Laugh

Growing up, I was pretty intense. I took everything that I did way too seriously and viewed all decisions I made, including what I ate for lunch, as if my future depended on them. I remember a lot of angst and sadness throughout my adolescence; lots of crying and very little laughter.

All of that changed when I auditioned for, and then became, a Disneyland character.

It was a Sunday in April, 1984. I received a “call back” for the second day of auditions. Upon arrival, we immediately performed the simple dance combination from the day before, and the call-back group was whittled down from there. Given my dance skills, I don’t know how it was humanly possible for me to have made it past that point in the process, but there I was standing in a backstage warehouse, donning a Minnie Mouse head, shoes, gloves, shell and dress.

What an odd sensation to have that ten-pound fiberglass helmet resting on my shoulders! My hearing was muffled as if my ears were enclosed by padded earphones. The mouse head smelled like old, wet laundry that had been sitting in a washing machine for days. Minnie’s eyes were made of the same plastic material from which ski goggles were made. From those plastic ovals, which were about six inches away from my face, I could view 12 feet of outside world in any single direction. And turning my head in another direction required twisting my entire body from the torso.

I stood in costume for a few moments while I gained my bearings: the transformation was sudden and magical. There was no need for intense brooding or solemn nobility. Masquerading as Minnie Mouse gave me a sense of liberation. Though the mouse head rattled on my shoulders with every bouncy step I took, I felt light and carefree. In an instant I had forgotten about chemical weapons, sham American presidencies, and college entrance exams. Minnie Mouse had no concern for such deep and dark issues. Minnie was happiness and laughter. And so was I.

It didn’t take long for me to get used to the physical limitations of the costume and I was soon ready to spring and bound across the room. I could hardly suppress my giggles as the flirty little mouse I imagined Minnie to be grabbed Mickey’s hand, ready to leap and skip with her playmates. Little did I realize that Minnie’s head spanned approximately 4 feet from ear to ear, and as I moved to join the other character candidates in the center of the warehouse, my mouse ear caught Goofy and I was sent sailing backward, falling to the ground in my mouse head. I lied spread-eagle and face up on the ground, my body cradled by the fiberglass shell that rounded Minnie’s body. I tried to get up but the fiberglass shell simply rolled from side to side. My legs and arms waved in the air as I thrashed about. I could see myself flailing about like an oversized and overturned dung beetle. And I started to laugh. In a surreal out of body experience I saw myself as the panel of judges must have seen me: some nebbishy kid and her futile attempts to lift her shoulders inches from the ground and hoist herself back to her feet, only to be propelled down again by the sheer weight of her oversized head!

I was laughing uncontrollably and didn’t want to stop. The laughter that bounced and echoed in my fiberglass head was intoxicating and all I wanted to do was lie on the floor and let the unfettered freedom and happiness consume me.

The sight must have been hilarious, because pretty soon everyone in the room was laughing as well. One of the judges came over to help me up, and I was certain that he would also be escorting me out of the warehouse. But Jeff Duke had been laughing so hard that he was crying, and he must have thought that my tumble and subsequent performance was intentional. It wasn’t long after that when I was given a date and time to report for orientation.

I’ve had the honor and privilege recently to read about the audition experiences of other Disney characters and I realize that my story is fairly blasé’ in comparison. For many the audition was a lifelong achievement and ambition. For me it was just the first time I fell in costume.

But I look back on it as the day I learned to laugh.

Religious Diversity 101

In a recent online edition of the San Diego Union Tribune, Helen Gao wrote that Carver Elementary School in Oak Park has added Arabic to its curriculum and that it has added a 15-minute afternoon break to the school day in order to accommodate Muslim students who wish to pray. This has created uproar among the “concerned citizens” in the community who believe that Muslim students (there are now more than 100 of them thanks to a failed charter school in the area) should not have the right to pray in the manner which their religion requires. These citizens argue that Muslims should not have any more right to pray than should Christian students. And since Christian students are allowed to pray only during the school-supported daily Moment of Silence, that is the only time Muslim students should be allowed to pray as well.

What these citizens don’t understand is that their Moment of Silence Code is structured in such a way as to allow prayer that aligns with the tenets of Christianity. Moreover, Moment of Silence Codes conspicuously lack the breadth necessary to allow prayer that follows the laws and tenets of non-Christian faiths.

Although there are hundreds of Moment of Silence Codes on the books throughout the country, codes that pass constitutional muster allow prayer that is done voluntarily, individually and silently, and that does not distract other students or otherwise draw attention to the praying student’s activities or behaviors. Such restrictions to how prayer can occur during a Moment of Silence make it impossible for non-Christians to pray in accordance to the tenets of their faith. Why? Because in non-Christian faiths, active prayer is the only prayer that matters.

Christianity is based on the concept of creed before deed. That is to say, it is more important to accept God in one’s heart and adopt an attitude of Christianity than it is to engage in prayer rituals that demonstrate your belief in Christianity. Ritual without attitude is viewed as hypocrisy, and so it is far more important for prayer to be authentic, genuine, and transparent than it is to follow certain conventions or rituals. The result of this philosophy is that any prayer that is offered from the heart and with the spirit of God is considered legitimate prayer. Such prayer requires no formal convention: prayer can be private or public, prayer can be said aloud or silently, in a group or alone, in any place and at any time. Any time a person feels the urge to pray, he or she can and should do so, simply by bowing the head and opening the heart. And so if a student chooses to pray during a Moment of Silence—quietly and without distraction—such prayer would be aligned with the basic tenets of the Christian faith.

But non-Christian religions ascribe to a deed before creed philosophy. Their perspective is that the public action of prayer trumps the individual person’s intention behind the prayer. The off-shoot of this is that prayer simply will not be legitimate if uttered quietly or without distraction. Practically all non-Christian prayers involve some type of formalized behavior: requirements to stand, bow, rock, or shuffle side to side would be construed as “distracting” under most Moment of Silence codes. There are time requirements that dictate when prayer must occur and the types of prayers that are said during each specific time. There are restrictions regarding which prayers can be said by the individual and which must be said in a group. And at least in the Jewish faith, even prayers that can be said quietly by an individual require that person to "move ones lips and speak the words audibly” so that anyone in close proximity can hear that the person is praying.

Because of the deed before creed philosophy, these actions simply cannot be separated from the prayer itself; the formalities of the actions help to define the individual’s relationship to God. That is why Moment of Silence Codes exclude non-Christian prayer: requiring a devout Muslim, Jew, or Hindu to pray silently and without distraction makes a mockery of their liturgy and their belief systems.

Of course, there is an obvious solution to the dilemma: eliminate Moments of Silence from the classroom. Doing so protects schools from inadvertently discriminating against non-Christians, and it re-assures Christian parents that their children will not be spiritually assaulted by unknown or foreign belief systems. Eliminating the Moment of Silence does not limit a Christian’s religious expression: A Christian student who intends to pray but is unable to do so because of governmental restrictions is not going to be seen as less of a Christian in the eyes of the Christian God, because the student’s intentions were pure even if there were barriers to prayer. And since the student can legitimately pray before or after school (or even during school as long as there is no state support for such prayer) the student is not in violation of his or her faith’s basic tents. Sure, the non-Christian students are left to their own devices to figure out a way to pray, but at least the field has been leveled and no specific faith is given “most favored religion” status.

Since most devoutly Christian families will find the aforementioned solution unpalatable, here is another option: in deference to those who expect their children to have the right to pray in school in accordance to their religious tenets, demand that such rights be extended to all students. Carver Elementary School is trying to make that happen. We should let them.

Very Bad Humor

Three Native American women are sitting side by side. The first, sitting on a goatskin, has a son who weighs 170 pounds. The second, sitting on a deerskin, has a son who weights 130 pounds. The third, sitting on a hippopotamus hide, herself weighs 300 pounds.

What famous mathematical theorem does this illustrate?

Naturally, the answer is that the squaw on the hippopotamus is equal to the sons of the squaws on the other two hides.

No Son Of Mine

This past weekend we went to Adventureland in Des Moines, and as we drove home Ben summarized his experience at the theme park:

“So, like, I got kinda sick on that ride that went, like, in circle. And Mom it was, like, really funny when you had to, like, jump into the pool to, like, save me.”

It was as if fingernails scratched across a chalkboard. I winced and instinctively threw my hands to my ears to protect them from the painful clatter. My blood boiled and rage and anger coursed through my body as I contemplated what my son just said:

Like????

I have tolerated my children coming home from school in December and telling me about how God died for their sins. I have looked the other way when Noah reported to me jobs that were “girl jobs” and jobs that were “boy jobs.” I have accepted as perfectly normal the obnoxious behaviors they have picked up from their friends, such as rolling their eyes at me, heaving a heavy sigh and saying “Whatever, Mom.”

But this…

This. Is. The. Last. Straw.

Let me be clear: I was not a nationally ranked speaker on the speech and debate team in college only to raise a child who channels Moon Unit Zappa. I can not spend more than 40% of my professional life relying on my public speaking skills while my son becomes the latest victim of a pernicious verbal epidemic. I will not stand idly by as Ben is heralded into the throngs of the inarticulate. No son of mine will be possessed by the evil spirits of the San Fernando Valley. One way or another, I will banish the Mall-speak demons from him!

Within seconds my car careened across three lanes of traffic. I jammed on the brakes and we came to a screeching halt. I turned my icy stare to Ben in the back seat. He sat there, looking at me through inquisitive and earnest eyes and asked: “Like, are we going home or what?”

“Ben,” I said to him, “I want you to tell me about this weekend again, but this time I want you to say it without using the word ‘like.”

“Why?” he asked.

I took a deep breath as I searched for the words to convey the fear and loathing his new habit had instilled in me. How could I explain that use of such verbal garbage was a certain path to intellectual underachievement? Would he even understand that the word “like” is a gateway term to more linguistic imprecision and insipience? All at once my child’s future became clear: One day his speech is peppered with “like,” and the next thing you know he’s wearing baggy pants, uttering phrases such as, “Dude, that was like so totally rad, you know?” and “I was all, ‘I’m so sure’ all the while cruising down the street on his skateboard without a helmet.

I shut my eyes, shuddered, and shook the image from my mind. I told Ben: “Because talking that way is what people call a “juvenile speech pattern. And if you talk with a juvenile speech pattern when you grow up, people won’t think you are very smart, and you won’t get a good job. And then you won’t be able to buy any toys or books or candy.”

Unimpressed, Ben looked at me, yawned, shrugged his shoulders and said “Like, whatever, Mom. It’s totally no biggie.”

Does anyone have the number of a good exorcist?