Crooked

This is the image that Good Morning America chose for their online piece about Notre Dame women's basketball coach Muffet Mcgraw's decision to only hire women for coaching staff.

In her remarks cited in the article, McGraw defends her choice with several well-supported points about the inequities facing women in athletics and in the general workplace. But the photo? Makes her look strident and angry, undercutting the rational nature of McGraw's argument and decision.

The fact that a mainstream media outlet feels free to commit such a microaggression against a woman underscores McGraw's point that the playing field is far from level.

Tuning In

I've noticed that most medical waiting rooms are outfitted with TVs, which are usually tuned to either HGTV or the Food Channel. I don't mind it-- it helps to pass the time away when I'm either waiting for an appointment or procedure for myself or whomever I'm with. Those channels are pretty quick release: easy to engage and disengage with as necessary. Until recently, I thought that was the only purpose for that particular programming.

Here at the Mayo Clinic, which is widely recognized as one of the top health care facilities in the world, they have no such thing. Patients and their supporters linger quietly in spacious waiting areas adorned with fine art, and magazines and jigsaw puzzles spread out on round tables. In the atrium of the Gonda building there is a baby grand piano that anyone may play. A mile away, on the older St, Mary's campus, the spaces are not quite as grand, but the art is pleasant, and there are no televisions for we who wait.

Early yesterday, my mom and I sat side by side in one such waiting area. With 89 miles between the clinic and her home, we have given ourselves a lot of cushion when it comes to travel time on our three round trips down here this week. As we waited more than hour for her name to be called, I quickly exhausted all my means of entertainment, and tuned my phone to The Today Show. We leaned together and watched for a few minutes, until the wifi speed let us down.

Even so, for that brief amount of time, I felt connected to a world outside of the place we were stuck right then, and my spirits rose.

Take note, Mayo.

Respect the Boundaries

As I stepped onto the elevator to go to my hotel room after an unexpectedly long day, I heard someone shout, "Wait!"

Two boys of perhaps eleven or twelve were already in the car when I boarded, and they obligingly held the door for a women and another kid around their age.

I had pressed 8, the boys had 9, and the women asked for 2. On our short journey up, one of the boys said to the other, "We have to go to eleven to get my shoes, then we can go to your room to--"

The women shook her head. "You all are so bad!" she scolded them.

"What??" they looked at her innocently.

"Well for starters, the last time we were on here together, you pushed all the buttons."

They laughed. The elevator dinged. The lady and the kid with her got off.

"Should we?" one of the remaining boys said to the other.

I eyed them, levelly. "If you do? I'll kick you!" I told them.

"What?" said the kid by the buttons.

"Well," I amended, "I'll kick you," I looked at the shoeless one next to him, "but I'll stomp on your toes."

They gasped, then giggled. The elevator dinged again, and we were on my floor.

"Now, you can press any button you want!" I told them.

"Really?" asked one.

Sure," I shrugged, "I'm not going be on here."

His fingers ran up and down the column of buttons, illuminating each and every one. "Have a nice day!" he called after me as I stepped off. "I mean, have a nice rest of your day!"

And the funny thing was, I knew he really meant it.

Indelible

There are some inexplicably unforgettable moments in my life, memories of small things that happened decades ago, and yet they return to me again and again.

One of them is a time in early 1974. I needed fabric for a home ec project in school. We were making simple drawstring bags, just a rectangle of material, with a big square pocket sewn on, then folded in half inside out, stitched up the sides, a folded seam on top, and a drawstring threaded through. It was a classic intro to the sewing machine for young girls.

My difficulty with the project is perhaps a story for another day, but this memory involves my mother and me going out into the dark of a wintery Sunday night to get the supplies I needed. I'm not sure where the fabric store was in relation to our house, but it seems like the trip was longer than a usual errand. Maybe it was because it was only me and my mom, which was also out of the ordinary, rarely did we go places without my younger brother and sister along.

I remember sitting in the front seat, and listening to the radio tuned to Casey Kasem's American Top 40, and not wanting to miss any of the countdown when we went into the store. I also remember the material we bought. It was a thin wale off-white corduroy with big yellow and blue flowers on it, perfect for the 70s, and I loved it. Back in the car, we drove home as the countdown continued. I'm sure we sang along, but I have no memory of the specific songs.

45 years later, it's still unusual for me to spend one on one time with my mom. Our family is very close emotionally, but not all of us geographically, and where two gather, the rest are often drawn. This week, though, my mom and I have spent lots time together, and plenty of it in the car. Today on an errand of a different kind,  Casey wasn't counting them down, but we did tune in to a station that played hits from the 70s, and we sang along as the miles rolled past.

Play it Again

Sometimes when I am watching recorded TV I forget that I can skip the commercials. The ads just kind of wash over me, as they have for most of my life: some are more engaging than others; none actually make me want to buy anything.

Occasionally, there will be a commercial that will date the original broadcast and fix it in a particular time, which is definitely not when I am watching it. At such times I experience a slight sense of being in two times at once, a milder version of the cognitive dissonance I imagine a real time traveler might feel.

Scenes of news or weather events in the past, holidays, and seasons gone by make me consider where I was and what was happening in my life when the recording first aired and what has changed since then. And for a moment I am lost, until the bittersweet tang of nostalgia slaps me to my senses and I hit fast forward, catapulting myself back to the present.

Uff Da

Minnesota is well known for the pleasant public nature of its denizens, but last night at the airport the "Minnesota Nice" was fraying a little bit. The addition of spring break and NCAA final four travel to the regular traffic at MSP flooded the curbsides of the arrivals area with weary travelers and harried drivers struggling to connect, load up, and head out.

That's where I found myself in the dusky late evening. Standing on tip toe, I jostled for position and scanned four lanes of braiding traffic for one dark gray Toyota with my mother at the wheel. Twice I grabbed my bag and dashed toward some promising sedan, only to be disappointed. As for my mom, she had to loop around twice, because it was so hard to spot me in the crowd.

As I waited, I witnessed many rushed reunions, and if anyone lingered a little too long in the loading lane, someone on the curb would grumble. Once, I even heard an open gripe and the beep of a horn, but just once.

The Window Seat

As I looked out the tiny portal of my window seat, other jets sped through the cold blue like toys. At 36,000 feet the air temperature was 81 below, and Ohio spread out below me like a lumpy gray quilt shot through with shiny threads of rivers. We were heading northwest, and every time I looked away from the window the cabin was bronze and dusky until my eyes adjusted from the sun to the plain gloom of the plane. Even so, after a lifetime of flying, I couldn’t look away: there was literally too much to see.