Michiana Chronicles

Friday, March 19, 2010

Trials of our Times

What do I know about lawyers?  Well, I harbored a deep adolescent crush on the floppy-haired lead in the 1970s TV series, The Paper Chase – does that count?  What could be more romantic to a budding nerd than a show about late-night study groups and the adrenalin rush of the Socratic method?  I barely noticed the near-absence of women in those classrooms; I was caught up in my fantasized quest to prove to John Houseman’s irascible Professor Kingsfield that I was up to his standards. You may remember that every show replayed Kingsfield’s threatening promise to his students:  “You teach yourselves the law.  I train your minds.  You come in here with a skull full of mush, and if you survive, you’ll leave thinking like a lawyer.”

What does that mean?  To think like a lawyer?  For lots of teenagers in Michiana, the thrilling and fraught world of “Mock Trial” competition brings this question to life every winter.  Mock trial sounds straight out of Alice in Wonderland, and that’s not far off – it’s a simulated trial in which students are given the intricate particulars of an invented legal case, and then they act as lawyers and witnesses to carve varying paths through stacks of material as both prosecution and defense.  In the sporting tradition, students can earn letter-jacket stripes, and kids in our area regularly win state and sometimes national championships.  Mock Trial is part memorization, part debate, part theater, and all chutzpa.  For families, mock trial season means months of teenagers sprawled in our livingrooms, plowing through Doritos and paperwork while shouting out the arcane rules of hearsay:  “Your honor, this is not hearsay because it is not offered to prove the truth of the matter asserted.”

Now, I might criticize the former-varsity jock parent who seems over-invested in a child’s athletic promise, but the hearts of nerd parents beat hard – maybe harder than they should – when we see teenagers choosing to spend nights and weekends working through data, building narratives with evidence, and reveling in brainiac collaboration.

Now, there is an obvious disadvantage to having razor-sharp teens in a house with aging parents who would take our ginkgo if we remembered where we put it. But it’s easy to love mock trial’s focus on heads, not hormonal bodies. And there’s something a little charming about seeing teenagers dressed in the clothes of adults.

But that’s also where it starts to get weird for me.  The boys’ suits, with too-broad shoulder pads and strangling ties, and the girls’ body-conscious tops and jackets and skirts, often paired with viciously high heels, look like grown-up drag. They reveal an uncomfortable truth about our costumes of power: choked men and hobbled women.

At the regional competition here in South Bend, I walked along Main Street behind my daughter’s power-suited team as they took a break between trials, and in a passing car bumper-stickered with peace slogans, I caught a look of disdain from a tousled-haired woman who looked a lot like me; my guess is that she thought she saw gang of striving, junior John Birchers with me as the den mother.  No, no! I wanted to shout – it’s not what you think!  They’re just acting, just practicing!  But practicing for what?

What does it mean: to think like a lawyer? In the best sense, it means to champion justice, to think through the implications of facts and claims.  An anthropologist friend reminds me that it’s important for kids to learn to speak the language of power.  I get that.  And who among us doesn’t value our legal protections?  But in the courtroom – both mock ones and real ones – often a narrow set of the most adversarial tools are rewarded.  Killer comebacks and linguistic entrapments score winning points.  And while these pitched battles of wits are impressive coming from accomplished teenagers, I suspect these are the legal tactics that perpetuate an argument culture that mostly keeps the same old people in power.  It’s true that the gender balance in high school mock trial is fairly equal – certainly more so than in still-male-dominated real court rooms.  But minority lawyers in both mock and actual courtrooms are depressingly scarce. Who speaks this language of power? Not everyone. Just look at our mostly white, mostly male, mostly contestatory Congress.  With the health care debate as exhibit A, it’s clear the adversarial tactics of those in power aren’t enough to cure what ails us.

In The Paper Chase, the romantic and altruistic lead is tellingly named Hart, and though he learns to think like a lawyer, he thinks like much more.  With Hart in mind as a model for our smart and still-tender high schoolers, I like to imagine our students being rewarded as much for learning a wider set of tools – including those of restorative justice.  Of mediation – and why not meditation?  If enough of us put our “skulls full of mush” together, surely we can offer something that honors hearts as much as minds.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Chronicle of a Death Told in Facebook Postings

Elizabeth Van Jacob and Scott learned that, like creatures from a horror movie, Scott’s tumors have again repaired themselves and grown significantly. Scott will no longer receive treatment for his condition. We are meeting with hospice later this week.  September 23

Elizabeth Van Jacob is taking a leave of absence from work effective immediately to live la dolce vita with her dolcetto amore.  September 24

Elizabeth Van Jacob just shared the very last cherry tomato of the season with Scott in the garden that was ours and ours alone.  September 26

Elizabeth Van Jacob is so very pleased that as Scott comes out from under the fog of the chemotherapy drugs, his inner light is shining through brighter than ever.  September 27

Elizabeth Van Jacob was amazed at how cheerful and matter-of-fact the hospice nurse was about driving from Elkhart to South Bend after midnight.  October 1

Elizabeth Van Jacob observes that while Scott’s body declines rapidly, the light within burns determinedly.  October 6

Elizabeth Van Jacob is glad this chilly morning to finally fulfill this inexplicable urge she has had the last couple of days to cover Scott with a cozy blanket.  October 7

Elizabeth Van Jacob sadly watched her husband say goodbye to his dear friend.  October 7

Elizabeth Van Jacob‘s Scott is fading fast. We are all snuggling together on the sleeper sofa in the living room, reminiscing, singing Christmas carols, expressing our love. No phone calls, please. Scott cannot hold the phone or focus his attention for conversation.  October 8

Elizabeth Van Jacob just kissed Scott goodnight.  October 8

Elizabeth Van Jacob notes that in the 8,000+ days she has known Scott, yesterday was the first that he did not have a bite to eat. After a restless night, he is finally sleeping. Unfortunately, every time he starts to fall asleep, he thinks he has to say his final goodbye to us. Scott really enjoyed hearing all the messages and emails everyone sent yesterday. Thanks for being with us through these final days and hours.  October 9

Elizabeth Van Jacob is glad that Scott said goodbye to family and friends and had a delightful spurt of energy and lucidness while hanging out with his girls last night. The Scott we were with yesterday is no longer here today since he is barely conscious. It is difficult for me to fathom that I will never really speak with him again. I am overcome by a profoundly sad and lonely feeling.  October 9

Elizabeth Van Jacob and Neil Young are singing Harvest Moon to Scott via YouTube. Neil is a great back-up singer.  October 9

Elizabeth Van Jacob reports that yesterday a Becky daisy blossomed in her garden; they usually finish blossoming in mid August. When Scott was wooing me, he brought me a big bouquet of Becky daisies.  I still see him dressed in a white t-shirt, his long blonde hair illuminated by the late afternoon sun glowing behind him as he held them out to me. Scott died at 4:41 this morning.  October 10

Elizabeth Van Jacob requests that friends attending tomorrow’s memorial approach her children with upbeat voices and give them quick hugs. They crave normality at this very difficult time.  October 14

Elizabeth Van Jacob is grateful to everyone who also played the youtube video of Neil Young last Friday night and sang Harvest Moon to Scott from Vermont to Indiana to Oregon to Thailand, across town, across the continent, across the ocean, and half way across the globe. Thank you for helping usher Scott so tenderly out of this world. If ever there was a prayer that was one.  October 16

Friday, March 05, 2010

America the Interesting

I was in a health food store the other day, helping my favorite vegan pick up a few meatless, non-dairy, cruelty-free foods, when I realized that America is actually becoming more interesting. Health food stores used to seem exotic and wacky to a good number of us heartland types. Kansas City native Calvin Trillin couldn’t visit a health food shop without ranting about the bizarre products he swore they sold there, things like “soy waste, granola dust, and pure extract of balsa wood.” “You know very well there’s no such thing as soy waste,” his wife Alice would say, but he’d rant on about the employees at the store. “If bumblebee leavings and stump paste are so good for you,” he would say, “why can’t any of these guys grow full beards?” But on our recent visit to the health food store I couldn’t find a single jar of stump paste or even one twisty-tied baggie of granola dust. Apart from a couple of the mineral supplements, I recognized pretty much everything I saw there. In the space of only a couple of decades, we have become accustomed to a diet that is much more diverse and interesting.

And even the neighborhood food shops aren’t as parochial as they used to be. Sixteen years ago, on my first evening as a resident of Michiana, I went to the nearest grocery store to pick up something for dinner. Someone at home had an unsettled tummy, so I asked the clerk to point out a few of the less spicy foods there in the deli case. “Oh, no, sir,” she said, “we hardly ever put spices in anything we make.” But now that same store has torn out the giant Aisle 1 racks of Technicolor jello salads and installed a fifteen-foot cooler of imported cheeses. Remember Monty Python’s Cheese shop skit, where John Cleese asks for several dozen different cheeses, and one after another the shopkeeper informs him that they are out of stock? Well, we can finally purchase them all right here in Michiana.

You gather from the Monty Python skit that in 1970 an English family might be acquainted with a pretty nice variety of regional and even some foreign cheeses. But in 1970 the average American household might have had only cheddar and Swiss and what we jokingly called at our house back then, “some really good Velveeta.” Calvin Trillin, of course, is a satirist, and his 1980 essay about health food shops spoofed a quirky fringe of folks out there inventing a new food and health tradition. But he was also spoofing himself and a broad swathe of Americans who could get a little jumpy and critical around any unfamiliar bit of culture, even if it tasted good. In spite of intervening wars and Patriot Acts and acts of terror, we’re getting better at that too. No longer does a Chinese restaurant supply the most exotic food a Midwestern child is likely to eat growing up. Our kids have classmates with names I never heard of when I was in school; our stores and restaurants are more varied. It’s not unusual to be a vegetarian or to know a vegan. I still love the slightly bitter tang and crunch at the pale heart of a head of iceberg lettuce, but face it – America is a more interesting and colorful place now. I’d be happy to have a plate of Boiled and salted bright green edamame anytime.

WWW Michiana Chronicles

A random pick from more than 460 Michiana Chronicles -- refresh the browser to see another set:

April Lidinsky -- Trials of our Times / More essays by April

Joe Chaney -- More essays by Joe

Ken Smith -- America the Interesting / More essays by Ken

Jeanette Saddler Taylor -- More essays by Jeanette

Heather Curlee Novak -- More essays by Heather

David James -- More essays by David

Elizabeth Van Jacob -- Chronicle of a Death Told in Facebook Postings / More essays by Elizabeth

Jeff Nixa -- More essays by Jeff

Louise Collins -- More essays by Louise

Jonathan Nashel -- More essays by Jonathan

Leave a note for any of the authors at our WebNote page, or maybe you'd like a copy of our book? Then there's our Twitter and Facebook pages!

About the series

Michiana Chronicles is a series of radio essays by Jonathan Nashel, Louise Collins, Joe Chaney, Jeanette Saddler Taylor, Jeff Nixa, April Lidinsky, Ken Smith, Heather Curlee Novak, David James, and Elizabeth Van Jacob.

Michiana is the region of north-central Indiana and southern Michigan roughly centered on South Bend, Indiana.

Michiana Chronicles airs on Fridays at 7:35 a.m. and 12:30 p.m. on WVPE (88.1 FM), the home of public radio in Elkhart / South Bend, Indiana.

Recent pieces

Good Eaters -- Reflections on the topic of food, brought about, no doubt, by this time of harvest and Thanksgiving, led to my reading Thomas Keneally’s recent book, “Three Famines.” In it, he gives a general overview of the physical and mental processes of starvation – pretty horrifying and unimaginable from where we sit – then writes specifically about the three hunger-events. Ireland in the 1840’s, Bengal in the 1940’s and Ethiopia in the 1980’s are the “three famines” of the title. Although seemingly unrelated as to world-area and time period, there is a striking commonality and it’s not the traditional “act-of-God” explanation. “Acts of God:” droughts, floods, etc. often begin the privations, but the human hand exacerbates the problems into a cataclysm. By Jeanette Saddler Taylor.

The Excellence of the Long Distance Runner -- Consider cross country, the sport of choice for our family’s young athlete. That’s a 5000 meter feat of speed and endurance. At practice each day the teams run even farther, so on Saturdays they’re ready to race each other hard for 20 or 25 minutes. Near the end of the course they speed up because that’s the kind of people they have become, and they don’t stop until they have travelled the length of 54 football fields. By Ken Smith.

Bacon Before Husband -- Do you have a daily list? I don’t mean tasks for work or chores for home, I mean a Happy List. I have a Happy List running through my head most of the time. This list tends to be fickle and definitely changes with my mood. It is rare that something gets crossed off of it but I get immense satisfaction from my list just the same. My list makes friends laugh and strangers think I am...stranger. By Heather Curlee Novak.

“A feminist walks into a fraternal lodge …” -- Today’s story begins like a joke: What happens when a feminist walks into a fraternal lodge? The answer isn’t very funny, and it isn’t really about me -- it’s about who runs for office, and who doesn’t. But, yes, in this scenario I am the feminist cheerfully walking into the fraternal lodge, of the kind gently lampooned in The Flintstones as the Royal Order of the Water Buffaloes. By April Lidinsky.

South Bend Spring -- Would I ever think I’d find myself parting from one group of young adults yesterday, and then actually tearing downtown to join another? My knee-jerk reaction would normally be to slip into my hidey-hole on the third floor of Wiekamp Hall on the IU campus, or to run home—only three blocks—to read in solitude and eat Raman noodles. The first group—my first-ever class of college freshman English students—seem bemused at my political positions and ready to describe me as “professor,” but as a hopeless product of another day and time. By David James.

Call Me Bartman -- It’s that time of year when we wait in expectation of another World Series victory by the New York Yankees or the Philadelphia Phillies, while recalling (or trying to forget) another lost season in the sad history of the Chicago Cubs. Anyway, that’s the way Cubs fans talk about it. I don’t see it that way. In my view, the Cubs are the greatest team in the history of sports, and I wouldn’t change a thing about them. By Joe Chaney.

Autumn -- Have you noticed too? Can you feel it? Are you as excited as I am? After the wait of nine months for its rebirth, autumn is back. The real weather for football is here. The heat has abated, there’s a nip in the air, spiders are extruding blankets of webbing, and if you look up into the trees, here and there you see a bit of fall color beginning. Like so many of you, autumn is my favorite season. Time to clean up the detritus of summer – those only semi-successful tomato plants, for example – and to move on to the planting of crocus, bluebells, tulips and daffodils: the dreams of spring. By Jeanette Saddler Taylor.

Casting the Bronze Bust of Dr. Lester Wolfson -- There on the floor was the hand-made barrel-shaped white plaster matrix into which the molten metal would be poured. Near it stood a small furnace with a hole at the top the size of your fist. A stream of yellow flames roared from this hole and had been roaring for a long time. The metal inside was now over 1000 degrees. The sculptor’s wife cautioned us, If anything goes wrong, don’t rush up to help, back away—if it touches you, the bronze will burn right through your body. By Ken Smith.

Complaint Department -- I have struggled to maintain the peace and raise my girls well, but the stress of my days often means by the end of each one I am not the sweetest woman to be around. I often hurl the myriad challenges of my day at my husband as soon as he walks through the door. Sometimes dinner isn't made and the house looks like a toy bomb went off and I feel guilty about it. When I try to explain how the day went down I think it is a lot more like complaining than anything helpful. By Heather Curlee Novak.

Mad Men’s Maddening Style -- Oh, the elegant style of the early 60s. For men: the narrowly tailored suits and knife-thin ties; for women, the pencil skirts with wide cinching belts, the clinging cashmere sweaters punctuated by pearls. Take a look around and it’s clear that this season we are mad about Mad Men – and not just the TV show. Suddenly, in the “ya-gotta-have it” world of merchandizing, the winking vintage sex appeal of the early ’60 is being cranked up to sell upscale mall clothing, batwing eyeliner, and even retro telephone handsets so you can have Bluetooth technology but still look like you’re answering the phone for Don Draper in a red-lipsticked whisper. What the heck is going on? I’m a sucker, myself, for vintage fashion, but I wonder why now – in this political moment – we are hungry for the style of those very conservative “men will be men” and “women will be objects” times. By April Lidinsky.

Mandala -- I remember that year as the spring when my dad roared down the driveway at our home near Emory University in Atlanta in a new Austin Healey, a roadster, the proper name for a British rag-top sports car. This one was red with all the trimmings and served as waterproof glue for the closest period of bonding between a father and son. I say “waterproof” because the top on that car was a tight fit from the start, and had maybe fifty snaps to secure it around the cockpit; and of course after a couple times getting wet it shrunk, so there it stayed, behind the back seat squab—British for the seat’s backrest—for seven years, molding in peace. When it rained we got wet, so we cultivated raincoats and laughing. I didn’t mind a bit. By David James.

Acne Hell -- No one has ever asked me what it was like having a bad case of acne as a teen. It’s a topic that never comes up, partly because the embarrassment never dies. Here I’ll raise the question myself – but don’t worry: I won’t subject you to physical descriptions, except to say that, at seventeen, I would gladly have sacrificed a finger for merely the sort of minor pimple problem of the beautiful girls and boys you see on acne medication commercials. Ah, that embarrassing, isolated red zit! So annoying on an otherwise perfect face! Well, perfection was never a possibility for me, and I had no hope of hiding my condition under a few dabs of makeup. When it came to skin quality, my rival was the full moon. By Joe Chaney.

Categories

• 9/11
• Arts & Entertainment
• Books & Films
• Commerce
• Community
• Customs & Rituals
• Education
• Fads & Fashion
• Family & Friends
• Food
• Health
• Highlights
• History
• Home & Garden
• Media & Technology
• Nature & Outdoors
• News & Editorial
• Peace & War
• Sports & Recreation
• Travel
• Women & Men
• Work

Archives and syndication

• By author
• By category
• By date
• RSS 2.0 syndication
• RSS for iTunes
• Technorati Profile