Frankly Outraged

I am not exactly a Justin Bieber fan, probably because I am not a 13-year-old girl.  Thirteen-year-old girls are CRAZY about him, though, because he's the teen idol du jour.

A couple of weeks ago  Bieber visited the Anne Frank House in Amsterdam while on tour, and wrote the following in their guestbook:

"Truly inspiring to be able to come here. Anne was a great girl. Hopefully she would have been a 'belieber," (which I understand is what Bieber's fans call themselves).

People around the world were outraged - yes, I tell you- OUTRAGED- by this.  Bieber was accused of making light of the Holocaust, of trivializing an "important historical figure," and of being selfish. (http://www.cnn.com/2013/04/14/showbiz/bieber-anne-frank).

So, I am going to court controversy and brace myself for the backlash and just say it.  If Anne Frank had been 13 years old in 2013 instead of 1942 she very likely would have been a "Belieber."

I read - and reread- "The Diary of Anne Frank" when I was 13 years old, the same age Anne was when she started writing it.  The thing that immediately struck me is that Anne was someone just like me - a typical teenage girl.  She wrote about "hating" her mother, and fighting with her sister, and having a crush on Peter, the son of the other family hiding in the loft with her family.  And she was totally starstruck by teen idols of the early 1940's.

Suddenly, because of Anne Frank's diary a 13-year-old Italian Catholic schoolgirl growing up in the 1960's in Swissvale, Pennsylvania really understood on a personal level the horror of the Holocaust. It was no longer some far off historical event. This terrible atrocity happened to millions of real people.

So, I have to believe that that is what Justin Bieber, who is just 19 himself, was feeling when he wrote in the guestbook at the Anne Frank House that day.  He was feeling that real connection to Anne Frank that I felt so many years ago when I read her diary.  He was inspired by her spirit and her story, just as I had been.  He hoped that if she had been a teenager today that she would have been a fan of his.  He was relating to Anne Frank as the real girl she was, not a "historical figure."

It was really quite a lovely message.

The Best Little Lullaby in Pennsylvania

"What the heck is 'aroo'?" read the text from my sister.

I knew exactly what she was talking about before even reading the rest of the text.

She was talking about "At the Gates of Heaven," MY lullaby, the one I'd been singing to unsuspecting children ever since I learned it from my dandy fifth grade songbook.

Well, it IS  the loveliest lullaby ever composed, and all the children seemed to like it.  It was like an elixir - a magic potion that soothed them.   If they were still awake when I finished, their typical response was  "Sing it again!"  My son, who is 28, stills likes to hear it now and then.

Oh, let me tell you, nothing is more satisfying than when the audience demands an encore.  Clearly, I had found my signature song.

Now my sister, one of the first young children who listened to my rendition of the song, was singing it to her grandson. I explained to her that I always sang the phrase in question as "adieu, adieu" meaning "goodbye" in French.

Slumber my baby
Slumber adieu, adieu
Slumber now my baby
Adieu, Adieu

She told me that that made sense but when she looked it up the word was "aroo."

That didn't surprise me.  I often sing slightly different lyrics to songs without realizing it because I prefer them to the real words.  This drives my husband, the Very Literal Music Director,  crazy.  He insists upon correcting what I consider to be creative license, even if I am just singing around the house for my own enjoyment.

Wait just one minute here... did this mean my sister was SINGING??? My sister doesn't sing.   She may be able to sing, but we can't be sure because no one has ever heard her sing.  So I asked her.

There was a long pause.  Then her text came back to me.

"Sometimes you have to do what you have to do."

It seems that "At the Gates of Heaven" can have a magical effect on adults too.

AT GATES OF HEAVEN (a Spanish Lullaby)


At the gates of heaven
Little shoes they are selling
for the little barefooted
Angels there dwelling

Slumber my baby
Slumber adieu, adieu
Slumber now my baby
Adieu, Adieu

God will bless the children
So peacefully sleeping
God will bless the mothers
Whose watch they are keeping

Slumber my baby
Slumber adieu, adieu
Slumber now my baby
Adieu, Adieu

Letting My Loud Voice Shine

Loud came naturally to her, and quiet took a lot of work, and if she let down her guard for even one tiny little second the loud would come marching right back in again.... 

Her very loudest voice...was louder than anybody else’s loudest voice – at least, anybody she knew. Most of the time Grace had to sit hard on her loud voice and feel shamed for it, but every now and then a loud voice was called for, and that was Grace’s moment to shine. 
                                                                            From "Don't Let Me Go" by Catherine Ryan Hyde

I understand what young Grace was going through because I too was a naturally (and unnaturally) loud nine-year-old.

It wasn't easy being loud. I spent my childhood with constant reminders from the adults in my life to "lower your voice" and "keep it down."

Being louder than everyone else meant that, even when everyone was talking, I was most likely to be heard.   I also had what I now recognize as a sophisticated, edgy sense of humor, which my parents and teachers mistook as being a "smart aleck."

So I was misunderstood, but always heard. It was enough to give a girl a complex.

For the sake of survival, I learned how to what my father likes to refer to as "modulate" my voice, but like Grace, the loud can march right back in again at any time.

Once in awhile, though, being loud has come in handy.

In ninth grade gym class, where I often stood out but never in a good way, we were once assigned to put together an exercise routine and then demonstrate and teach it to the class. I dutifully developed what I thought was a pretty respectable routine to "I Feel the Earth Move" from Carole King's Tapestry album.

My gym teacher (the same guy who told me that I was the only person he knew who could strike out in kickball) actually liked it. He was particularly impressed with my ability to project my voice while lying flat on my back, and he gave me extra points for that.

While there are a few instances where having a loud voice is not only acceptable but an advantage, the best place I have found to follow my histrionic bliss is on the stage. Here they welcome loud and proud performers - loudness is in fact essential to performing on stage. So, here was my place- whether it was out-and-out shouting they wanted, or a more conversational tone that carried, or a stage whisper, I had it covered.

Currently, I am in rehearsal for the Grapes of Wrath which opens this coming Thursday at Robert Morris University in Moon Township. I am playing the small (but pivotal!) role of Granma Joad.

 I am really enjoying participating in this production for a number of reasons. First of all, it is the stage adaptation of the John Steinbeck classic about the plight of displaced Dust Bowl farmers. A beautiful story and one of my favorite books, it's an honor to be a part of it.

Also, it is the first time my husband (who's playing Grandpa) and I are playing a couple on stage, AND the first time my character dies in a show. All pretty exciting stuff.

Finally, Granma is one loud woman. I have to deliver three of her lines from offstage, and two lying flat on my back when Granma is ill and dying on the Joads' truck (using that practice I got in gym class all those years ago). And I get to let my loud voice shine.

There Were Never Such Devoted Sisters

 I smile because you're my sister.  I laugh because there's nothing you can do about it. -- Unknown

"She's more than just a spare kidney to me.  She's my sister and I love her."

This gem of a sisterly sentiment comes to us courtesy of the identical twin sister of the bride-to-be  on  a recent Say Yes to the Dress Atlanta episode.

I have three sisters myself. I just had to share this with them on Facebook.

Unlike those twins on Say Yes to the Dress we are anything but identical.  We are like snowflakes - we might look alike (and walk alike and talk alike), but our personalities really are very different from one another.

Despite their differences, my sisters do agree on one thing.  While they all seem to like it when they "appear" in my blog, none of them wants to be identified by name.  So if it seems that I talk a lot about "my sister" that's partially because there are so many of them.

So, without naming names, here are their responses  to that Facebook post:

I must say that I never ever thought of you as a spare kidney or any other body part.

Well, that was good to know.  I assured her that I felt the same way.

This seems odd to be a random comment.  Is there more to this? Did the sister donate a kidney to her twin?

No, this came out of absolutely nowhere.  The twin was also trying on dresses because they thought that way they could see how twice as many dresses looked (because they were identical).  That turned out to be weird, so then the bride tried on her own dresses.

Actually, there's no guarantee that we could be organ donors for each other since none of us are identical twins.

Yes, I realized that but I just thought that it was a funny way to think about your sister even if you were identical twins.  They both laughed when she said it, so I figured it was a family joke.

Then, one of my oldest and dearest friends joined in on the conversation:

I love eavesdropping on this conversation among you sisters. :-)

I told her she wasn't eavesdropping because it was a public conversation and then one of my sisters chimed in:

Besides isn't she a honorary Ciraulo sister, anyway?

This is an honor to which few aspire and even fewer are chosen, but it was true, and my friend was pleased.

And I realized that I have a handful of friends who are actually like sisters to me -that's how close we are.  When you think about it, that is a real compliment to my actual sisters.  I like my sisters so much that I was happy to welcome more "sisters" into my life.

So, are you sitting there thinking, "I want to be in the sisterhood too! How can I be an Honorary Ciraulo Sister?"  Well, here's your chance!  Just play "Guess the Sister."  It's easy!

1)  First, "like" the "Rip Aches All Over" Facebook page, or if you are not on Facebook, follow the blog.  If you already "like" or "follow" Rip, then go onto Step 2.

2)  Send me a PRIVATE message either on Facebook or in an e-mail and identify which sister contributed each of the comments described in this blog.  If you don't know my sisters, I will give you each sister's occupation and the state they live in. If you guess all three correctly, you're in.

Actual Ciraulo Sisters are ineligible to participate - you already know who you are.

It Gets Better

It's difficult for you right now. You feel hated and rejected and misunderstood by the people you love the most.  Sometimes you just don't know how you can live through one more day of it.  You feel all alone.

I'm here to tell you that I've been where you are, and to implore you to hold on.  Because it really does get better.

Yes, I'm talking to you, parents of pre-teens and teenagers.  I see you sharing your travails in Facebook.  Those children you love so much, for whom you would give your very life, now do not want to be seen with you in the supermarket.  They are deeply embarrassed by your very existence.  Even your most innocent attempts at everyday communications ("How was school today?", "Did you do your homework?") are met with eye rolls, heavy sighs, and monosyllabic grunts at best.

For me the trouble all started when my son was just nine (oh, yes, he was precocious) when he matter-of-factly looked up from his dinner to announce, "Snakes are lucky."

"Why is that?" I asked, sensing that I might not really want to know the answer.

"Because from the time they are born they don't need their parents for anything.  They are completely independent," he explained, wistfully.

So, it had come to this.  From my sweet affectionate little boy who had seemed so fond of me until now.  After all I had done for him, he just wanted to slither away, shedding me like some useless skin.  And it went downhill from there.

Just know that this is a typical and normal process for kids hitting their double digits to experience, and generations of parents before you have painfully experienced it along with them.  One bedraggled mother I knew had a theory that making teenagers so difficult is God's way of making it bearable for parents when they leave home.

Whatever, it is important to get support along the way.  The mothers of my sons' friends were a great group of ladies, and we all bonded over the years at t-ball  games and Boy Scout banquets.  By the time we were Band Mothers when our kids were in the marching band, we were seriously considering forming a support group called Parents of Teenagers.  The resulting acronym of P.O.T. gave us pause, and we hoped that would not prove TOO appropriate.  We abandoned the support group model entirely and went back to commiserating without organization.

But, whatever you do, don't give up.  Keep being your embarrassing parental self.  No matter how much they doth protest, your kids need and (deep down inside) want you to be there, asking those questions and cheering them on - taking videos of their extracurricular activities, and being there no matter how much they try to push you away.

One day, when they're 17, they might shock you by admitting you were right about something.   At some point, they go from resenting your Facebook Friendship, to openly recognizing and appreciating you on Facebook. The next thing you know, they are grown up, calling regularly, and suggesting a weekly Family Night where you all get together for dinner once a week.  Spending time with them is a joy.

And they are no longer ashamed to be seen with you in the supermarket, especially if you're paying.