Westboro to Picket Maya Angelou's Funeral? I Say Yes

It was with no surprise that I read reports that the Westboro Church have been calling for its members to picket the funeral of Dr. Maya Angelou.

Shocking? Yes. But here is my humble recommendation. Let them come.

This might be the closest many members of that Westboro family will be to grace. For some, this is the closest they will ever have been to true dignity.

Dr. Angelou is one of the few people on God’s planet who could have soothed such troubled souls. She is likely the only one who could have broken through the barriers of anger and hatred.

Who better to remind them of our common humanity? Who better to remind them of the beauty they abandon when they embrace bitterness and hatred? Dr. Angelou never begrudged anyone the feeling of anger. When pointed in the right direction, anger over true injustice can force change and move mountains of ignorance.

Who better to teach members of the church of hate than a woman who rose from what could, at best, be called difficulty? By the standards of many of the same people who now sit in judgment of the Westboro group, Maya Angelou was not supposed to ever amount to much. Her poise and persistence tamed them. Now their children honor her.

Their words, their signs, their hatred are a small beacon in the presence of the illuminating sunlight that still emanates from Dr. Angelou's memory. Nothing but the absence of humanity will erase the impact that Dr. Angelou has had on thousands upon thousands.

Let them come. Let them fight the windmills. Let them scream like the aimless army they have become. Meaningless screams do not equal a voice. It equals noise.

I may not have the honor or privilege to attend a memorial service to Dr. Angelou, but her words and her memory lift me up.

Let them come. I realize the risk is not to Dr. Angelou, but to the mourners who were so deeply touched by her work and her spirit. While we sometimes falter and allow words to cut deeply, Dr. Angelou’s passing reminds us that dignity and love are their own armor.

In her passing, we’re all fortunate now to feel her presence. Westboro cannot touch me. They cannot touch us.

Let them come, I say.

“Prejudice is a burden that confuses the past, threatens the future and renders the present inaccessible.” Dr. Maya Angelou.

Kings vs. Ducks, One Fan's Love Hate Relationship

For thousands of us hockey fans throughout Southern California, marginalized and beleaguered as we often feel, the Los Angeles Kings/Anaheim Ducks playoff series is the stuff of dreams.

 

"This highly anticipated Kings-Ducks playoff series will capture the excitement and the imagination of the most casual hockey and sports fan in Southern California in addition to our loyal, die-hard Kings fans," Kings President of Business Operations Luc Robitaille told NHL online.

Excitement? Maybe. For me it’s a nightmare. You see I am a die-hard Kings fan. But I was supposed to and deeply wanted to be a die-hard Anaheim fan.

The Ducks were supposed to be my team. But they are not. Right or wrong, petty or valid, I blame the old Duck ownership for this. My dislike of them comes from a deeply personal place.

Though I was born in Los Angeles, my family moved to Orange County when I was 1 ½.  In 1990 when I met my now husband, OC born and bred, he was a fan of the Kings, then the only So Cal hockey team. Though I was intrigued by the sport, thanks to the 1980 Winter Olympics, the boyfriend finally presented an opportunity to learn hockey.

He took me to my first game at the Great Western Forum. Kings vs. Redwings. And that was it. I was hooked.

So you can imagine our excitement in 1993 when they announced the arrival of a new team TO ORANGE COUNTY! Thank you Disney Company!

This would be our team! No more driving to Los Angeles! Finally, hockey in my home county.  It was GREAT! Until it wasn’t.

I can’t remember the first time I felt hesitation about the new team. I remember seeing Michael Eisner constantly discussing their “new project.” Then stories began to roll out about the company’s plan to, um, sanitize the sport.

There would be cheerleaders. There would be song and dance. Disney was going to attempt to transform what some saw as a violent sport into a family-friendly activity.

“You know it’s not always violent,” I remember telling my husband. By then Wayne Gretzky played for the Kings. He was amazing to watch even as he grew older. Graceful and skilled, he can count the number of times he’s been in a fight on one hand and have fingers left over.

“I know,” my hubby responded.

Then came the name.

Given all we knew about Disney’s plans, I prayed that Eisner would resist naming the team after the Disney children’s film “The Mighty Ducks,” released in 1992.

“That would make it a marketing tool wouldn’t it?” I asked my husband. You’re using the team to promote Disney as much as your using Disney to promote the team, I remember saying.

By then my husband and I were really hesitant.

Then came the announcement from Eisner that the name would indeed be the Mighty Ducks.

My heart sank.

Oh well right? It’s their team. They can do what they want. And for me, that’s the point. Most, if not all, sports teams ask fans to invest personally. This did not sound like it was going to be our team. Still, I thought, there was a chance I could connect with the team despite the immense PR machine.

Until the Iceman happened during the first regular season game. True to their word that they would make this a Disney-worthy production, Eisner and Co. brought us a character described by the Los Angeles Times as a man with “silver-faced, frazzle-haired looks and rock-till-you-drop demeanor.” It was a disaster.

My resentment grew. By then I felt disconnected from the Mighty Ducks and turning more toward the team that had first taught me to love hockey. LA hockey then was nothing fancy. It wasn’t as if the arena was bursting at the seams with people. Even the bathrooms at the Forum were difficult to deal with.

But they were my team. I thought I’d just root for the Kings quietly. But then came the merchandise.

A tidal wave of family and friends started buying Duck’s merchandise. It wasn’t anything other teams hadn’t already been exploiting, ie. the teal wearing San Jose Sharks. But this marketing avalanche was intense. Lettermen jackets, duck calls, duck masks. And the hockey sweaters? Eggplant and teal with an innovative diagonal strip never before seen on a hockey jersey. A trend was begun.

The marketing blitz was far from unusual, but this one seemed unparalleled. This feeding frenzy was almost an embarrassment of riches especially after running into a string of people in Mighty Ducks gear who could not name a single player on their team but remembered that Emilio Estevez was in the movie.

A sense of snobbery took over and I was done. In my heart, I knew this would never become my team.

Despite all this my other Orange County friends were undeterred. Several kept us up to date on efforts to start a booster organization. Complaints began after, according to our friends, the team’s ownership did not welcome their efforts. I don’t know if they ever did.

According to friends, they were told thanks but no thanks.

Then Ducks coach Ron Wilson opened his mouth. Since the Mighty Ducks were not an option, I had turned to roller hockey and the Anaheim Bullfrogs. I’m showing my age here. They were fun. It was a simple, fun, indoor roller hockey game. I was a huge fan of goalie Rob Laurie. And we were good. Unlike the Ducks (and the Kings) they brought home a championship. A Roller Hockey International championship. A banner was hung at the Pond.

Ron Wilson didn’t like it. He wanted the banner down.

“What’s the problem?” my annoyed husband said at the time. “What’s the harm in the banner? If he hates it, why doesn’t he win a cup so he can replace it?”

As if all of that was not enough, in 2002, the Angels (my team forever) had a special offer for fan Appreciation Day. We could trade our Angels ticket stubs for a Mighty Ducks preseason game ticket. They were playing the Kings.

My sister and I attended the hockey game. As we walked from the Big A to the Pond, I watched several fans along the way stop at their vehicles and change out of Angels jersey’s and into King’s sweaters.

Pre-season for either team in those days meant “good seats still available.” Still as the game got underway I found the Kings fans cheers equaled in decibels to the Duck fans. And the Kings were giving their fans a lot of reason to cheer at that game.

Am I bragging? No.

I was quiet while a Ducks fan behind us railed against what was happening and against a young Ducks player who seemed to be struggling out on the ice.

“Why the hell are there so many Kings fans here?” he asked as I flashed back to the scene in the Big A parking lot. “That’s pathetic.”

Referring to the young Duck on the ice, “He will NEVER own a home in Orange County. NEVER. He might as well pack now. He’ll never be a resident here.”

He repeated this several times. My sister, the man’s wife and I sat quiet and let his angry words echo out past us and to the empty seats surrounding our foursome. In some ways, this shaped my perception of a Ducks fan.

I attended one other Kings/Ducks game at the Pond and the experience was similar. I’ve not returned since. When the Ducks won the cup, I wished them well and followed none of the coverage. I still won’t.

But now here we are, at the series that Southern California hockey fans have long waited for. I can’t tell you how difficult it is because I do respect my friends who follow the Ducks. I adore Teemu Selanne who is a class act. But when I see that team, I know what’s comes with it. I brace for the exchange of insults. I have to fight the urge to show unreasonable emotion.

It might be accurate to say that my dislike for the Ducks is almost as much out of a personal sense of loss as it is from a sense of team/city pride. It still stings.

I am not going to switch allegiances. I am loyal. Actually I am a rabid Kings fan now. They say, “If you don’t like the team, you can leave.” Except now they’re in our house. And I feel forced to relive so much of what made me turn away from a team I so desperately wanted.

Journalism, Our Biggest Export?

I'm a bit tired so this is going to be a short entry today.

But I had to write because I'm getting the sense that a lot of journalists are leaving, not the business, the country.

At my last count, former Sun Sports columnist Paul Oberjuerge went to United Arab Emirates (Abu Dhabi); former Daily Bulletin reporter Todd Ruiz works in Bangkok; former Daily Bulletin editor Rob Wagner writes and teaches in Saudi Arabia; former PE staffer Tom Griggs, left to Japan to join Stars and Stripes (though I'm not sure he is still with them.)

Now I see that John Miller, a city editor from the Los Angeles Daily News, is leaving to teach high school English in Kuwait.

Are we all that fed up? I think most of us are. I know that if someone offered me or Bill a job in Costa Rica, we'd start looking at the cost of airfare.

Am I thinking of leaving? Well not right now. Patch seems to be holding its own much to the disgust of members of the news hierarchy.

So where does that leave us? Becoming a more generic form of media rather than members of the press. That's my fear. We're moving out and money makers like TMZ (Michael Jackson story,) The National Enquirer (John Edwards story) and even Facebook (viral video of a cat playing the piano and a woman weeping over an In & Out burger) are moving in.

That's an exaggerated fear, perhaps. But it just feels like all the of journalism we molded and created in this country is better appreciated and welcomed elsewhere.

To me that's a sad thought.

Side effects include funeral costs?

I had a funny experience recently with my asthma medication.

As most of you know, I've had a life-long battle with asthma. We all know that the illness can kill. But I've always been one of those sufferers whose life was never quite at risk. I have two inhalers, Symbicort, a maintenance inhaler, and a Xopenex emergency inhaler (which I was told was better for the environment than other aerosol inhalers.)

My health is fine.

Recently I started working with a young man who deals day-in, day-out with a serious condition. He's open about it in his blog so I won't go into it here. But on his most recent blog entry, he listed the side effects of one of his medications.

They included:

• Diarrhea
• Dizziness
• Drowsiness
• Indigestion

(snip)

• Severe allergic reactions (rash; hives; itching; difficulty breathing)
• Tightness in the chest
• Swelling of the mouth, face, lips, or tongue
• Bloody stools
• Blurred vision

(snip)

• Blistered or peeling skin
• Ringing in the ears
• Seizures

"Geez," I told the husband. "Are these medications even worth taking?"

"All medications have side effects," he said.

That's when I started thinking. He was absolutely right. So, obviously my medications do too!

I called up Google, where everyone else gets their medical advice, and looked up Symbicort. Here's what I found:

Long-acting beta2-adrenergic agonists (LABA), such as formoterol one of the active ingredients in Symbicort, increase the risk of asthma-related death.

Ok, it's a warning. I kept looking but kept finding the same darned warning. Now they're bumming me out.

I told Bill, "Either I'm about to die or I suck at Googling."

I obsessed over finding something. Then it occurred to me, the medication guide! There, for the world to see, were the side effects. The first of which was "death from asthma problems."

BUT that was followed by the full compliment more common side effects including throat irritation, fever, headache sinusitis, flu, back pain, stomach discomfort, vomiting, thrush, increased blood pressure, nervousness, tremor, a fast irregular heartbeat, chest pain and all sorts of allergic reactions (hives, rash swelling.) My favorite side effect is "increased troubles breathing."

Nice. Can't breathe before, can't breathe after.

Trust me when I tell you that NONE of the side effects I listed COME CLOSE to the ones my fellow journo listed. But it is interesting. I can say that when I'm in the midst of an asthma attack, nothing else flipping matters than sucking on that inhaler, so I guess it's worth it.

Whaddya gonna do but pass the prescription pad.

How do you make a couple thousand in a few weeks? Seriously? My grandmother turns 102 in July. She lives in Costa Rica. We just lost my father. We could soon lose my grandmother. How the hell do you raise enough money to pay $350-$400 in plane tickets for three people? We really need to see my abuelita!

Hee hee Where have you gone?

I've been trying to recruit bloggers for my site. The Patch. For those of you who had forgotten about this blog, believe me, I don't blame you. I disappeared.

I have been all sorts of annoyed that people have not been committed too their blogs. Then I logged on and checked to see the last entry on mine.

Right! I think I'll be dropping by as often as I can. To at least throw in a couple things.

27 Days: Lessons from a day at the park

On Saturday, Lucky finally conquered the slide.

The pesky playground slide had thwarted my 2 and a half year old for, well, for as long as he’s been old enough to use a playground slide. The very first time he slid down, he turned around and tried to scramble back up the slippery slope.

It was his Everest. It usually ended win Lucky surrendering and going around to use the steps to get back on.

But not on Saturday. Not only did he conquer the little slide. He managed to climb up the 6-foot twisty one.

And to think, it almost didn’t happen … because his mommy almost stopped him

As I begin my countdown to 40, I thought it would be appropriate to do some writing. I might look back or I might try to look forward. But hopefully, I might discover something about myself. On March 27, I will have lived 40 years. It‘s time to take stock.

The best subject to start with is Lucky, who has helped me grow more than anyone in my life. Children just do that. You want to keep them from harm.

Truth be told, there is a part of me that wants to wrap all but his face in bubble wrap when we hit the playground. Especially when he tries to climb things that take him several feet off the ground. On Saturday, my son discovered that by going up the slide bum first and using his hands to push himself up was the way to go.

However, this position sometimes caused his head and a shoulder to lean out over the edge. I pictured him losing his grip and falling to the ground. My heart jumped into my throat when I realized what he was doing. And I blurted out, “Stop! Stop it now!”

He looked at me and paused. I realized he was facing a choice, lose the ground he worked so hard to gain or risk making one very panicked mama angry.

I’m not sure what other parents might have done. I’m sure there are a bevy of answers I would get if I asked around. But I was acting on what I was taught in childhood. And that experience wasn’t exactly a good one.

My childhood was one big “BE CAREFUL.” And I was shielded in ways you couldn’t imagine. There was the time I asked about joining Girl Scouts. Mom said no. Someone might molest me. During my classes for First Communion, I was the only child who did not go on a field trip to a farm because farms are for adults. They’re dangerous. I was not allowed to climb trees. Oh and a parent had volunteered to drive the children. NO WAY my mom said. What if that parent crashed the car. I might die.

I was not allowed to do much. I secretly did a lot - I even smoked as a pre-teen a few times - but I was always in fear when I did it.

This is how I started life. Afraid of everything. I realize a long time ago that I still fight back the idea that I can’t do something, physical (and otherwise) because it’s too much for me. And I’ll get hurt.

Back to Lucky and the park. For a split second, he looked at me, then tested his limits by taking a slight step and continuing his climb. And I realized the boy didn’t need a lecture, he needed a spotter. With hands up, to catch him in case he came tumbling down, I watched him make the climb. He made it … five times. And I cheered every time.

When he got bored, he moved on to something else.

I’m still not sure if I was right to let him do it. Worse yet, here I am cheering his little achievement. What have I done? Given the kid license to do something crazy? Like Shaun White or Bode Miller or Apolo Ohno? Lucky may never be an Olympian or an NHL player. If ever someone told them “Don’t. You’ll get hurt,” I’m glad they didn’t listen.

So maybe this means I’m going to standing under a lot of slides with my arms up for a long while. And you know what? I don’t mind that at all.