OK, this is the last thing I'm going to say about the We$terfield trial, promise... To anyone who had any doubts as to whether he did it, check out this article. The guy was set to confess, give up her body, and bargain for his life on the very day they found her. His lawyers knew he was guilty, and so did the prosecutors. He should have thrown himself on the mercy of the court right then. Instead, he forced the V@n Dams to go through the humiliation and pain of a trial where their lives were dissected in public, on the off chance that some technicality or unconvinced juror would bail him out and he could somehow get away with murder. Worked for O.J., right?

My feelings about his getting the Death Penalty? Nite nite, termite. If there's a Hell, I hope they're saving a spot in the Pit of Flaming Pig Excrement just for him.

OK, this subject of this entry is gross; the weak of constitution may want to skip it. You can't say you weren't warned.

One sort of unexpected aspect to working in the same facility as a lot of recent immigrants is the realization that not all of them are familiar with, shall we say, restroom etiquette. While I'm fairly ignorant of what other alternatives to our modern commode system may exist in developing countries, particularly those of the Far East, I get the impression that many involve what boils down to squatting over an open hole. The concept of flushing, and what may or may not be flushed, is tenuous for some of the gals from our assembly labs. Although all but a couple of them seem to get the part about flushing after going, apparently some of them are not aware that toilet paper may be flushed; there are usually large wads of yellow-tinged damp TP jammed halfway into the flap of the little metal trashbins on the floor of the stalls (why they can't shove them all the way down, and thus at least spare the rest of us the sight of their soggy detritus, is beyond me; maybe they're afraid of the metal lid snapping shut on their hands). Others, conversely, apparently believe that any paper-like product can be flushed; this morning, I saw a 3"x 5" cardboard box from the maxi-pad dispenser floating in one of the toilets. Judging from the footprints I've seen on seats, it would appear that some users actually get their feet up on the toilet seat and squat atop it like they would a hole in the ground. This is one reason why the handy tissue-paper ass-gasket is an essential commodity in a public commode. Squatting is also sometimes part of the clean-up process; once in another building, I glanced over at the space below the stall divider after sensing movement, and saw parts of the gal next door that I've never seen on anyone who's diaper I was not changing. What tended to happen when this same woman was on the business part of her monthly cycle is something too disgusting to detail; let's just say I scrupulously avoided the stall she tended to use for fear of transmissable pathogens.

Anyway, I know the topic is kinda nauseating, but in a sense I find it culturally interesting. Reading a couple of articles like this one provide insight that explains some of the behavior I've seen. As an oblivious Westerner, I just never gave much thought to the fact that there are still parts of the world where, even though the inhabitants may have adopted Western dress and entertainments and vices, a flushing toilet is not necessarily familiar nor available to them. Or even desired, maybe? I wonder if there are any homes in the U.S. where the immigrant owners have elected to remove the porcelain thrones and build their own squatters' version over the drain?

Also, I wonder if anyone who administers orientation courses for newly-arrived immigrants has thought to include a lesson on modern facilities' use and etiquette - even just to let them know that, here, it's OK to flush TP? I suppose it's a difficult subject to broach - but I can definitely attest to the need for some education on the issue… If only so that those of us used to certain hygenic norms don't have to be faced with the disgusting detritus of ignorance when nature calls on the job.

Perhaps someone could start a non-profit organization with the goal of teaching excretory etiquette to our newly-arrived brethren. They could do fund-raisers, like sending kids out to sell toilet paper door-to-door, or perhaps cut a deal with sanitation companies to put little donation boxes in porta-potties. I think there's an opportunity to leave one's mark, perform a valued community service, and bring about cleaner and nicer public restrooms for all. Not my cup of tea, mind you - but surely someone could step up to the plate. Or bowl. Whatever.

A year ago, my clock radio blared to life at 6:30am like every other weekday, and as usual my hand shot out from the covers and slapped the snooze button before I was fully awake. A couple of seconds passed in the silence before the words the DJ had been saying absorbed into my sleepy brain: "Two planes have hit the towers..."
Planes? Towers? Was there an aviation accident? (I confess to a morbid fascination with plane crashes, so my first thought was that two planes had collided, and crashed into buildings below or near them). I turned the radio back on.

After a few more seconds, and a muttered "No fucking way", I was on my feet and headed downstairs to turn on the TV. I watched, live, the first tower falling. It was like something out of a Jerry Bruckheimer film, and I could not yet accept that it was real, that thousands of real people were being atomized before my eyes and on the air. Reality caught up soon enough though; it appeared in the form of photocopied pictures, countless faces smiling in stark contrast to the pleas for information written below them, posted on a crowded wall or waved by crying survivors clinging desperately to hope. Have you seen my husband, please call if you've seen our daughter. But all we saw was smoke and dust, the encompassing gray shroud of mourning, laden with molecules of the mourned.

Grief was a palpable thing, those first days and weeks - it hung in the air like smoke, like dust. Not all of us had lost someone; but most of us felt like we lost something. The mainland of America wasn't safe from war anymore; war had come to us for the first time in over 200 years. Our attackers were maddeningly nebulous - not a country with definable borders, but a shadow group hidden deep in caves and lurking in cells like cancer in the bodies of our nation and dozens of others. A year later, we've taken out the largest tumor, but we know the disease still lives.

Trite as it may be to say, though, in those first weeks I also felt an authentic sense of community with those around me, in all the people who displayed flags and lit candles and watched the news and heard the stories and wept for what was lost... a unity of sentiment that I'd always associated with the WWII era and had wondered if Americans were even capable of anymore. Beyond the reactions of Americans, I was deeply moved by the reaction of other nations - I welled up when I saw the British Brigade of Guards band play "Star-Spangled Banner" at the Changing of the Guard, and when Tony Blair, Gerhard Schroeder, Vladimir Putin - leaders of nations that at various points in history have had their own problems with the US - spoke of sorrow and solidarity. As sappy as that sounds, these things resonated with me. While I didn't watch the all-star tribute on TV, or buy a T-shirt that said "Let's roll", or go to any vigils or ceremonies, I did feel that it was an amazing experience, to bear witness to an event that shook the entire civilized world to its core, and which would take a place in history equal to that of Pearl Harbor or Kennedy's assassination. I'll tell my kids about it someday, and hopefully when I do the event will still stand as the most horrific event of the Millenium, because nothing else will have happened to supplant it. Let's all cross our fingers.

I can't say that I don't feel some level of frustration with those (other than survivors, or family and friends of the dead) who get unduly overwrought on this day, a year later - I do think that there's a fine line between being respectful of the anniversary and being mawkish about it. However, I will say that on this day, the memories of last September are very much with me, and I will take time to think about what happened and what's happened since, and I'll hope hard for the ongoing safety and prosperity of America in times to come.