Terror's not entertainment

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Imagine, if you will, a movie, embraced by critics, hailed as "brilliant," "extraordinary," and "a cause for celebration," about an SS officer, who kidnaps, tortures and kills Jews - but is portrayed as a guy with a kind heart. He kills without glee, you see. He's troubled by his actions.

If this is hard to envision, don't worry. The movie will make you see the goodness in this man. The camera will linger on the killer's sensitive eyes as he's interrogating his prisoner. The music will swell as Mr. Nice SS Guy lifts the hood off a shackled Jew so that he can more easily breathe. If you still can't see past the officer's actions to the purity of his soul, the movie's manipulative subplot and eye-for-an-eye ending will take you there.

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Even today, HIStory silences the accomplishments of women

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Even today, HIStory silences the accomplishments of women

Since 1987, March has been designated National Women's History Month by the U.S. Congress. That's what Thomas Mann, a sixth grader at the Davis School in Brockton, wrote and told me. "It is a time set aside to honor women, both past and present, for their accomplishments," he said. I'd read a blurb a few days before I received his letter, which mentioned National Women's History Month, but that's been it. There have been no in-depth feature stories; no "women of the day" highlighted every day throughout the month. No widespread recognition at all…

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Everyone needs another mom

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She was a shadow figure for years, made up of parts, never a whole. Her hands washed dishes, scrubbed pots, filled pans with oils and meats and spices. Her feet walked from the table to the countertop to the stove. Her voice was soft, and always friendly. "Do you two want something to drink?" Even when it was firm, it was never harsh. She suggested; she didn't demand.

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Cross dressing: all the rage with none of the revelation

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Cross-dressing, men dressing as women, is the in thing these days, the media's newest obsession.

It's on all the talk shows; it's the linchpin of the hottest movie; it's even the theme of the Institute of Contemporary Art's new show "Dress Codes."

From androgyny to hodgepodgegyny, it's just a great, big, anything-goes, totally Mardi Gras world.

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Suburbs still fulfill the dream

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New to this city, to this country, he wanted to know about suburbs. What they are, exactly? What they are like?

"They're safer than cities, are they not?" he asked. And though I said, yes, they are, I didn't explain that this is not their essence; that suburbs weren't born out of a need for safety. Suburbs, after all, have their roots, not in today's fears, but in yesterday's dreams.

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Miracle of kindness

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It's all thin ice, or a minefield, or a tightrope. Pick your favorite analogy.

Toxins, fire, a fall, a virus, bacteria, a gunshot wound can, in an instant, change what is into what was. And nothing is ever the same.

Before he ran into a burning building, he had a normal life. Now he is disfigured and disabled.

Before she was diagnosed with multiple mylenoma, she worried about getting into college. Now she worries about finding a bone marrow donor.

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Once the finger is pointed, the accused always is guilty

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Once the finger is pointed, the accused always is guilty

All it takes is an accusation. "He did it," someone says, and he did it. That's it. End of story. He can deny doing it. He can say, "It never happened. It wasn't like that. Let me tell you my side." But no one will listen. He's this century's witch. Once someone points a finger, once someone even hints, he's guilty as charged…

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Everyone loses the `game' of sex

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"History is not a random sequence of unrelated events. Everything affects and is affected by everything else. This is never clear in the present. Only time can sort out events. It is then in perspective that patterns emerge." - William Manchester

Patterns:

A man, about 55, walks into a restaurant. He's wearing a topcoat, a suit and a tie; he goes to the bar and orders a beer.

He's on his way out of the restaurant when he stops and asks the hostess, a young woman of 21, if Leeanne is working today. The hostess says she's new and doesn't know, but she'll check. She walks over to her manager, then returns and tells the man that Leeanne has moved to Florida.

"I wish I were in Florida, too," the hostess adds.

The man looks her up and down - she's wearing black heels, black nylons, a black skirt, white blouse and black blazer.

Then he says, "A little number like you could do well with the older guys in Florida. All you'd have to do is take your panties off."

The hostess is stunned. But all she can do is glare.

"Hey! Don't get offended," he says. "I'm just tellin' ya the truth."

He looks her up and down again, then walks out.

The hostess is my daughter. She tells me this story long-distance from school.

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He gives a gift of confidence

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I am sitting in the car, in the passenger seat. My daughter, the 16-year-old, is behind the wheel. She is learning to drive, and I am teaching her, telling her when to speed up, to slow down, to move a little to the left, to be careful of the ice on the road.

I hardly breathe while she drives. I keep my foot poised on an invisible brake. I see a child next to me, a little girl far too young to be driving a car.

My hands are fists as we travel down Dedham Street.

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There is only one true justice for cold-blooded killers: death

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They come and they go - the murdered and the murderers. They fill the front page for a day or two. They lead the nightly news. And then they disappear.

The next day brings different faces, but the same story, the same tragedies.

You think, at the time, I will remember this one. I will remember Kimberly Ray Harbor and Charles Serjeant and Melissa Benoit and Robyn Dabrowski for the rest of my life.

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We lie about it all, sex too

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People lie. This is fact. You lie. I lie. We all lie.

"Thank you very much," we might say to a rude young woman who begrudgingly slices us a half-pound of white American cheese, wraps it in waxed paper and thrusts it at us, all the while huffing and puffing as if we had asked her to change a flat tire in the middle of a highway in the middle of a storm.

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Stop and listen to the words _ they aren't very pretty

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People seldom mean these things. They don't see the harm in them. They are just words, expressions; in some cases, traditions.

For example: Once upon a time on the Massachusetts Turnpike, the little Pilgrim, which is embossed on Turnpike signs, had an arrow going through its hat. It wasn't until American Indians objected - as well they should have - that thepeople who approved the sign actually saw how demeaning and how stereotypical this image was.

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Young' may be in the title

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I wish I had circled the number of times I read the word "young" in last week's newspapers. It, or a close variation, was in every story mentioning Bill Clinton's first address before a joint session of Congress.

The "youthful president" said this. His "youthful enthusiasm" meant that. Reporters wrote about a "younger generation." There was even mention of Clinton's "youthful vitality."

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Physically, Father Greer wasn't a giant, but spiritually he was

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I expected him to be larger, a Paul Bunyan in clericals, because a man of average height and build couldn't carry the burdens he carries.

I expected him to shimmer, like a glossy photo of a saint, because of the things I carry.

But there he was, a latter-day Pat O'Brien in a white golf sweater, strolling around the sprawling grounds of his church before Mass on a flawless September Sunday, looking remarkably calm and untroubled as he greeted each of his parishioners by name.

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Chill of `The Februaries' goes on and on and on and on

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My daughter calls these days "The Februaries," an apt word for the dead-of-winter mood that is heavy, like snow; that presses hard on hearts, that is like ice on a roof, an unnecessary burden.

The Februaries - a time of restlessness and melancholy and longing; a month to be to endured, not enjoyed. Unless you ski, or skate. Unless you vacation in Colorado, or New Hampshire, or Vermont. (It's beautiful up here, a friend says, calling from a ski lodge. It's been snowing for 24 hours.) Or unless you escape to somewhere warm, where February isn't. ("You should come to Florida, Mom," my son says.)

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AIDS cards: just another child's plaything?

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Cat made it sound quite aboveboard. Purely educational. AIDS Awareness Trading Cards, featuring people with AIDS, hotline numbers, plus a condom instead of bubble gum in each package, she explained long distance from Eclipse Comics in Forestville, Calif., were designed to educate people and to help stop AIDS.

Cat edited these cards, and she's proud of them. There are 110 in all and they sell for just 99 cents for a pack of 12. They don't just feature people who've died of AIDS. There are AIDS Facts cards, and AIDS Myths cards, and cards showing the Demographics of AIDS, the effect of AIDS on the world, descriptions of other sexually transmitted diseases such as syphilis and herpes, as well as the AIDS hotline numbers for 25 major U.S. cities.

They are not, as you can see, kid's play.

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Tonight two lovebirds will toast St. Valentine and hum `How Soon?'

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I always get the story wrong. No matter how many times I hear it I confuse the details. Was he wearing the sweater with the reindeer the night they met? Or was she? Was it September or October 1947 or 1948?

It was Sept. 5, 1947. He was wearing the reindeer sweater. She was wearing a red Sheltie Mist sweater, white bucks and a camel-hair skirt that swirled every time she swayed. I know because I can see her legs, long and shapely. Incredible, unforgettable legs. That's what Joe said the first time he told me the story and that's what he always says, every time he relates it.

"She had great legs" and "she was absolutely beautiful."

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