Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Mid-Week Reads

Women and Work

The Wall Street Journal is covering women in the economy and has some great stories.

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Friday, April 22, 2011

Let's Talk

Child Sexual Abuse Awareness Month
There's a crime, an abomination that is so very common but that we rarely talk about. Children being sexually abused by adults, often by adults known to them, by adults they and their parents trust. This happened to me, multiple times, and it has probably happened to most of the women you know, and some of the men. Yet do you know what's most horrifying?

If you're not a survivor yourself, read the survivor's stories on the Child Sexual Abuse Awareness Month blog. In all the entries I have read, my own stories, the other stories I have heard, the child, the victim feels ashamed and guilty. She often doesn't talk about it to her parents and rarely tries to get her abuser punished. She is scared out of her wits and feels the abuse is somehow her fault.

Wednesday, April 20, 2011

No Mid-Week Reads

. . . today. I'm not well and struggling to keep up with work. Come back on Sunday. 

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

Mid-Week Reads

A short version this time, because I've been too busy to read much. My mom's visiting,and I've taken today off so the three of us can go out and have fun.

Here's why you should quit the internet. (I said you, not me.)

Pieces like this are why I'm such a fan of Jai Arjun Singh. I've got to hunt up Satyakam now. I also liked his latest post on Red Rose: thank you for a much-needed dose of the funnies, Jai.

Jai Arjun Singh also takes on something I often think about: the notion of "human superiority".

Here's a heartwarming reminder of how political differences don't preclude friendship. 

The power of storytelling.

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Orchids

The first time we fought, he gave me roses. Big open blood-red blossoms that he had picked out from his little terrace garden. There were just three of them, and they shed petals as I caressed them and cried. After we had kissed and made up, I put them in water in a glass to which I added some sugar, at his suggestion. But by early morning, almost all the petals had dropped by the side of the glass. I saw them when I went to the kitchen to get myself a glass of water. I went back to bed and curled up against him.

He only brought me flowers when we fought, never on my birthday or any other occasion. They varied with the season – and with the intensity of our fights. He brought me chrysanthemums in winter: lovely white blooms that stood ladylike in the wine bottle I had put them in. He gave me a hibiscus once, one large red flower that he plucked as I walked over to the edge of his terrace, sulking. He touched my face with it, and then tucked it into my hair.

“You look like a goddess,” he said. And I turned around and smiled.