Burn This Blog

I usually stick to the fun side of blogging, but I've seen one too many stories that glorify hate-mongering this week and I'm sick of it.

I'm tired of people blaming all Muslims for the actions of fanatics. The family I saw last weekend in the airport, the young adults I've known since they were born who converted to and practice Sufi, and the doctor who just treated your mother in the E.R. are no more responsible for the attacks on this country than you or I.

Yet, for no reason other than their faith, they are the target of hate, scorn, bigotry, vitriol, and violence.

The same acts that we decry when they are directed at Americans in foreign countries now occur with increasing frequency in this country, where we're supposed to be the land of the free and home of the brave. Where we're supposed to welcome the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free.

The attacks of 9/11 struck at our hearts. Amid the almost overwhelming national shock and mourning, we grew more united in our resolve. We would not be defeated by extremists. The American spirit would not be crushed. We would rise from the ashes, remember those who died, and not give victory to those who attacked us.

Yet today I feel like we are letting them win. If the Muslim center had been built near the World Trade Center before 09/11/01, there would not have been national protests.

We do not battle our enemies by fighting over that center. It isn't a victory over fanaticism to burn the Quran.

Instead, these actions give them what they want -- fuel for their argument that Americans hate all those connected to Islam.

How many of us grew up with the Golden Rule of treat others as you would like to be treated? At work these days we're learning the Platinum Rule -- treat others as they would like to be treated.

I get that people are angry at Al Qaida, at the people who seek to tear us down. So am I. But I refuse to let that anger poison me to the point where I treat all Muslims as enemies.

I will not allow fanatics to convert me to their politics of hate.

Sensory Memory

Whenever I go away for a few days, my dogs go to "doggy camp". Last weekend, I got home Sunday night but, because Monday was a holiday, I couldn't pick up Nat and Pyxi until Tuesday. The emptiness in the house expanded with their absence but my senses didn't get the message that they weren't here.

Each time I pushed back my chair, I waited to hear them jump up to see what I was about to do. A couple of dozen times, in pure reflex, I reached to pet them and my fingers expected to feel soft fur. I opened the front door and automatically gave the "wait" hand signal.

I do these things so many times each day that they're ingrained. The sounds, the touches, the instinctive actions are imprinted on my eyes, ears, nose, and skin. They're so palpable that, even when the dogs aren't here, I still feel, hear, and smell them to some degree. No, not as vividly as if Nat and Pyxi were really by my side, but sensory memory is strong.

I notice it more with the dogs these days than with anyone else because the three of us are my "now". Still, even 25 years after my father's death, if I hold very still and close my eyes, I remember exactly how it felt when he hugged me. Everybody's hug is unique depending on their height or body structure in relation to mine, the amount of pressure, the duration. Dad's hug was unlike any other.

Mom had a way of brushing my hair back from my face. When I was a little girl and upset about something, we'd talk and she would repeat the motion, with her fingers threading through my hair, soft against my skin. It always soothed and calmed me down. Even when I was an adult, she'd do it sometimes when she knew that something was weighing on my mind. That's another sensory memory I carry with me, years after her passing.

I'm working on a story in which a woman leaves her husband after many years of marriage. She's finally had enough of his cheating and the complete lack of respect he shows her. There's more to it. Leaving is really an act of survival and a step toward healing for her. Still, I think that it would be very, very hard for her to leave behind the sensory memories even though she has physically removed herself from his presence.

I can picture her lying in bed alone but remembering how his side of the mattress dipped when he joined her and how his arm wrapped around her and held her close. I wonder how much more lonely she'll feel without these things in her life. How will she cope. Perhaps to fight their power, she'll need to make herself remember the touches that actually annoyed her but that she never shared... like the way that his fingers curled into her waist when he placed his hand at the small of her back. The motion always communicated possession instead of intimacy.

More to ponder.

Feeding on the Energy

I was in New Orleans for Heather Graham's annual Writers for New Orleans Workshop this past weekend. For me, this is less work and more fun with friends. People I adore fly in from all over the country and we spend a few days together doing panels, discussions, and partying in a terrific city that epitomizes fun.

There's a palpable energy to the city. It spreads out like sunshine and soaks into your skin until you're all filled up with warmth and light. The French Quarter doesn't simply buzz or hum with life. It sings in full-throated harmony and dances to the rhythm of jazz, blues and zydeco. Five years after Hurricane Katrina, the spirt (and spirits) flow.

There's an energy to a writers' conference, too. I love talking with and listening to writers and readers. They are all storytellers and for someone who loves words as much as I do, this is like a banquet for gluttons. From the sharp smarts of JA Konrath who has become an Internet juggernaut with the Kindle sales of his work, to the hilarious joy of L.A. Banks who has the funniest tale of getting the call about her first sale ever . . . to Sarah from Smart Bitches Love Trashy Books who shines the spotlight on the genre's glories and flaws and now is invited to speak at places like Princeton University and publishers' institutes . . . F. Paul Wilson, Alexandra Sokoloff, Harley Jane Kozak, Linda Conrad, Kayla Perrin, Kathy Love . . . I could go on and on and on.

I talked to writers, editors, readers. We shared stories over Eggs Benedict or scones in the morning, fine filet and cocktails in the evening. I gorged on the energy of like-minded people and returned home stuffed and happy.

I have to wonder if it's like this in other industries. Do dentists or insurance agents go to conventions and catch a similar vibe? Do they return to their homes, buzzing with energy and eager to go forth and create with new purpose?

For their sakes, I hope so.