Pride. And Shame.

Back when I was in second grade, I remember thinking I could be President of the United States. Our teacher, Mrs. Solomon, traced our profiles in silhouette for us on black construction paper. We then wrote out short essays on what we wanted to be when we grew up. At the time, my heroes were Martin Luther King and Abraham Lincoln; I wrote in wobbly pencil that I wanted to be “a poet and a vet and President of the United States” and glued it to my profile.

I remember showing this work to my father, who assured me that yes, I most certainly could be POTUS one day.  Why did he leave India and come to this country with his battered suitcase of ragged underwear, if not for that very reason? My mother kept the silhouette essay, along with every other artifact from my past, in an overstuffed file folder in the study, and as time passed, I forgot about it – and my overreaching, unrealistic ambition – entirely.

Until yesterday, when America elected Barack Obama as our 44th President.

I couldn’t be prouder to be an American citizen than I am today. For eight years, I have cringed at the incessant flag-waving and accusations of anti-patriotism and crazy people in souped-up pick-up trucks with decals of Calvin pissing on everything in sight and licenses to hunt terrorists. Now, for the first time in ages, I can wave a flag along with the rest of my fellow citizens in honor of life as an American and a citizen of the world. I can imagine children of all colors looking at this man – this dignified, proud, hopeful, intelligent, articulate, uplifting new leader of ours – and seeing the possibility that they too, can rise above and beyond.

And then there’s the pure unadulterated shame of being Alaskan. Oh, we’re independent, all right. We won’t vote for a black man, but we sure as hell don’t mind voting for a old white crook. Because right now, Senator Ted Stevens, our erstwhile I’m-Not-A-Convicted-Felon-Until-I’m-Sentenced Senator, is actually leading the race against our current Democratic mayor, Mark Begich. Right now, Congressman-in-Perpetuity Don Young has apparently defeated Ethan Berkowitz and will serve his NINETEENTH term in the U.S. House of Representatives. And right now, the prodigal daughter “Just Shut Up” Sarah Palin, cleared of ethics violations, is on her way home, where she will no doubt be welcomed with cheers and sympathy.

Yes, Alaskans have spoken loudly – as loudly as it’s possible to speak with your head wedged up your backside, anyway. Never mind that some of us are hoping “Convicted Felon International Airport” will convey a certain edgy cachet to our summer visitors.  Never mind how we are going to have to try, once again, to convince friends and families Outside that Alaska is not actually a national holding colony for the lunatic fringe. Never mind that the entire world thinks we are a bunch of ignorant louts, hicks and morons, and rightly so. We had a chance to do what the rest of the country did – clean house – and instead, we chose to continue rolling in the dirt.  Behind the guns, Carharrts and duct tape, we’re not independent at all; we’re as dependent as it gets, clinging desperately to the corrupt old geezers that keep us in pork.

I used to tell people Alaska was different.  Sure, people are a little odd and rough around the edges, but there’s a good clean romantic wholesomeness about it that the rest of America could use. Well, not any more. The Last Frontier? More like the Last Front. Turns out we’re not so different at all when it comes to greed, handouts, and big-level corruption. If anything, we’ve set a new standard for denial and self-deceit. And with a little funding, we can even dress ourselves up at fancy department stores so you can’t even tell us from the rest of you.

To vote in some real change here in Alaska – now THAT would be some independent thinking.  Looks like once again the rest of the country is way ahead of us.

Sarah Palin: Valley Girl V.P.

We went to the Alaska State Fair yesterday in Palmer, Alaska, Usually I make it a point not to go to the fair unless it’s guaranteed to be sunny. On a sunny day, the fair is everything a state fair should be: the ferris wheel, cotton candy, painted faces and baby farm animals. Oh, and giant cabbages and other outsized vegetables looking like they were grown in the front yard of a nuclear power plant. That’s what summers with 24 hour light will do to a zucchini.

On a rainy day, though, the fair is like a scene from a Ray Bradbury story or a Stephen King book. Leering carnies, limping freaks, cranky kids, and the smell of wet dog everywhere. Who needs it?

But this year, the weather was so unpredictable, and with only three days left, we decided to brave it and head out. And miracle of miracles, we got sun. Perhaps it was the Valley’s way of celebrating the ascension of hockey-mom-turned-Republican-pin-up-girl Sarah Palin to the Republican vice presidential nomination.

The mood at the fair was jubilant. Newly printed “McCain/Palin” t-shirts were already out in full force and going faster than barbequed turkey legs. Every other conversation was abuzz with the talk of how our governor, our own home-grown Valley Girl, was now in the national spotlight.

Even I, a staunch Massachusetts Democrat, have to admit there’s a certain wow factor in having one of our own be chosen. Alaska is so small in population, and so forgotten on the political map, that having someone we practically KNOW be catapulted into the limelight does give you a little thrill. No one’s ignoring us NOW. Suddenly, my voice mail and e-mail is flooded with people wanting to know: JUST WHO IS THIS ALASKAN CHICK?

We first heard the news about Sarah’s nomination from -who else? – my father, calling at 7 in the morning from the east coast to ask what we thought. We watched the coverage in a haze of disbelief. I found it hard to shake the thought that we were really viewing a Saturday Night Live skit, with Tina Fey playing the Palinista.

Is she attractive? Sure. After all, she was Miss Wasilla in 1984 and a runner-up to Miss Alaska. One of our friends jokingly describes her look at “porn star librarian”; you can’t accuse her of pantsuit frumpiness. Is she spunky? Let’s just say if Sally Fields were 20 years younger, she’d be playing her in the bio-pic. Does she superficially represent the demographic that McCain hopes to entice? Probably. She’s young. She’s hot. She’s a hunter and an evangelical Christian and a mother of five. Yeah, she’s being used shamelessly, and she’d be an idiot not to know it. Hell, isn’t that what politics are all about?

But let’s get real for a minute. Wasilla is a town of approximately 7,000, composed mostly of the kind of folks that inspired my post on aerial shooting of wolves (which, I might add, Sarah’s administration heartily supports). The joke about Wasilla is that after a divorce, you can still be brother and sister. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Still, Sarah has been governor here for less than two years. She is currently embroiled in a local controversy involving her sister’s ex-husband that would make a fantastic Mexican telenovella. I’m not underestimating her smarts – she’s no dummy, and I respect that – but from governor of Alaska to the now-cliched “heartbeat away” from running the country?

As a Presidential hopeful, McCain’s decision is not only foolish, it’s downright irresponsible. When I help people with estate planning, I tell them to pick guardians and trustees for their kids as if they were going to die tomorrow. And the chance of that happening to McCain is a whole lot higher than most of those new young parents. “Plan for the worst, hope for the best” is a wise strategy; instead, McCain is hoping for the best and making the worst plan.

And about that whole gender issue. I’m all for women rising up in the political world, but to think that Sarah Palin could somehow steal the Hillary voters is ludicrous and offensive to women. Ms. Palin is no advocate for women when it comes to social and political issues that concerned Hillary’s supporters, especially on the issue of abortion rights. She may be a woman, but she’s not THE woman, and I’d like to think women have made it far enough that they can be judged on their merits, not on their gender. Hey, McCain – we’re not stupid.

Back at the fair, the Bug and I rode on a little roller coaster that made me want to hurl, and he rode the ferris wheel with his dad. We ate crab cakes and bisque and Denali cream puffs and a baked potato filled with chicken curry and shave ice and a pulled pork sandwich and ice cream and pizza and jambalaya. I felt like the rat, Templeton, from “Charlotte’s Web.” And when we got home, my husband actually complained that he forgot to get the newest food hit, a pork chop on a stick.

Then the Bug won a stuffed penguin and a toy snake by fishing rubber ducks out of a pond. We patted every animal in the petting zoo, and the Bug cried for the donkey who was muzzled so he wouldn’t eat the goat food. We watched the BMX guys and a dog catching frisbees. All in all, a great day at the fair. And all that time, we tried not to think about our nation with Sarah Palin in charge, because it made the day a little chillier.

On the way out, all tired and nauseous from overindulgence, we ran into some friends. As we all stood there surrounded by Palin supporters in their newly-minted grey t-shirts, I joked that we should start selling “NO McCain/Palin” shirts, while my husband said, “Sarah Palin? What a nightmare!”

Our friend looked around nervously. “Keep it down,” he hissed. “You could get lynched out here for saying that!”

Probably. Or at least beaten senseless with a giant zucchini.

Sun day, bloody sun day

You want to know the worst thing about not being a morning person in Alaska?  Summer.  Because from June to August, it’s morning ALL DAY LONG.  It’s morning in the morning! It’s morning in the evening! It’s morning at night!  The weather report says “cloudy today, sunny tonight.” The lawn needs mowing every two hours. Children go outside to play and come home in September.   The Bug even made up his own lexicon for this phenomenon – “day-day” and “night-day”.  (“Bedtime”, naturally, does not fall within either of those times. )

The first summer I lived in Alaska, I ordered some of those cool tiki torches from Crate and Barrel, the kind you arrange around your deck to create the illusion that you’re not eating dinner on a cul-de-sac two blocks from Walmart but are actually on vacation in Tahiti.  I waited and waited all summer to light them.  Finally, it snowed.  Tahiti, my ass – we’re on vacation in the Ice Age.   Because there’s no warm darkness here; it’s either warm or it’s dark.  Forget 4th of July fireworks, because you can’t see them unless you set them off in the crawl space. 

Yes, there is no escape from a beautiful June day.  That’s why I think we should have state-sanctioned “sun days”, when schools and offices are closed due to extremely good weather.  Think about it. Most cold-weather cities have occasional snow days in winter, but not Anchorage.  We pride ourselves on driving to work and sending our kids off to school in all conditions, even when the ice on the road can be measured in feet and you have to tunnel like moles out of the front door.  Having sunny summer days off (according to statistics, we get only ten of them, and it’s axiomatic that they fall on weekdays) should be our just reward.

Besides, most Alaskans are unfit for employment when the sun is out, unless they’re landscapers or professional river rafting guides.  The sweet siren song of the outdoors beckons the rest of us to come out and play, rendering our brains utterly useless for anything that involves a) thinking and b) being inside.  There are fish to be caught, trails to be hiked, gardens to be tended, creeks to be waded.  They are precious jewels, these rare and lovely days drenched in shades of sapphire, emerald and gold, days to savor and treasure.

Oh yeah.

The road to Hope

Hope, Alaska, that is.  Our family shares a cabin (in the sense of “three bedroom heated house with running water, microwave, and large-screen television”) with three other couples, which means we each have one weekend a month in this wonderful quaint and quirky little gold-mining town, year round population 100.  It’s just an hour and a half by car, close enough for us to survive listening to Wee Sing Dinosaurs on repeat, and far enough so that we feel like we’re actually Getting Away from Things Undone – unpaid bills, unmowed lawns, unscooped litter boxes.

The Bug fully expects our undivided attention on these weekends, so we take it in turns to play animals/do puzzles/color/build a cabin out of Lincoln Logs.  This particular weekend was spent finding new and creative ways to use my latest purchase on e-bay, dinosaur cookie cutters.  Thus, we baked dinosaur cookies, traced, colored and cut out dinosaur shapes, made clay out of flour to cut out MORE dinosaurs, and set up a dinosaur parade.

Things we like to do in Hope when not engaged in dinosaur-related activity:

1.  Walk to the river and attempt to change the local topography by throwing no less than a bajillion rocks

2.  Eat dinner at Bowman’s Bear Creek Cafe, a local restaurant with food that would put the finest restaurants anywhere to shame

3.  Check out books at the library, where the toilet pipes are frozen all winter and heat is provided by a wood stove

4.  Feed the horses and giggle uncontrollably when they wheeze down your neck

5.  Have a leisurely breakfast at Tito’s Discovery Cafe

6.  Eat Cheez-Its, donuts, and “toucan cereal” (Froot Loops to the old-schoolers), because all food rules are off in Hope

7.  Explore the local trails while singing Hindi songs in terrible accent at top of lungs – guaranteed to scare off bears

Now that the Bug has mastered the art of riding a bike, we’ll be adding bike trips to the ice cream and penny candy shop that’s opening next month in the old post office.

It’s the kind of place that eases homesickness, even if it’s as far from home as an Indian girl from the East Coast can get.

 

Breaking Up is hard to (dog) do.

No matter how long the winter, spring is sure to follow. ~ Proverb

It’s been a long hard winter, even by Alaska standards, but at last, at last – it’s Break-Up time.

To which Sourdoughs everwhere say, “Oh, shit.”

A brief explanation about terminology here in the Last Frontier.  In local lingo, ordinary words can have radically different meanings.  For instance, Alaskans use “Outside” to mean “out of state” (ergo, “I’m going Outside to visit my family”).  A “sourdough” is anyone hardy (or stupid) enough to have survived a winter.  And the term “Break-Up” has nothing to do with relationships; it’s the couple of weeks in late spring when the snow and ice melts, revealing discarded Christmas trees, that damn garden hose you never brought in last fall, perhaps an occasional corpse.

Oh, yeah – and DOG CRAP.

Winter is six months long here in a good year.  Never mind average snowfall, you can measure it objectively in dog poop.  Per capita, Alaskans own 2.7 dogs, each pooping twice a day.   We’re talking metric tonnage here.   And let’s not even mention what it smells like.  I’ll just say that right around April it puts the fuck in “What the fuck is that hellacious stench?!”

(Like any sane couple, my husband and I were initially horrified to see our first dog, a gorgeous white husky mix, out in the snow, crunching away happily on her own frozen product.  What kind of demon-spawn fathered that mutt? , we thought.  And, She gets it from YOUR side of the family.  Then we realized there were actually advantages to this nauseating habit.  Like, less money spent on dog food, more money for beer and extra-strength chapstick.  Even better, less poop to scoop in spring.  Alas, we haven’t been able to train our second dog to adopt this handy diet.  Stupid dog.)

All of which brings me to Break-Up Boots – rubber boots up to your neck, designed to protect you from the hazardous tsunami of icy Break-Up sludge.   After duct tape, these boots are every Alaskan’s best friends.  Like the Coast Guard of the feet nation, your Break-Up Boots are all that stand between you and the kind of canine-related biohazardous waste that requires immediately bathing in hand sanitizer.  Good boots.  Good good boots.

In fact, you and your four year old would be wise to wear these boots if you are, say, out on a spontaneous jaunt on the local bike path, where it’s still a bit icy and treacherous during Break-Up. 

And if you and said four year old are not wearing said boots, AND if he, in the process of transforming into a Tyrannosaurus Rex, should stomp in what appears to be a mere puddle but turns out to be a surprisingly deep ditch, AND if T-Rex, not being known for his stable footing on ice, should slip directly into said ditch and be lying up to his neck flailing in what can only be described as a SEA OF DOG CRAP, prompting you to scream “CLOSE YOUR MOUTH, HONEY!” while doubled over laughing, do not, I repeat, DO NOT, under any circumstances relate this incident to the four year old’s father.

Or the words “break up” might take on a whole new meaning.