We the People...

What does it mean to be American? To have the freedoms that we are so proud of in this country? No country or government is perfect, but perhaps we are too hard on our own country sometimes. Now, I am not a flag-waver, someone who is bleeds USA pride; in fact I am far from it. I am not saying I am not proud to be American, that is not it at all. I am grateful for the freedoms I have, that were bestowed on me the day I was born in the fine state of Illinois. For some reason, though, I believe that if you really believe in something, you can support it, believe in it without shoving it in the faces of everyone around you. You should live what you believe, show it by the way you live, not with things. For example, people who are proud to be American, so proud that they feel the need to drape the flag on everything they own, be it their car, their clothes, their hats and their décor. I am all for being proud of your country, and will definitely hang a flag when celebrating on the 4^th of July, but I feel that the overboard displays of patriotism are not truly showing pride. I feel that they are somewhat of an embarrassment to our country and what it really stands for. I have never seen people in any other country do what we do as Americans. Of course, all nations are proud when celebrating their national holidays and at events like the Olympics or the World Cup, but only the US seems to wave the flag all day, every day, all over everything. I feel the same way about people who say that they support the troops and do so by covering their cars with those ridiculous magnetic ribbons. In my humble opinion, if you truly want to support our troops, the people who have dedicated their lives protecting us and defending our freedoms, there are much better ways to do it. Send them care packages, write to them, support their families here in your community. But, do you really think that the troops feel your support because you have a magnet on your car? Do you really think that by giving that $3.00 to the gas station on the corner, the troops are seeing that money and your support? Basically, you are just making yourself appear supportive without having to make much effort. And, those magnetic ribbons just look dumb on your car! I know it sounds harsh, but someone needed to say it!

Now, stepping down off my soapbox, back to what it really means to be American. Perhaps those of us who are American by birth take the basic concepts and freedoms for granted. Perhaps people who have to work so hard to become American truly understand what this country is supposed to be all about. Perhaps growing up in another place, under a completely different system of government makes you more aware of the small things that are America. I am thinking particularly of people like my Oma, Louise Michaud. My grandma became a US citizen about a week ago, after living in the US for close to 50 years. She came here, following a new husband, a man she knew only a short time, but knew that she loved. I can’t imagine what it was like for her, leaving her homeland, her family and venturing across the ocean to a new country, to America. She settled in Minnesota, a friendly state and learned English, picking up a great deal of it when my mother, her first child, was learning to talk. She has worked and paid taxes here since 1959 and has been a model citizen since then, but she wasn’t a citizen. She follows the laws, lives a good life, works hard, and supports this country and what it stands for, all while not being a citizen, not being given the same rights as most of the people around her. I would like to believe that she lived this way as an alien (legal mind you) because that is the type of woman she is, a strong, loving person, committed to raising her family, her children and grandchildren, to be good people, good Americans. I would also like to think that she has considered herself an American for a long time, and if you didn’t know she wasn’t a citizen, there really was no way for you to tell, aside from her German passport, tucked securely in my grandpa’s dresser drawer. I think my Oma knows what it means to be American, since she has been here, living as one for so long, without the official papers. She is now a citizen by choice, and I believe that for a person to choose to become a citizen of another country, they must truly believe in the ideals of that country, what is was founded on, what it fundamentally stands for. She has raised a family that is full of proud Americans, and those children have grown and passed that pride and patriotism on to their children. As one of those grandchildren, the oldest of them, I feel that my occasional cynicism towards our country is balanced by the pride I feel for my grandma and her being one of our country’s newest citizens. Perhaps many Americans, myself included, forget what our country is supposed to be about, what the ideals of the founders really were. I know at least one person who won’t forget what it means to be American anytime soon, and I am proud to call her Oma.

This was written in early November 2008, just after my Grandma was sworn in as a citizen.

My Mom Is...

Being away from my mom on Mother's Day (for the first time mind you) is not easy and I have been thinking a lot about her lately. She is an amazing woman, and though we have had our share of rough times and things are definitely not perfect, she is a wonderful mom, someone whose family I am proud to be a part of. As I get older I find that I am (gasp!) becoming more and more like my mother. To most gals my age that is a scary thought and something they dread, but to me, it is a compliment. I hear my mother coming out of my mouth all the time, and scary as it was at first, now when I hear myself say something she has said a million times, I shake my head and smile, knowing that somehow she knows I just did this and smiled, too. My mom says I am skipping over becoming her and going straight to becoming my grandmother, at which I always laugh. If ueber-cleaning before company comes over and putting the chips and dip in bowls before I serve them makes me like my Oma, then so be it! And yes, as my mother also points out, I stomp around when I am frustrated, just like my Oma, and I have her butt! Well, such is nature, and nurture I guess. And what my mother doesn't realize, or maybe is just in denial of, is that she is becoming more and more like my grandmother as she gets older, and so in a way, I am becoming them both. Oh lord....

If I am in fact becoming my mother as I get older, that's okay, as she is so many wonderful things...

My Mom is arms - the first pair that held me and welcomed me into this big world; the ones that hugged me each morning when I got up and each night before they tucked me into bed; the ones that always are always there, welcoming me home again with a hug so joyful.

My Mom is shoulders - stronger and bigger than they might appear to be, she carries the weight of the world sometimes, somehow always standing tall and strong for her family.

My Mom is stories - the ones she read to me before tucking me in at night; the ones she would make up on a whim when I was bored on a rainy afternoon; the silly ones she tells about when she was kid (always with a little lesson woven right in); the ones she listens to me tell, over and over again, never telling me to hush, but listening with a smile each and every time.

My Mom is history - the roots of our family that she proudly shares with me; the line of strong women she is a part of and has helped me to become a part of.

My Mom is hands - the ones that held mine as I took my first wobbly toddling steps; the ones that drew characters she could bring to life with a story; the ones that sewed miles of cloth into countless Halloween costumes, sewed Girl Scout patches onto sashes, hemmed skirts and replaced buttons; the ones that held mine when times were tough and let me squeeze them when I needed reassurance.

My Mom is snacks - the ones she would make when I got home from school; the ones she would bring in for any and every class party, slumber party, birthday party; the weekend morning suckers from the bank, when she always made sure I got the flavor I wanted; the piece of secret stash chocolate she will share when she knows I have had a really long, hard day.

My Mom is a teammate - one who would play with me a little girl; one who as an adult supports me and the plays I make.

My Mom is an opponent - one who plays the devil's advocate when I need it; one who knows she can not agree with me all the time, but will still love me; one who knows that sometimes I need some opposition, a good fight in order to be a stronger person.

My Mom is a coach - one who taught me how to do many things as a kid; one who helps me now, to know what plays to make, when to stay, when to run.

My Mom is a fan - one who sat in the audience proudly for so many band concerts, school plays, recitals, etc. and always clapped the loudest; one who supports me no matter what I do, always cheering me on in her quiet ways.

My Mom is first aid - the one who bandaged skinned knees and elbows; the one who kissed boo-boos she couldn't see because a kiss always made it better; the one who ran to the drug store for medicine and tissues at midnight for a sick kid; the one who spent hours in doctor's offices and hospitals with kids who had everything from the chicken pox to asthma, broken bones to bronchitis, migraines to dislocated knees, and everything in between; the one who could mend a broken toy and when the time came, a broken heart.

My Mom is a nest - one she always put together for her family, a home that was warm, cozy and full of love; one that she gave me wings to leave; one that she welcomes me back to with open wings of her own.

My Mom is a woman - one who I wanted to be like as a little girl, dressing up in her high heels and jewelry; one who is strong, independent, emotional, opinionated, smart, talented, loving, and yes, sometimes, tired; one who I hope to be like.

My Mom is a friend - one who always had good friends because she was a good friend to others; one who taught me what it meant to be a good friend and how to be one; one who is now my friend as well as my Mom, someone I can laugh with and talk to as an adult.

My Mom is love - the first person to love me, the first person I loved; the person who has shown me what real love is and isn't; the one who has loved me enough to let me become my own person; the one with enough love and heart big enough to be a Mom to so many other kids in her life; the person who truly knows that when new people come into your life, you don't love the others any less, but that your love expands to embrace them all.

My Mom is so many things to so many people - a daughter, a friend, a wife, a babysitter, a confidant, a taxi driver, a Gnoma, a cook, a waitress, a secretary, a lover, a playmate, a storyteller, a leader, a laundromat, a musician, a writer, a reader, a shopper, and yes, perhaps even a bitch. She is the woman in the bunny suit and proudly so.

For all the things my Mom is, I am proud to be her daughter, proud to be becoming more and more like her. She is MY Mom and today, though I am 1,600 miles away, I celebrate her and all that she is. I love you Mom. Happy Mother's Day!

Today's picture is of my Mom and Oma! Love you ladies!