If you’ve read some of the recent US press discussion on this topic, which has a “how dare you!” tone to it, I urge you to read this article, which presents background on the issue, and a defense of the current language of the prayer. It is not easy reading, but well worthwhile.

Once again, Rabbi Neusner does a better job of defending Catholic practice than many Catholics. I read his book about Jesus when I was considering conversion to Judaism many years ago. Ironically, his book helped me understand the uniqueness of the claims of Jesus, and helped me return to a deeper and more committed Christian faith (ultimately a Catholic faith.)

ANNOUNCEMENT: Next drawing is on Saturday, February 30, 2008

Ummm, okay. I won’t count on winning, then….

Let’s recap how receiving the Eucharist works for me at my home parish. On the Sundays when I arrive in time, I sit in front of the front row, on the tabernacle side, and the minister of communion brings the elements to me. Generally, it is the celebrant who brings the Host, and an extraordinary minister who brings the Cup. This works perfectly well for the Host. Something terrible sometimes happens with the Cup.

Not everyone who sits in the first two rows and has communion brought receives under both forms, which is all well and good. And the extraordinary ministers change from week to week, and that’s fine. Here’s the trouble. Those of you who walk up to receive can just pass by the extraordinary minister, and you’ve adequately <ahem> communicated that you don’t choose to receive. But when the Chalice comes to us, we have to let that person know whether we choose to receive. This is where it all goes wrong. All too often, they will say, “The Blood of Christ?” with a rising inflection, making an offer, asking a question. Because they are asking, “(Would you like to receive) the Blood of Christ?”

Which is understandable, but WRONG, WRONG, WRONG. That should be a declaration, not a question. And when it is in the form of a question, and I don’t choose to recieve in that form, I feel there is no right answer.

“No thank you,” or a shake of the head, feels like a denial of the Presence of Christ… that doesn’t sit right AT ALL. But if I say “Amen,” then the minister thinks I want to receive. And if I’m coughing or sneezing, or my reflux is bad, I don’t receive in that form.

I’ve sort of solved this on my side by using the (unapproved, but generally understood) gesture of crossed arms. But the rising inflection, I can’t change. So here’s my little vent.

Thanks.

Good Idea: Make parents aware that ADHD, autism-spectrum disorders, depression, OCD, and related problems can be serious, and can be treated.

Atrocious Idea: Anthropomorphize these conditions as violent kidnappers. Play on the fear and guilt of parents who, if their children are having problems, are already overwhelmed. (And, in the process, reinforce gender stereotypes about what types of conditions affect what sex.)

Back to the drawing board, New York University Child Study Center.  And  here’s a wild idea. Why not ask the children living with these disabilities what they wish the adults in their life understood?

An aisle chair is a special torture device used to move people who can’t walk onto and off of airplanes. I board before everyone else, before boading is even announced, and get off the plane last, while the cleaning crew works around me. Airport staff people help me transfer, strap me in, and roll me onto the plane. Sometimes they remember to ask for my input about how best to do this, and some don’t. Some just start grabbing my limbs and pulling.

Some don’t pay much attention to what parts of my body they may be touching as they fasten straps across the chest, over the hips, and so forth. You might think that they are trying to sneak in a quick and tacky grope, but I’m convinced it’s rarely so. Instead they are just not thinking of me as a human at all, but rather as awkward baggage. Often, they don’t seem to hear what I say unless I get loud and repeat myself; baggage doesn’t talk.
The groundwork for that attitude is laid by their language. As I listen to the airline employees, I hear them talk about me as “a wheelchair” or “a carry-on” without adding the word “passenger.” Baggage terms for a person, jargon of the job.

This time, I had bad experiences with both flights on the route home. On the first flight, the assistance staff (does anyone know what their official title is? I have no idea, and I need to find out) had me seated at an odd angle on the chair, and as I tried to straighten myself out, my left quadriceps (the thigh muscle on the top of the thigh) exploded into extreme fiery pain. I’d not have been surprised if an alien had burst out of my leg! I’ve NEVER had pain like that except when recovering from surgery.

Then the armrest of the plane seat wouldn’t lift, and they couldn’t lift me over it because I was utterly dead weight. and they had to let me slip to the plane floor while they figured out what to do next. This was actually a relief, because stretching out on the carpet of the aisle eased whatever was causing the pain and allowed it to subside slowly.

Finally they were able to lift me into the seat; not before the gentleman helping me up tread firmly on my bare left foot (my shoes had come off in the general confusion). Fortunately, my leg had settled down to a dull buzz of pain and I could ease myself to sleep.

The people doing boarding on the second leg of the flight knew what they were doing… but they weren’t gentle about it. I have black and blue marks on my arm. I told the man he was hurting me, but he didn’t seem to understand what I was saying (and yes, my speech is pretty fluent these days).

When I saw the man who had come to get me off the last flight, my heart sank. I’d had sharp words with him before about the way he was feeling along my backside and thighs looking for a strap. This time he didn’t do that, but he did put the chair at a different angle than I had asked for the transfer, then let the aisle chair move as I was getting out of it… very unsafe. And when I wasn’t going fast enough for him, he started to grab at me. So I had words with him again.

I fly 3-5 times a year. It’s rarely as bad as this. But it’s always something to grit my teeth about and try to keep my assertive cool.

1. What a fellow with a trenchcoat gets arrested for; indecent exposure.
2. Dying of the effects of the elements, as the weak and sickly were exposed in pagan Rome.
3. Uncovered, as a scandal is exposed.

So I don’t know what verb we should use to describe the process of making library resources and databases more easily available to humans or machines — but I feel quite strongly that “expose” isn’t the verb we really want.

We now return you to your regularly-scheduled blogging.

I love Big Arm Woman. She is a marshmallow in a cynic mask.

One of my favorite Callahan cartoons shows two disembodied heads in wheeled carts. The disembodied head on the right has an eye patch. The disembodied head on the left, with two good eyes, is saying, “People like you are an inspiration to me.”

Yes. That’s it exactly. Now on to the story.
Several years ago, in another town in another state, lived a woman I knew only as The Doll-Car Lady. She had decorated her blue sedan with dozens, maybe hundreds of pieces of dolls. Heads, and arms, and legs — The kind you see in bins at craft stores — covered the roof, hood, and trunk and maybe even parts of the doors. (Memory, kindly, fades precision.)

One day I was clipping along down the hill from our apartment when the Doll-Car Lady (who was walking the other direction) stopped me, and introduced herself. “You may not know me,” she said, “But you probably know my car. It’s the one with the dolls?”

“Yes?” (Wondering how I could get away.)
“I just wanted to tell you that you are such an inspiration to me!”

“Oh. Well. Thank you.”

When I got home that night, I told my roommate, about two-thirds joking, “I am terribly afraid. If I can inspire that, there must be something really wrong with me!”

I still wonder….

Last week, the Rosary Army podcast got a severe case of the bawdy sillies over the double meaning of the word “mount”.

And today, the library world is all atwitter with consternation over where the rattlesnake bit the dog.

Now, in neither case was the intent to offend. The podcast tends to be a bit free-form, and that’s one of its charms. I was SO relieved that they didn’t get jumped on (you should pardon the expression — oy!) over a slip of the tongue that turned into a giggle festival.

In the case of the children’s book, the author says:

“The word is just so delicious,” Ms. Patron said. “The sound of the word to Lucky is so evocative. It’s one of those words that’s so interesting because of the sound of the word.”

Ms. Patron, who is a public librarian in Los Angeles, said the book was written for children 9 to 12 years old. But some librarians countered that since the heroine of “The Higher Power of Lucky” is 10, children older than that would not be interested in reading it.

Delicious word. Eeeew.

I can’t say I blame the librarians who are choosing not to go through the agony of buying a book that all but has a target painted on it.  Even though I respect those who are stocking it anyway.

It is just a word. A simple description of a simple body part. A tiny aspect of the beauty and complexity of creation.
But, ah, how I wish the dog had been bitten on the ankle….

Lila Rose, a sophomore at the University of California-Los Angeles, posed as a pregnant student seeking support for an unplanned pregnancy from the UCLA health center. The Advocate, a new student newspaper, reported today that university health center employees strongly advised Rose to abort, citing the lack of support on campus and the discomforts of pregnancy.

Okay. Not really news, in my opinion. Sad, frustrating, but not news. And, although it certainly leans toward begging the question in a pro-abortion direction, the nurse practitioner was probably accurate when she said,

“UCLA doesn’t support people who are pregnant and make things easier for them necessarily,” the nurse practitioner said.

Most universities don’t invest much in the childcare for their employees, let alone their students. So that isn’t what caught my eye. What caught my eye is MUCH more trite.

Let’s rewind here.

“People who are pregnant”??

Could we all agree that is just a little too much gender-free language? That in spite of future fathers’ adorable way of saying “We’re pregnant!”, the real “pregnant person” is a pregnant woman? Or in some cases, a pregnant girl? (I am also annoyed by the tendency for some people to call any female with working ovaries a woman, even if she still is in middle school.)

On the other hand, if you promise to help students in crisis choose life for their children, I’ll let you call them most anything.