My Journal:

[Error: unknown template qotd]My parents didn't believe in teaching us such things, so we didn't have Santa, Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairies, or even any Buddhist gods or anything like that. 

We learned early on that our parents worked hard to provide for us, that when they did get us gifts, they did so because they loved us. We never expected gifts and when we did receive them, it was only because we truly deserved it. 

Some people said they ruined a child's imagination...  but I think it made me love my parents so much more for all the contributions and sacrifices they made for me growing up. 

Oh, and I love this Calvin & Hobbes strip:

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Gender inequality.

It is believed that if empower young girls with an education and job opportunities, we can tackle global population growth, pollution, and countless other issues.

http://empowerwomeninafrica.com/

Or:

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My father, who was my central male figurehead for years, shaves every day. It went along with brushing your teeth, washing your face, taking a poop, and then taking a morning shower. Shaving was, and has always remained, part of his routine.

I suppose because of that, I have always liked clean-shaven men.

And now that I teach at a partial ROTC program, all the boys are clean-shaven with hair no more than 1/4-inch on the sides. When I step outside this world, it always seems strange to see men with hair... facial or otherwise!

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Whenever my mother recounts this story with friends, she always begins with: "she once was such a strange but intelligent girl"; her way of explaining that my life has grown ordinary, that I I am no longer the science freak show that my mother had to apologetically drag to the hospital, and with a shrug, say "I dont know what I did, but this is what I got". Somehow along the way, I turned out normal.

I did not begin with the usual words. Mama. Papa. In Brian's case, "cat".

Rather, I lived a silent existence until one day, I pronounced emphatically: "Ball over there."

I realize today it's enough to make any grammar nazi cringe, but cut me some slack-- I was only a year old. One can psychoanalyze this start to my vocalizations on so many levels, but to provide some background, I did not have an unhealthy emotional attachment to a ball. It had merely come time to issue commands to satisfy my desires.

You see, back in the 80's, my parents had a large black TV that sat ominously, backed into one corner of the living room, angled in such a way that it looked like a frightened trapped animal, ready to dart. Behind it lay endless cords, wires, adapters, attachments, and extensions. My parents warned me of this dangerous corner, issuing strict orders to never, ever approach this corner; so when one unfortunate day I kicked my ball behind the TV, the time had finally come.

I looked at the ball, pursed my lips, and furrowed my brow. I looked at my mother, pointed to the corner, opened my mouth, and said very matter-of-factly: "Ball over there."

My mother, after recovering from the shock, went over to retrieve the ball for me. Being their firstborn, I'm sure my parents were terribly disappointed that they couldn't proudly tell their friends that "Mama" or "Papa" had been uttered. That came much later. And much to their horror, they haven't been able to shut me up ever since.