for an immediate drive back. I don't really remember any drives after bankruptcy, though I'm sure that has more to do with my aging, ill grandparents than money troubles.

About a year after bankruptcy, when I was 15, I started working. Not to provide my family with bread, this isn't a Dickens tale, but I did find that after my job began, I was paying for all of my own clothes, most of my food, and other things (like various school fees and obligations which were enormous in the affluent suburb I lived in). We had to pay a friend of mine $1/day to pick me up and take me to school. Once in awhile I borrowed money to my grandparents, which they were careful to pay back.

But if you're one of the Republicans "chosen people" (anyone making over 100k and who likes to donate to the party), fear not! There are loopholes! Sink your money into that 25 million dollar home before you declare bankruptcy and you get to keep it! No one can touch it! Leasing that Mercedes? Nooooo problem, you can go and take drive any time you like. Don't fear the repo! as the Blue Oyster Cult said.

Watching one of my favorite political shows, for its breakneck speed and pure amusement value, "The McLaughlan Group," I was surprised to see that everyone on the panel (with the exception of Pat Buchanan, surprise surprise), found the bill to be "mean-spirited" and a payoff to the credit card companies who have been lobbying for this for several years. Evan the bloated, pompous Tony Blankley of The Washington Post, who usually makes me want to spit at the TV, agreed that the loopholes for the rich were unmistakely wrong. I watched clips of the enraged (and also bloated) Ted Kennedy rage against the machine on the senate floor, to no avail. Well, there's one rich guy who doesn't seem to get enjoyment (and cash benefits) from using his Bruno Mali's to squash the poor.

As for how the senators voted themselves, click right here to see how each one decided on this issue..

I was happy (though not surprised) to see that my beloved Russ Feingold (D-WI) voted "Nay," but shocked and dismayed that Kohl (D-WI) voted Yea. Then I remembered that Kohl is a multi-millionaire (you might be famliar with Kohl's grocery and department stores, the latter which are spread across the Midwest/Northeast). And Hilary Clinton did not vote? WTF? So, we all know she's started campaigning for President already. It sickens me that one must be a total sell-out, and if I believed it were possible, sell their soul to be President.

Obama, Nay, McCain, Yea. My other senator, Schumer, Nay.

To those 25 who voted with a conscience, I thank you. To the 74 who voted for the credit card companies, here's hoping you don't ever lose your job or become ill. Though I hear that senators get a pretty good health plan.