Filter.

I almost quit Facebook today.

Really, I almost did.

Between the recent controversy with the LDS church, the Paris attacks, the refugee situation, and a speech by President Obama, I could not take what I was seeing anymore.

But I have some dear friends I met through Facebook, and it is the place we gather and correspond. Enter fbpurity.com.

I can filter out what I don’t want to see. I can set specific words to keep out stories I don’t want to read. And yes, to some this might be tantamount to sticking my head in the sand, but that’s what Facebook is for. It’s not like much productive discourse is happening on Facebook in the first place. It’s a lot of yelling amidst a sea of logical fallacies.

Not for me, not anymore. Once I installed the extension, I saw happy news. I saw posts from friends that likely would’ve been buried or absent. I’m much happier. So today, I am grateful for developers much smarter than me who can build such a specific filter to help keep me a bit more sane.

 

So Many Things To Be Grateful For…

  1. A sister who lives 1,000 miles away and doesn’t take no for an answer.
  2. A sister who lives 10 miles away and delivers chicken broth, saltines, Sprite, egg noodles, and bananas (and a fancy chocolate bar for later), after the other sister called her.
  3. Parents who brought me a gallon of ice (I really like ice when I’m sick) and sat and talked with me for a while.
  4. Food poisoning to take away all ability to care about the BYU-Mizzou game.

Pretty much sums up my weekend.

Nous sommes tous Parisiens.

I’m writing this at 8:05 pm. I’ve been reading tweets about the attacks in Paris for a couple of hours now, and even though I’ve never been to France, I’ve felt an affinity for that country since junior high.

My heart is breaking.

Prior to hearing the news of the attacks, I was thinking of all the things I was grateful for: a BYU basketball game, a really cool piece of journalism the video yearbook staff did today, the upcoming jeans week at school, leftover takeout for dinner.

Three hours later, all those things seem so trivial.

Next week, I will teach a lesson that sets up a screening of the film Casablanca. I love this film–I never get tired of it. There is a scene where the patrons of Rick’s Cafe, in defiance of Germans singing the anthem of the Third Reich, sing “La Marseillaise.” There is a closeup of a woman singing, with a tear rolling down her cheek, and nearly every semester, in every class, students laugh at her emotion. Some years, I pause the movie and use it as a teaching moment about what a national anthem can mean to displaced citizens.

On Tuesday, prior to starting the film, I will take some time to discuss what it means to come together as citizens, irrelevant of geography, and try to explain why the French woman cries as she sings her national anthem.

I wish I didn’t have a timely event as a catalyst for that discussion. I wish I could guarantee I won’t weep when we get to that scene. But I’m grateful for these kinds of teaching moments, for the chance to share with students that sometimes being a citizen of the world is just as important as pledging allegiance to a country.

Nous sommes tous Parisiens.

A Five-Year Plan.

Actual conversation I had with my sister Deanne today.

Me: So my insurance company has a strict age rule on colonoscopies, so it will cost $3000 for me to get one before I’m 50.

Her: What? Even though you’re high risk?

Me: Yeah. And I’m up to $2100 of a $3100 deductible for this year and my health savings account won’t have enough money for at least two years to cover a colonoscopy. So, if I get stage 4 colon cancer when I’m 47 and I die, will you sue Blue Cross for wrongful death?

Her: Yes. And then I’ll buy front row tickets to Hamilton in your honor.

Me: After I’m dead? You’ll go see Hamilton after I’m dead?

Her: Well I certainly can’t afford it before the lawsuit.

I’m grateful for funny people in my life. Keeps my mind off the more serious stuff, like, you know, getting colon cancer within the next 7 years.

Invisible Veterans.

Earlier this year, I read Eric Schlosser’s book “Command and Control,” which is about the nuclear missile program of the United States. I read it, in part, to learn more about my dad’s career in the Air Force.

My dad is a veteran. He served in the Air Force for 25 years. He was a missilier, which meant his career field was a complete mystery to me. He didn’t fly planes, he didn’t repair planes, he didn’t train for combat or learn how to parachute into enemy territory. He is a veteran of the Cold War–a war that goes mostly unnoticed by most Americans.

Reading Schlosser’s book, and thinking back to Stephen Ambrose’s books about World War II and about Ken Burns’ war documentaries, I became keenly aware of the lack of narratives we have about veterans who served in the Cold War.

Since my book was published, people have asked what my next book will be about. In my dream world, I am not bogged down by any responsibilities and I spend my days collecting narratives from veterans of the Cold War. In my dream world, I write a book about the impact of the Cold War on these veterans, and in the words of the musical “Hamilton,” I tell their stories. I make sure they are not forgotten, that they are just as recognized as the veterans of the wars memorialized in Washington, D.C. and other cities all across the country.

Right now, veterans of the Cold War are somewhat invisible. That’s in part a good thing, because it means they succeeded at their jobs. But their stories are still important, so one day soon, I’ll be sitting my dad down in front of my iPhone with Voice Memo turned on, and like the journalism teacher I am, I will ask him questions about the Cold War. At the very least, I will tell his story, even if it is only to his immediate family.

As with all veterans, it’s a story that deserves to be told.

ETA: I do not mean to imply other veterans were not successful at their jobs; that is not my opinion at all. The Cold War itself was a more invisible kind of war, with casualties we didn’t always see, and repercussions many of us never realized.