bearing blog

More than 500 American school teachers per year...

...are disciplined for sexual misconduct.  Granted, schoolteachers are a pretty large pool of people. 

Still:  Yech.  h/t Rich, who adds:  "If only government school teachers could marry.  If only women could be government school teachers."

That makes me wonder how the breakdown falls between male and female schoolteachers.  There are vastly more women than men teaching primary and secondary school in the U. S.  Are the genders proportionately represented among the teachers who are also sex offenders?

We are safe.

A bridge I drive across several times a day has collapsed into the Mississippi River.  Mark usually drives across it to get home, but has been taking a detour to avoid construction delays lately.  I don't know whether he drove across it today (he left the house after the collapse but before we knew about it); if he did, he did it about fifteen minutes before it collapsed at 6:05 p.m.

A Google Maps image of the bridge (before the collapse) is here.  It is the wider of the two bridges in the center of the photograph, the one on the left.

More pictures of the intact bridge here.

Shame.

The priest who officiated at my wedding has been laicized by the Vatican because of sexual misconduct -- specifically, the sexual exploitation of teenage boys.

Yuck.  H/t Rich Leonardi, source of all my Cincinnati Archdiocese info.

UPDATE.  No, this is not grounds for an annulment. 

Self-defense.

The Agitator is the go-to place for reading about the developing story in Atlanta, where an innocent elderly woman was shot and killed by the police who were breaking down her door when she, thinking they were criminals, tried to defend herself.

No-knock warrants ought to be illegal except in the narrowest of circumstances, and in regular searches the "knock" ought to be a real knock, followed by a pause, not muffled shouts of "Police!" while the door is bashed in.  It's not surprising that officers get shot at in these situations.  Any idiot can yell "Police" while he tries to break into a house.  We can start by applying strict liability to the police --- that should reduce the number of mistakes.

Anyway, I bring this up because yesterday in the Twin Cities area, an elderly man successfully defended himself against a home invader.  Good for him.   It's the occasional news item like this that keeps the rate of home invasions down in the United States.

A 73-year-old Coon Rapids man was at home alone Monday night when he heard the sounds of a break-in on the first floor and minutes later faced an intruder in his second-floor bedroom.

Gerald Whaley told police he fired one shot.

Police today are trying to identify the intruder who died of a single gunshot wound, in what appears to be a case of self-defense....

[Captain Robert] Aldrich [of the Anoka County Sheriff's Department] said it does not appear police will recommend charges against Whaley. But the final decision will be the Anoka County Attorney's, Aldrich said.

"You are in your own house," Aldrich said. "You have a right to defend yourself and protect yourself."

That's what I like to hear from law enforcement.  Reality check:  the first line of defense is the individual, whether the idea fits our political leanings or not.

Ham. Blame ham.

For my being so behind in the blog.

In May, Mark ran his first 5K, and did pretty well.  The very next day he went skiing.  (Before you ask, I forget where -- someplace that still has snow in May.)    He had pain in both sets of hamstring muscles after that, and as far as I can remember rested, iced, compressed, and elevated them as directed.  They've been sore ever since, but he didn't complain about them again until last month, when he somehow re-injured them after a day of helping a friend move.  Now he's unable to walk without pain. 

This has changed the structure of our evenings, as you can imagine. 

First he went to see a physical therapist, who prescribed some exercises and told him he'd feel better in two weeks.  Two weeks later he is in even more pain.  Yesterday and the day before he telecommuted from bed, to see if total bedrest helped.  He's scheduled to see a sports medicine specialist MD on Monday.

What we have figured out via Google is not very helpful.  Almost all the information about hamstring strains instructs the reader what to do for them in the first 48 hours after injury.  Very little goes on to say what an athlete can do if he's still in intense pain six months later.   NSAIDs are controversial---healing may be faster but re-injury is more common with their use.  Corticosteroid shots get you back on the field to finish the season but don't help longterm. 

Mark's not too happy about having to go back to the same specialist who offered him a vasectomy when he showed up to be evaluated for back pain six years ago, but since he's the only doc who's ever given him musculoskeletal advice that actually worked, back he goes.  And don't tell me he should see a chiropractor, because I've been suggesting it to him for years.

Not a nice way to die.

Horrific elevator accident at my alma mater:

Polakowski was the last of the 24 people to squeeze into the 6-foot-by-6-foot elevator about 11:20 p.m. That’s when the car, estimated to be at least 800 pounds overloaded, plummeted with its doors still open, investigators said.

As someone shouted that the elevator was falling, Polakowski tried to jump or step back up onto the third floor, said Assistant Chief Rick Amweg, of OSU police. ...

The elevator didn’t stop dropping until it wedged the 18-year-old Polakowski against the floor of the third-floor lobby, Amweg said.

I lived in a different dorm that was built around the same time, and I can easily see how this happened.

Time to sing a new song.

Back in the days of the Cold War, Sting recorded a little song called "Russians."  Cheesy in a way, but also catchy, in a minor key.  It's almost a paean to mutually assured destruction as a means of uneasy peace:

What might save us, me and you

Is if the Russians love their children too.

Cheesy because --- well, of course the Russians love their children too.  Who said they didn't?

Yeah.  So.  What about this?

A HUSBAND and wife arrested in the British terror raids allegedly planned to take their six-month-old baby on a mid-air suicide mission.

Scotland Yard police are quizzing Abdula Ahmed Ali, 25, and his 23-year-old wife Cossor over suspicions they were to use their baby's bottle to hide a liquid bomb.

The theory is one of the reasons security chiefs are now insisting mothers taste babies' milk at check-in desks before allowing them to take bottles aboard flights.

The pair are among up to 23 suspects being questioned over a plot to bring down nine airliners over five US cities, killing thousands of people in the air and on the ground.

Maybe this theory is wrong.  I hope it is.  It does sound like the sort of thing one would say if one wanted to make the enemy sound as inhuman as possible.  But... what if it is not?  And what if this couple are not isolated psychopaths, but instead hold a view that is more common than we dare to imagine?

Fighting dirty sometimes wins.  I can't think how to defend oneself against an attacker wielding a  baby.  His own baby son or daughter.

(And: Exactly how is having moms taste carried-on baby formula going to help here?  Stock it on the flight with the soda and coffee.)

Yes, I do all my own stunts.

This morning about ten-thirty I buckled my five-year-old and two-year-0ld into their car seats and started off to Melissa's house via a fairly busy north-south surface route.  As I approached an intersection I saw a brown car pull partway out from the right, stop, pull a little farther, stop again.  It caught my eye and as I drew closer I saw there was a young woman, barefoot, her hair unkempt, kneeling on the hood of the car.  I couldn't make out what she was doing but she looked like she was shouting at the driver.

Rather than drive across the car's path, I hit my brakes.  What the --- ?  My hand reached into my bag and fumbled for my cell phone, but didn't find it before the car pulled out in front of me, tires squealing, turning left across me, the woman still clinging to the hood of the car, turning her head this way and that as if it see where he was driving.  My windows were open.  I didn't even think about it.  I shouted out the window at the woman, "Hey!  Are you okay?"

The car screeched to a stop, facing the opposite way.  The woman came down off the hood, or maybe she fell when the car stopped, and opened the passenger door.  She looked up at me for an instant; I repeated my question; she nodded and got in.  Then the driver's side door opened, and the man who was driving put a foot out and turned towards me and began to yell abusive words at me, started to get out of the car.  I whipped my head around and put the pedal to the floor.  Behind me in the rear view mirror I saw the car making a three-point turn, and I realized he was going to follow me.   I had no idea what he planned to do if he caught up with me.  I didn't want to find out.  My two kids were in the back seat.  I'm eight months pregnant.

I sped down the street --- no one was in front of me really --- and turned right at the next intersection, taking me into a residential neighborhood.  Vaguely I remembered reading somewhere that, if someone's tailing you, you should make a series of quick successive right-hand turns.  I never really thought about it, but now that I've done it, it makes a lot of sense.  For one thing, a couple of consecutive right turns rules out the possibility that it's only a coincidence that the same car is following you.  And that's what happened --- fast.    Two right turns and in the rear view mirrow the car was still behind me, tires squealing around the corner.  It was hard to turn the wheel as fast as I wanted, because even with the seat as far back as it goes and the wheel tilted up, the bottom of the wheel digs into my pregnant belly.

I slowed just enough to make a third right turn without losing control of the car, blowing through a stop sign and stomping the accelerator all the way down to the floor, passing houses and trees, and hoping that no pedestrians stepped into my path.  (That's another good reason to make right turns.  If you're going to careen illegally through an intersection, it's the move least likely to cross another's path.)  The car was still behind me, and could see me, when I made the fourth turn, back onto the busy street I started on and heading the same direction.  I thought there was a chance that the guy was far enough behind me that I could make another turn while I was still out of sight, and at that moment a left turn opened up. 

There were people in that intersection, which had a coffee shop or something like that on the corner, but they were all on their way out of it and I thought I had a clear path.  I leaned on the steering wheel and shot through that intersection.  Didn't hit anyone.   Bystanders on the sidewalk turned and shouted angrily at me.  I wish I could go back and apologize.  Couldn't, just then.  I didn't know if he'd seen me or not.  I had a few more turns to make. 

I blew through three or four more stop signs, this time making random turns, glancing fearfully up at the rearview mirror, but he didn't appear again.  I made my way to another neighborhood, finally slowing down for the stop signs, and eventually I was sure I had lost him. 

I drove the rest of the way to Melissa's house in a near stupor.  When I pulled into her driveway and reached for the ignition, I was surprised to find the radio was on.  I didn't remember the sound of the radio.   I was unable to calm down for the rest of the day.  Kept wondering if it was possible that the guy got my license plate number and could track me down, find my house.  I know it's not likely but the fact that it's not entirely impossible kept nagging at me. 

It's no wonder, really, that people don't get involved when they see a bad situation unfolding in front of them.  I assume that what I stumbled upon was some kind of domestic-violence incident.  The way the driver of the car started and stopped it in jerks.  The blank look she gave me, nodding I'm okay, as she got into the car. When I saw her there on the roof of a car with its tires squealing as it rounded a turn, all I saw was She's in trouble.  I didn't really stop to think, Somebody in that car is causing her a lot of trouble, and he could cause me trouble too.  If I had, maybe I wouldn't have shouted.  Who knows if it did more harm than good, even to her situation, whatever it was? 

Anyway, it's over, we survived, my beat-up '93 Oldsmobile cornered better than his beat-up whenever whatever, and no, officer, I didn't get the licence plate number, I was too busy getting myself and my kids the hell out of there.  Just wanted to let you know in case something else happens later, so you know if there's a pattern.  But I'm still shaken, I will be for a few days at least, and I don't know if I'll stop the next time something happens in front of me like that.

Mourning, but not IRL.

For years --- first on Usenet, now even more easily with e-mail list services like YahooGroups, we've seen the proliferation of Internet support groups and communities.  People united by nothing more than a common interest and a common language can meet, discuss, learn from each other, lean on each other, no matter how far apart they live.  We get to know each other in an abbreviated fashion:  we know the writing style, we know what subjects amuse and infuriate them, we understand the sense of humor.  All this never hearing a voice or seeing a face or meeting in person. 

Once, after my mother died, a woman I'd "known" from email for seven or eight years looked me up and called me on the phone.  It was unexpected and such a strange sensation --- the voice wasn't right somehow.  I'd "heard" her in my mind for so long.  Her voice is pixels, a sig file and a wink ;) at exactly the spot where I know it will go.

Our language hasn't caught up with these relationships.  Are these people friends?  "Online friends?"  Did we "hear" a rumor or read it?  "I was saying just yesterday..." or typing?  How long have we "known" them? 

What happens to our sense of community and of empathy when we have close emotional ties, or think we do, to people we have never seen, touched, or heard --- people we likely never will?   It's surely a challenge that our social natures have never really known. 

This past week, a woman I have known through an internet email list for at least five years suffered a terrible personal tragedy --- a childbirth went horribly wrong.  Her baby died and she herself was near death; perhaps she will never bear another child.  As the details came out, passed from computer to computer along a long chain that somewhere included a telephone and a human voice, I felt such a strong longing to do something.

Deep within all of us there is an urge to comfort the grieving.  Grief cannot really be comforted with words, in my experience, although everyone wants to say something.  So our primal instincts are to touch, to give, to be present.  We do things like bring casseroles because we know it is so hard to remember to eat when the world seems to have stopped.  We go to funerals and memorial services because we know that presence is something that comforts mourners.  We reach out and touch hands.  We come and mow the lawn.  I remember my father-in-law washing the car for me before my mother's funeral, so that it would look nice in the procession, and also he shined our black shoes.  These physical things might not even be noticed in the midst of grief, but they will help, in real ways.  And they are what we crave to give.

But if we are not friends "IRL," as they say (and isn't it telling that Internet-only must mean... not your Real Life?), especially if some anonymity separates us (understandably), all we can offer is words, and words are pretty empty and sad little things in the yawning maw of grief. 

People manage, anyway.  A knot of supporters from one of the lists has started a Paypal fund to buy her a laptop she can use during her convalescence.  Some of them are planning to drive or fly hundreds of miles to be with her at the funeral --- they have decided to tear down the odd wall of Internet-only communities, entering into her real life. 

I won't be doing that, for a variety of reasons... but it does leave me with this strange sadness that has nowhere to go but here.

"Normal Life, with More Pancakes."

Amy Welborn points to this review of a collection of columns by WaPo columnist Marjorie Williams, who died at age 47 of cancer.  She left behind two young children.  I was struck by this bit:

But the real anchor of the section, the stunning, unflinching "Hit by Lightning: A Cancer Memoir," leaves behind the world of other people's ambition and focuses instead on her own, which was far more urgent: to cheat death, at least for a time.

"Having found myself faced with that old bull-session question (What would you do if you found out you had a year to live?)," she wrote, "I learned that a woman with children has the privilege or duty of bypassing the existential. What you do, if you have little kids, is lead as normal a life as possible, only with more pancakes."

Amy comments:

Not much time, not much time. Yes, eternity awaits, but if the time we have on earth didn't matter- we wouldn't have been given it.

Important thoughts.  Incidentally, I had a dream last night that I knew I had only a few days to live.  It was realistic enough that when I woke in the morning dark I believed, for a moment, that I was still in it.  Wish I remembered more details.