Mia Summer 2011 by The Leslie Group

SUMMER2011

a journal by for and about women

My cause Teach for America MY money Spotting a Con Artist

my HOME Transforming a Victorian Ruin

W a su nt M bs i cr a To

My inspiration Tracing the Places Her Father Walked

m ibe in y ia se o m e u ag p r m az ag in e 3 ail e.n 1 bo et or g x? o to

My journey Cancer Doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t Change the Woman Inside

Stories

FROM THE

Heart.

“Life is beautiful!” At 34, Melanie was wheelchair bound due to

Marilyn Ihloff Salon

paralysis and pain that resulted from a ruptured disc. • Several physicians told her she was not a good candidate for surgery and there was nothing more that could be done. Fortunately, a friend recommended the orthopedic specialists at Hillcrest

The difference is our doctors.

Medical Center. Melanie was wheeled into Hillcrest, only to walk out less than 24 hours later . • Today, she’s back to her work and life is beautiful.

South Utica, Tulsa Oklahoma • 2 1120

• Magazine, tel. no. 918.585.8000 Mia todayshillcrest.com Summer 2011

sUMMER2011 Mia Magazine A journal by, for, and about women Publisher The Leslie Group, LLC Managing Editor Jan Weinheimer Editor Lisa Tresch

n early June, I will take my ten-year-old daughter to visit China, the country where she was born. We adopted her when she was only a year old, so she has no memory of the places we visited with her in tow: the Wind Bridge and the Six Banyon Trees Buddhist Temple in Nanning, the White Swan Hotel and the market roads of Guangzhou. She is at that wonderful age before the drama of adolescence, yet old enough to understand the story of her adoption —mostly. During that first year after we brought her home, I made a Lifebook for her: a simple storybook that explains how she came to be our daughter. I used scrapbook elements, photos, and simple text, then laminated the pages and put a baby-proof cover on the finished product. The Lifebook held a prominent place in her box of books for a long time, but about two years ago I found it buried at the bottom of her toy bin beneath the things she no longer played with. It made me sad until I realized that her simple book had served its purpose. It has given her a starting place for telling her story in her own voice.

We all need this whether our story is simple or complicated. We hope that what you read each quarter in Mia gives you a starting place to tell your own story. This issue of the magazine includes a childhood reflection from Paula Sullivan, who writes about her imperfect, but loving father (“My Reflections,” p. 10). Contributing Editor Linda McFerrin tells the story of taking her Victorian house from hopeless to stunning, and Sheilah Bright shows us how to take the best photos that will convey the soul of our travels (“My Art,” p. 12). As I read these stories and the seven others that are in this issue, I am motivated to sift through the events, moments, and seasons of my life to find and tell the stories. They are everywhere. I’m looking forward to telling the story of our return to China, and I am confident that my daughter will return better able to tell her own adoption story. I’m grateful for those who tell stories and for those who read them. It gives us all a starting place. We eagerly read submissions, so send your story to lisa@ miamagazine.net.

Graphic Designer Lina Holmes Business & Technical Director Juli Armour internS Nicole Pride Jackie Collins Contributing EditorS Sheilah Bright Linda Watanabe McFerrin Writers Linda Phillips Ashour Nancy Edwards Leanne A. Grossman Monica Roberts Linda Rubin Charlotte Blood Smith Paula Sullivan Photography LSD Photography Lisa Dunham, Sophia Litchfield For submission guidelines, visit miamagazine.net Reproduction in whole or part is prohibited. Copyright © 2011 The Leslie Group, LLC. All rights reserved. Mia Magazine is published quarterly by The Leslie Group, LLC P.O. Box 35665 Tulsa, Oklahoma 74153-0665 918.978.5567 www.miamagazine.net

subscribe to mia: www.miamagazine.net/subscribe

Mia Magazine, Spring 2011

Radhika Mittapalli

Radhika Mittapalli has come full circle. After working for three years in Mozambique with an organization that provides care for orphans, her eyes have been opened to the needs of children everywhere. Now, she wants to make a difference for them here...and there. After September 11, 2001, the telecom company she worked for experienced financial crisis, and she began a period of soul searching. “I eventually decided to ‘take the road less traveled,’ and I enrolled in a missions training school,” she said. “Thankfully I had stayed debt-free during a time of great abundance, so this allowed me to take time off from the corporate scene and train for two years.” In order to graduate, she had to intern “in the field” in another country. A missionary in Mozambique shared her need for a worker to help with the large number of women and children who had been left behind after a civil war in the Cabo Delgado province. 44.6 percent of Cabo Delgado residents are under the age of 15. After a brief interview, Brenda Lange, the founder and director of Orphans Unlimited, Inc., accepted Radhika as her intern. “Life was simple there,” Radhika says. “There was mud as far as you could see, no running water or electricity, and we used ham radio and solar power for communication. It was like going back in time 200 years.”

Her work with orphans involved teaching English as a third language, since their native tongue is Makua and the schools are taught in Portuguese. “Sometimes we had to double translate–Makua into Portugese into English,” she says. Needless to say, teachings were very short. Radhika also traveled from hut to hut to make sure the orphans were well cared for with the money distributed to widows for their basic needs. Widows in the community were caretakers of the local orphans in a model that provided not just shelter for the children, but empowerment and resources to break out of the poverty cycle. She also taught nutrition to the children and local women, researched medicinal plants in the area, supervised construction projects, and, she adds, “even cleaned toilets.” After she finished her internship in Mozambique, Radhika traveled to Tanzania to fulfill her dream of climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro, the fourth highest mountain in the world. But she wanted the climb to benefit the orphans she had come to love, and so she asked Ken Selby, founder of Mazzio’s Corporation, to sponsor her climb. She told him she was raising awareness for kids in Africa through Orphans Unlimited, Inc. Radhika learned that Mr. Selby once had a similar dream, and without hesitation he sponsored the entire climb. She set up a website through firstgiving.com, and money started pouring in. After four days of climbing the steep Machame route, she and her climbing partner reached the summit of Uhuru peak. The four-day trek took them to an elevation of 19,340 feet. “Thousands of dollars came in support of our orphans, but more importantly, awareness was raised for the children and their plight in war-torn Mozambique,” she says. Now, Radhika channels her passion for families into her job as director of local missions at Asbury United Methodist Church, in Tulsa, Oklahoma. The church partners with other ministries that reach out specifically to families, including Global Gardens, Project Transformation, Youth at Heart, Tulsa Hope Academy and adopted school Walt Whitman Elementary, among many others. “There are neglected children everywhere, and my heart is more sensitized to them after working with the street orphans in Mozambique,” she says. “Everyone, especially children, needs our human touch, warmth and love, support and smiles.” For more information about Orphans Unlimited, visit their website: www.orphansunlimited.org. Mia

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

ContentsSUMMER 2011 6

MyHOME

A Glorious Ruin by Linda Watanabe McFerrin

MyREFLECTIONS

Myart

Mybookshelf

Father’s Wagon and the Knife Game by Paula Sullivan Traveling, Photographing & Storytelling by Sheilah Bright Reading Tolstoy by Linda Phillips Ashour

Mycause

One Spelling Word at a Time by Nicole Pride

MYMoney

From the Playbook of a Con by Leanne A. Grossman

Mytravels

Competitive Whale Watching by Nancy Edwards

Myjourney

MyINSPIRATION

OURSTORY

True to Herself by Linda Rubin

Walking in Daddy’s Footsteps by Charlotte Blood Smith The Mia Story by Lisa Tresch

MyAfterTHOUGHTS

This New Age by Monica Roberts

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

MyHome

by Linda Watanabe McFerrin

am the fortunate and perpetually overwhelmed owner of a historical landmark perched on a grassy pedestal of high maintenance greenery, not far from Oakland’s Lake Merritt—a crumbling Queen Anne Victorian with six bedrooms, four staircases, five fireplaces, two formal parlors, a huge dining room and no end of repair. It’s a cracking, creaking, squeaking, leaking edifice—the house of my decidedly unhandy husband’s dreams, not mine.

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

“We’ll be like two marbles rolling around in a giant box,” I warned when he called me in New Orleans to report his find. “An ancient box,” I added. “A ruin.” Did I mention that we both traveled constantly at the time and that we were rarely at home? Oh, but he was crazy about it—crazy enough to recruit family members to support him in his cause and convince me that we would not be alone in our endeavor. The younger brothers and sister moved in, and for a brief and magical period, our new old home became Party Central. Work on the building commenced immediately. We began refinishing floors, peeling off layers of wallpaper, spackling cracks, curtaining seven-foot mahogany-framed windows, and painting room after room after room. To celebrate the move, the beginning of all the repairs, and the incredible sense of camaraderie, we threw a masquerade ball in our dilapidated digs. Kings and queens descended the sweeping staircases and posed before peeling wallpaper; the wine flowed like water, and a monkish visitor from Germany took up residence in the attic. The communal vibe was electric. Then the earthquake hit. Mere months after our purchase, the Loma Prieta earthquake shook the Greater San Francisco Bay Area (6.9 on the Richter Scale) at 5:04 p.m. as my husband and I began our homebound commute. The good news was that we all survived and the one hundred plus-year-old house was still standing. The redwood frame held, but those who were home that day said it rocked like a cradle from side to side.

The bad news was that it sustained considerable damage. One corbelled chimney twisted and fell, the bricks dropping like small bombs onto the lawn and sidewalks. The lathe and plaster walls trembled and split into hundreds of linear feet of cracks. Big chunks of the ceiling crumbled and fell to the floor. Did we have good earthquake insurance? Of course not! There are some things so traumatic that they tend to pitch a person from eccentricity into temporary insanity. My brother rushed out post-earthquake and bought two chandeliers, installing them in the midst of all the debris before throwing in the towel and departing. The repairs, we were told, would cost thousands upon thousands. That’s when the James Presho House—yes, this wreck has a name—began gobbling up other properties. A condo we owned was sacrificed to the cause. Proceeds funded the ministrations of multiple contractors. Chimneys and fireplaces were restored, walls and ceilings patched and repainted. Meanwhile, I was learning things about estimates, bids, construction, and professionalism in the building industry; about codes and standards and how special “deals” should be avoided … like the one offered by the fellow my husband hired who sent his wife up a shaky ladder to supposedly fix a mess this man had made when attempting to patch the roof. At some point during this process, my husband and I rented a film starring Tom Hanks and Shelley Long as a couple that buys a mansion in distress. It is appropriately called The Money Pit. The two lovebirds face plumbing

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

disasters, electrical nightmares, and other dilemmas of rot and ruin as the place self-destructs all around them. In one scene, Tom Hanks watches in horror as the bathtub disappears, crashing through the floor, leaving him staring into a hole at the rubble deposited a story below. Hanks begins to laugh hysterically and maniacally, making a sound that is something between a honk and a gasp. We knew the feeling. And just as the Hanks-Long duo managed to survive the ordeal without its destroying their relationship, my husband and I have managed to survive our folly. Let’s just say our matrimonial bond has been severely tested, and it is fortunately a lot more durable than the antique doorknobs were when we bought the place; they’d come off in our hands when we turned them. They say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Decades later we are still battling leaks. Cracks appear regularly. Contractors and handymen still come and go.

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

We are still painting and patching, but at a much slower, almost meditative pace. There is always some major repair project in the works, but between these are the gatherings of family and friends, wonderful parties, and houseguests from all over the world. I’ve grown to realize there’s nothing that can’t be fixed with a mixture of gumption and the right set of tools. A few days ago I went to visit a ninety-two-year-old aunt. I’m no hair stylist, but I brought along a pair of scissors so that I could trim her hair (any longish bits tend to irritate her). Her short, white locks looked magnificent, like a feathery cloud framing her thin, little face. As I snipped at the strands with great tenderness, I thought of my life and my home. No amount of primping and pampering will make my aunt young again. Like the house that I live in, she is old and decrepit, but my goodness - she’s beautiful. Especially when there is someone around to care for her. Mia

MyReflections

Father’s Wagon . . . I’m on the wagon, “I’m wagon,” by Paula Sullivan

Father says, the lids of his eyes crinkling into blue triangles. “On the wagon” gives me pause as I pass through the kitchen where Father slings a lump of dough back and forth, from one floured hand to the other. Tonight, as he has every Saturday for as long as I can remember, he’ll holler from the bottom of the stairs that lead to our bedrooms, “Anyone want warm bread and a glass of milk?” As the six of us file into the kitchen, he hands each of us a thick slice, slathered with real butter and strawberry jam. Mother stands in the background, pouring milk into glasses long since emptied of Welch’s grape jelly. Within seconds, sweet cream floats to the top. We sit at the kitchen table, elbow to elbow, stirring the cream with our pointing fingers. Father’s words play in my mind like the notes in my piano book. “On the wagon.” I know he’s not talking about Timmy’s red Radio Flyer rusting behind the garage. Mrs. Hansen, our only winter neighbor, gave it to my brother after her son moved to California with his new bride. Timmy put our baby sister in the back of it once and raced down the hill toward the ocean. When Theresa toppled out, scraping her forehead, Mother put the wagon behind the garage. Timmy said he didn’t care. “It wasn’t a new one anyway.” “On the wagon” means Father will be different until he falls off his wagon again. I’ve never seen his wagon, but it’s very real. On it, he smiles and watches us play. Timmy builds a cage for the pet he can’t have right now because Mother’s having another baby and can’t deal with pets right now. Mother often reminds us that she has six kids and “they are enough trouble.” Father leans over and watches me move the charcoal pencil over the newsprint pad he brought home from his last time “on the road.” I draw a vase of pussywillows, the ones I see looking down from the large window by my bed. The bush grows near the maple tree where I hide when Father falls off his wagon. This Saturday, Father is on the wagon. I feel warm and safe inside. Mother is smiling, too. We are a family again. My sisters and I go upstairs to play with dolls, long bereft of their Christmas-day outfits. Timmy’s building a model airplane in the room he has all to himself because he’s the only boy. Suddenly, he yells down the hall, “Wanna play the knife game?”

I leave my sisters. Playing with dolls means there’s nothing better to do. Besides, I’ve just earned the right to play the knife game. Slipping on the peacoat inherited from my oldest sister, I follow Timmy, taking the stairs two at a time just the way he does. He pauses at the buffet and rummages through the knife drawer to find the perfect one. As he slides a thin-tipped blade into his trouser pocket, we quickly pass by Father. He’s still on the wagon because mother is laughing as they listen to the radio and cook for the week ahead when Father will be on the road again. Mother’s head tilts to one side as she flashes her perfect white teeth at father. I scurry behind Timmy as he mumbles, “We’re gonna play the knife game.” Under the maple tree, Timmy selects the perfect dirt and marks the rim of the knife game boundary. With a snap of his wrist, the knife wiggles into the earth and steadies itself. Pulling it out, Timmy maps his claim by laying the knife on the ground in the four directions from the point it stuck in the ground. When he hands the knife to me, it feels heavy in my small hand. Only yesterday I earned the right to play by sticking the knife firmly into the dirt. Timmy had clapped for me while two of our sisters walked away saying, “The knife game’s stupid.” They play sometimes because they feel sorry that Timmy has so many sisters. Today, I watch my brother closely. I flex my wrist, holding the knife not too tightly, not too loosely. I choose the opposite side near the trunk of the tree. “What’re you doing that for?” Timmy cries. “I like this dirt.” Timmy’s eyes follow my aim, then upwards to the hollow where sap flows freely and soaks the ground. I take aim for the sweetest spot. Just as the knife settles not far from the trunk, Father calls from the back porch. “Lunch is ready.” Remembering his morning announcement about the wagon, I scramble toward the porch, yelling back to Timmy, “You win.” Mother smiles at me. She’s making an apple pie. The iceman comes early Saturday morning. Some mornings he leaves a half-bushel of Macintosh apples. Father is making bread and strange soups whose names I cannot pronounce. From my place at the kitchen table, I watch Father ladle soup into assorted bowls, some deep, some shallow. Father, too, smiles as he sets the soup in front of me. “They make this over in Italy,” he tells me. My bowl has a thick green rim around it, like the one at Jake’s Ice Cream Parlor where Father took only me on my sixth birthday. I look into Father’s blue eyes. I like his wagon. Mia

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

and the Knife Game

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

MyArt

by Sheilah Bright

Traveling, Photographing,

Storytelling

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

I once traveled to an amazing place with a person who spent nearly the entire two weeks with one eye shut and the other eye pressed up against a camera viewfinder. “Did you notice the velvet underbelly of the albatross?” I would ask. “No,” she would say. “I was adjusting my shutter speed.” I am a travel writer who captures part of the story with a camera. Ironically, I do my best work when I put my equipment away and take the time to absorb a country by listening to its natural melodies and watching daily life unfold. It’s easy to lose your direction in travel photography or in photographing your family vacation. We wield our Kodaks, Nikons and iPhones as if we’re waging battle and shout out orders like “Nobody move!” or “Everybody smile!” We are so afraid that we are going to miss it or that someone else is going to get it that we practically alienate complete strangers, and sometimes even our own sons and daughters, in our quest to capture a perfect moment. Snap the picture. Get the shot. Crop him out. Even the language of photography rubs me the wrong way. In this digital age, you could easily launch a thousand images with machine-gun velocity without reloading anything, including yourself. Here is the reality in black and white: there will always be a better picture. Someone with a more photographic eye, more expensive equipment, or simply better luck is going to outshoot you. What they can’t crop out or digitally edit

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

in, however, is your perspective. This is how you see Hawaii. This is how you tell the story of your family’s week at the dude ranch. Your view of the world or even your own backyard is shaped by a million memories. That’s why some people return from a European vacation with thousands of photographs of old buildings and town statues, and some people return with a few hundred photos of churches and people walking their dogs past crowded cafes. Travel experiences have taught me this about myself: I love a good story more than I love a perfect photograph. If I see a man on a motorcycle delivering 20 dozen eggs, I take a picture, even if it comes out a bit blurry because I’m riding in a car next to him. If I see a donkey tied up to a “No Parking” sign, I take a picture, even if the alley is a bit dark and the donkey isn’t that attractive. If I see two old men carrying bananas as they walk around a festival, I take a picture, even if I later have to explain that I am not a stalker. I simply love a photograph backlit by a story. There is no greater compliment than to have someone look at one of my photographs and ask, “What happened next?” When I watched three boys peering into a closed door in a Himalayan village, I took a picture. When I saw a mountain woman gaze into the horizon as she waited for her son to get out of school, I knew she was pondering his future, so I quietly raised my camera. She smiled when I showed her the image and then she lifted her shoulders and nodded toward her son. Every time that I look at the photograph, I feel the worry of a mother’s heart.

14 14

Mia Mia Magazine, Magazine, Summer Summer 2011 2011

Recently on a trip to Morocco, I experienced another favorite moment as I struggled to photograph in a country where people—especially women—hold firm to their religious beliefs concerning graven images. One drizzly afternoon I was lagging behind the group and saw an interesting pink staircase and a tree growing over a doorway. As I photographed the scene, I became aware that someone was watching. I turned around and saw the perfect picture. A young girl wearing a purple scarf was standing in a yellow doorway. I could see it as a 24x36 canvas or maybe a full-page magazine profile. When I lifted my camera in the universal sign language of, “May I take your photograph?” the girl ducked back into the cave dwelling that she called home. Disappointed, I fired off a few more uninspiring images of some stupid tree on a door and shoved my camera into my bag. As I walked past her doorway, I heard a soft cough. The girl bolted out of her house, stuck something into my hand and dashed back inside. It was a button made of gold thread. “A girl gave that to you?” our guide asked as I cradled it in my hand. “You are lucky. It is what the women do here. They make gold buttons. This is a gift of goodwill.” Odds are great that something would have gone wrong with the photograph of the girl in the doorway. Aperture, shutter speed, focus—something had a good chance of going astray. A girl in a purple scarf standing in a yellow doorway would have created a good photograph. A tiny gold button tells a better story. Mia

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

MyBookshelf

Reading Tolstoy Tolstoy and I got off to a sluggish start. The literary thrills my husband described as he read War and Peace during his weekly commute to Manhattan from Virginia eluded me. I found it impossible to distinguish one prince or princess from another at Anna Pavlovna Scherer’s party in St. Petersburg, and remembering which countries were allied gave me a headache. I was on the verge of conceding that War and Peace was too heavy for the likes of me. And it was. At 1,444 pages, my yellowed Penguin Classic version of Tolstoy’s masterpiece hardly felt like a paperback. I fussed with my choices, thinking this translation was inferior to the Constance Garnett my husband was reading on his Kindle. An elegant hardback translation by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky had also surfaced in the apartment, but I could barely lift that one. My nighttime reading ritual is a complicated balancing act. There’s the lampshade that must be tilted at just the right angle, the noisy clock that goes into the chest of drawers to muffle the sound, and the stack of pillows to bunch under my neck. I did a few biceps curls with the book and settled in to read, despite ridiculous objections about how Tolstoy shouldn’t have thrown so much at the reader right away. I complained to my husband about the battle scenes and the constant refining of history by Tolstoy, who was unabashed in his role as omniscient commentator.

by Linda Phillips Ashour

rotator cuff issues, would be four volumes, each the length of a full novel. I averted my eyes as he performed the unthinkable and tried not to think of the recent screen version of Tolstoy, a tragicomic old man running from his wife and hiding in a train station. How could I do this to him? This week I finished War and Peace. I will not remember Tolstoy’s masterpiece accurately or even acutely, because I don’t remember much of anything these days. But Pierre will show up in my thoughts as a man spiritually transformed by his times, whose luminous musings account for many dog-eared pages in a copy of War and Peace that looks as if it, too, has survived the Battle of Borodino. In the appendix of Pevear and Volokhonsky’s 2007 translation, Tolstoy states that his book is “not a novel, still less an epic poem, still less a historical chronicle. War and Peace is what the author wanted and was able to express, in the form in which it is expressed.” Something tells me he might not object to the latest edition of his masterpiece, cut into four volumes and bound together by a rubber band. Mia

I had an epiphany the night I propped yet another pillow under my elbows to brace a book so unwieldy...

But I stopped fussing once Pierre emerged from the vast human landscape, a character as thoroughly modern as my husband had promised. One minute he was flirting with the Freemasons and the next with wanton Helene, who would become his wife. Pierre was the ultimate reason to read, but even so it was hard going. I had an epiphany the night I propped yet another pillow under my elbows to brace a book so unwieldy I could neither support it nor put it down. “Chop it up,” I said to my husband, handing him a pair of Fiskars. Hadn’t War and Peace been published in two parts originally? My version, abridged to accommodate

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

Sculpture by Edward Swift

One spelling word at a time

Unlike most college graduates who glide across the stage and out the door in search of a wallet-bulging job, Emily Powell found herself traveling 1,300 miles to teach at an elementary school – diploma in one hand and Airborne® in the other. In the past two years, she has watched 40 children scamper in and out of her room. Emily graduated in 2009 from a college in upstate New York and applied to Teach For America, an organization that places recent college graduates in low-income schools across the nation to bridge educational gaps that often occur in rural and urban communities. A few months and an official acceptance later, Emily was plopped in the heart of a north Tulsa, Oklahoma, elementary school, where most attending kids face the disadvantages that challenge lower-income students. Teach For America was a good fit for Emily, channeling both of her passions: social justice and teaching underprivileged kids. “I heard about Teach For America, and it sounded right up my alley because in the back of my mind I always had this interest in teaching,” says Emily. Yet something beyond teaching English lessons and facilitating reading centers fueled Emily’s passion for her first-grade class—it was the 24 kids themselves. “More than teaching, I feel committed to this population of kids in high poverty,” says Emily. “Whatever I do, I want to be serving them—whether it’s teaching or something else.”

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

MyCause

Emily Powell by Nicole Pride

And she does exactly that. Her teaching quickly evolves into serving because she works at a school where all the students qualify for free or reduced-cost lunch. Students often arrive in her first grade class having experienced life events that their counterparts in higher-income communities have not—or will not—ever experience. “A huge part of what we deal with every day as teachers at a low-income school are the kids who come with their own set of unique challenges,” says Emily. “And the hard thing is that you want to accommodate their needs and you want to address the children holistically. You want to give them what they need, but you also want to make sure you are keeping them at the same expectations that you would set for any student.” This is something she is constantly aware of as she struggles to balance the roles of teacher and sympathizer. Emily has watched grown-up challenges forced on first-graders, and she has to handle these situations with prudence. When a student has an outburst or becomes difficult in class, Emily has realized the student is often expressing frustration with another problem. “You also have to understand that he has something going on,” says Emily, “so maybe right now the fact that he doesn’t do his math worksheet isn’t the most important thing. He needs to feel safe and needs to feel loved.” Emily believes that each student can feel protected and provided for every day while in her class, regardless of the student’s problems outside the classroom.

Mia Mia Magazine, Magazine, Summer Summer 2011 2011

As Emily’s Teach For America placement ends this school year, she will leave the state of Oklahoma and the halls of her school a different person than when she arrived. She did not expect the two years of teaching to be as challenging as they have been. But neither was she expecting them to be as rewarding as they proved to be. Emily plans to move back to the East Coast where she hopes to keep teaching, continuing the fight for educational equality among underprivileged communities. “I want to dedicate my life with this cause, whether it’s specifically education or another,” says Emily. “Working with underserved kids and families is something that I’m just really passionate about.” As for now, Emily touches 24 North Tulsa lives a day. Every day. One spelling word at a time. Mia For more information about Teach for America, see My Cause page 35

19 19

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

MyMoney by Leanne A. Grossman

opened Dad’s checkbook to buy some medical supplies. Hmmm, I thought, the balance is getting low. I scanned the previous entries and was shocked by what I saw—thousands of dollars in checks paid to his caregiver, far more than her salary. It was unimaginable that our family would be the victims of con artists. After all, we are welleducated, worldly, and wise. No matter. A con is smarter and wilier than you and I put together. When my father was suffering from serious ailments at the age of 88, he needed a full-time caregiver. My sisters and I all lived out of town. My oldest sister went to Los Angeles and interviewed a number of people. Caregiving is not an easy job. This person would be on call twenty-four hours a day, to cook meals, help my father eat and bathe, and keep him company. My sister selected someone who was cheery and knew how to cook. Her name was Barbara. When I revealed the theft to my father, he was shocked. Together we confronted Barbara. She said the checks were simply “advances” on her pay and that he had agreed to them. Indeed, he had signed the checks that she had filled out, but without being fully aware. His condition and the Parkinson’s medicine kept him woozy and out of touch. While he was vulnerable and fully dependent on her, this “caregiver” turned into a thief. We fired her, but never got the money back. We could have sued—Dad was a lawyer—but we just wanted her to move out of the house immediately. We felt too violated. Continued on page 32 See MY MONEY

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

MyTravels By Nancy Edwards

Whale-Watching Two summers ago I was on Vancouver Island with a party of 30 in tow—all family, God help me. We were doing all the typical armchair outdoor enthusiast kinds of things—hiking, kayaking, drinking by the fire until family arguments erupted— and one fine day we took a whale-watching tour. Cynic that I am, I didn’t expect much. The brochure was splattered with giant orcas breaching all over the place, but I knew we’d be lucky to see a fin on the horizon. I settled in and prepared myself for a long afternoon cocktail cruise. We set sail in an aluminum-clad vessel that looked more like a warship than a tour boat. After a short trip past lovely downtown Victoria and across the strait of Juan de Fuca (I dare not wonder how many times this unknown explorer’s name is carelessly mispronounced), we arrived at a popular whale-watching spot just off San Juan island. The air was crisp, the wind picking up as we drifted. All 30 of us were quiet as stones, struck dumb by the suddenly momentous task of inspecting the waves for signs of orca. And then, in the distance, a fin. Just a hint of a fin, really, but enough to inspire a chorus of squeals from the group. The younger kids rushed to the railing, squeezing between the grownups until we relinquished our posts. Several fins of various sizes came into view not more than 100 feet starboard, and we “oohed” and “aahed” appreciatively. Our guides had given these orcas names and identified them as all belonging to the same pod, so this was more than a bona fide sighting; it was an extended family experience, and it was fabulous just knowing they swam among us. But still…we wanted more. We wanted the Big Kahuna. We wanted our Shamu moment. Our guide got busy setting realistic expectations: “Really, that’s a good number of sightings for a typical trip,” and “The camera just doesn’t capture it.” Just as he was advising us to put away our cameras and have another drink, a commotion began stirring in the water. Now here’s where fact and fiction often collide in fish tales, but believe me when I say that this was not just one or two orcas, but three, and they were now engaged in some kind of ritualistic feeding frenzy or mating dance not more than 15 feet away. They tumbled in the water; they plunged, they swirled, and just when we thought we’d seen all we could expect for our tourist fee, one of the males shot out of the water in a spectacular spot walk that we learned was the whale’s

way of seeing what’s up in the waters around him. This was better than Shamu or the Discovery Channel because it was spontaneously unfolding right in front of us, with no glass filter and no dramatic voiceover. The only sound was the group’s perfectly united gasp and then exhale as the whales continued to tumble until they finally disappeared beneath the boat, swimming right under us as (seriously) a rainbow hovered just above them on the surface of the water. Some of the group rushed to the port side of the boat, but I stayed put, knowing I had just seen more than I could possibly hope for in one afternoon of my life. For once I had my camera on and I actually managed to click a few shots. But for me, nothing would do the moment justice save my own remembered awe caused by the animal world in utter juxtaposition with the human. The competitive ones among the group decided that this occurrence was just for us. No other boat in the area had seen it since they were all positioned on the other side of our boat, which was blocking their view. The environmentalists in the family decided it was a message from the gods, a sign that we needed to protect these waters and its progeny. But the true animal lovers among us—the youngest and most sincere of the lot—knew the truth: it was a random event, brought on by the whales themselves in a spectacular familial expression without regard for who was watching. The one video camera on board missed the moment, which is proof that this event was not meant to be downsized by the act of uploading. And while my still camera captured the breach, it did not manage to see the rainbow on the water. That rainbow has now become my pièce de résistance, a mythical moment of realization that the universe is always in charge, present in all things. But I will not resort to nature philosophy—plenty of others do a much better job of that. Suffice it to say that the competitive majority in our clan was satisfied to know that our guide decided this event rated “number four” in more than 1,000 whale-watching trips. Of course, we’d love to be number one, but that title belongs to the group who witnessed two whales playing catch with a young seal before devouring him whole. That would have been a rough ride home with the kids, so I’ll keep the number four spot. For now. Mia

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

MyJourney Shana Lamons by Linda Rubins

Shana Lamons lives by this mantra and strives to show other women how to live by it, particularly women with frightening breast health concerns. Shana works for Oklahoma Project Woman (formerly Tulsa Project Woman) as the Clinical Program Manager. Her job is two-fold. She works with participating hospitals and doctors to provide free services for women who need mammograms and breast cancer care guidance, but have no insurance or income to support their needs. She also listens to their heart-wrenching stories and whispers to them that she understands and empathizes. Shana herself was diagnosed with breast cancer in 2006, so she understands the fear involved with getting the “Big C.” She had insurance. She had money. She had a man who loved her. She got through it. She realizes she is different from many women who face the same verdict or worse. Some are single mothers struggling to pay the rent and afraid to leave their children motherless. Some are lonely and alone. Some are older and fragile. But with all of them, she shares a sort of wisdom: “It is what it is and you will get through it.” Shana considers herself fortunate that, when her doctor first found a cyst in her left breast, she chose not to aspirate. A year later, when she had the cyst routinely checked, a growth was found next to the cyst. The growth was invasive ductal carcinoma. Shana knew that, had she originally chosen to aspirate the cyst, the cancerous growth might not have been found in time to save her life. Her doctors recommended a lumpectomy. Shana considered the possibilities. Although she has no family history of breast cancer, she peppered her doctor with questions: What happens if? What if I don’t? What if I do? She says, “I have always asked questions. I was a child who always asked twenty questions. I used to ask my mom, ‘Do worms have faces?’ I wanted to know. So I always asked.” After her many questions, Shana decided on a single mastectomy rather than a lumpectomy. That was April 2006. After surgery, Shana struggled with the single prosthetic breast she wore in public. It was uncomfortable and cumbersome, and she often went without it at home. One day, she studied her image in the mirror and decided she liked the side with no breast better than the side with the remaining breast. Because of her dense, fibrocystic breast, she had her right breast removed along with a total hysterectomy that same year in June.

A stranger might think she would be depressed and devastated that she was “losing all her feminine parts” before she was fifty years old. But a stranger would not know that the real Shana Lamons has very little to do with what she looks like on the outside. Shana accepted that “it is what it is.” She rejected having breast reconstruction. “I couldn’t stand the thought of society dictating to me what I should look like.” She points out that women are under societal scrutiny to sustain a particular weight, dress in a particular fashion, and maintain a particular shape with a flattering breast size. She says that a woman’s identity can be wrapped up in physical appearance. And she is quietly outraged by this phenomenon. She was dumbfounded by comments offered by her own gender. She says, “Women would ask me, ‘What does your husband think?’ They were more worried about my ability to keep a man than in what was best for me.” Shana rejects the idea that a woman’s identity should be wrapped up in her appearance, so she has chosen to go through life without breasts and without the use of prosthetics. “It is what it is. You don’t have to have breasts to have a good personality or to be loved or to be beautiful,” she says. Clearly, her husband, Lucky Lamons (former Tulsa police officer and Oklahoma State Representative) agrees. When asked about her cancerrelated decisions, Lucky told her, “All I want is to have Shana around for the next thirty years.” To be clear, Shana does not believe that her rejection of reconstruction is the right decision for every woman; rather, her message is more Shakespearean: “To thine own self be true.” Mia Author’s Note: Anyone interested in Oklahoma Project Woman can view their website at www. oklahomaprojectwoman.org. Their phone number is 918-834-7200.

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

MyInspiration by Charlotte Blood Smith

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

I’m

standing on the end of the sea wall at the harbor in Anzio, Italy, tears streaming down my face. On my right is the open Mediterranean Sea; on my left, a peaceful scene of luxury yachts, Italian fishermen, and people eating at sidewalk cafes. As I stand here I can almost feel my father beside me, pointing out where he came ashore during the invasion in January 1943. I can almost hear him reliving the weeks of being bogged down in the marshes, telling me how the troops were almost always wet and cold as they endured the constant shelling from the German forces entrenched on the hills that overlooked the entire area. By this time, he had risen from the rank of 2nd lieutenant to captain. He was in the first wave of artillery to land at Anzio and was there until the Germans were routed and the march to Rome began. As I walk back on top of the sea wall, I can see faint indentations in the building at the end of the harbor, reminders of the terrific shelling that had taken place. When my father, Lt. Col. Reuben S. Blood, returned from his tour of duty in World War II, he often talked about what he had seen and where he had been. He was in the invasion of North Africa near Casablanca, Morocco, and fought across to Tunis. He was then in all of the invasions, starting with Sicily, that led up to the capture of Naples and the surrounding area. From there he was in the invasion of Anzio, the liberation of Rome, fought up the boot and was in the invasion of France and headed into Germany only to be among those stopped outside of Berlin to allow Russia to occupy the city. After the fighting ended, he was stationed in Frankfurt and Munich with the military government because he could read and speak German. He didn’t come home until October 1945.

Mia Magazine, Magazine, Summer Summer 2011 2011 Mia

Daddy was a 2nd lieutenant in the 142nd Field Artillery, Arkansas Army National Guard when he was called up, but in civilian life he was a civil engineer and architect. Because of his love for architecture, when he returned he talked about the buildings, especially in Rome and Paris. His graduating class at the University of Arkansas at Fayetteville had designed and built a Greek Amphitheater as a project, and he enjoyed seeing the Roman Colosseum. As I climb these ancient steps, his footsteps echo behind me. In 2000 I was taking a college class on World War II in Italy. The class started in Bartlesville and was completed where the battles were fought. It was because of this that I am standing on the sea wall at Anzio. Each place I visit - the Vatican, Pompeii, the Italian hills north of Florence, Pisa, Paris, Versailles, Munich and Dachu–my father’s stories come back to me. As I walk through the ruins of Pompeii, I remember him talking about how talented the engineers had been to design and construct buildings that lasted not only through the bombings, but were still standing and relatively sound today. From his

27 27

first-hand observations many decades after the war, we learned the history of the Eiffel Tower and what an engineering marvel it was. Although Daddy was never a teacher, he always seemed to have a compulsion to pass on information. His idea of a great way to spend a Sunday afternoon was to stand under a bridge or dam while he told how it was designed and constructed. Car trips were a running commentary on the architecture of the buildings passed and roads traveled. My father spoke often of the Italian people and how they had responded to the coming of the Americans and British. Even though technically we were fighting the Italians (they were allies of Germany), almost all of the enemy fire he faced came from German troops. From Sicily to the French border the Italians welcomed the Allied troops as liberators rather than conquerors. Possibly the most powerful experience for me as I retrace his steps is the one I knew had the most effect on him: the liberation of Dachau concentration camp. By that time the Germans were on5/18/11 the run even in their own country. MWW-558:MWW-558 3:58 PM Page 1

Phase 2 Delivers It All! New amenities, new apartments, new opportunities for fun and friendship: Montereau’s Phase 2 brings even MORE to Tulsa’s premier retirement lifestyle. Call (918) 495-1500 or (888) 795-1122 and reserve your bundle of joy!

MONTEREAU www.montereau.net

Daddy’s unit wasn’t specifically sent to liberate the camp, but he was there on the second day sorting bodies even though he was now a lieutenant colonel. As he showed photos he had taken and spoke of the bodies packed into boxcars that stood on railroad sidings abandoned by the Germans, it became very real. He spoke of the smell and of the need to search each pile to find the few that were still alive. He told us about the horror of watching someone who had just been rescued die from the shock of finally receiving a drink of water. Now most of the camp is gone, but the remaining buildings contain many photos of the prisoners and the conditions under which they were held. These weren’t people that had committed horrible crimes. They were Catholic priests who had objected to Hitler’s treatment of the Jews and others he considered inferior. They were the crippled, mentally incompetent, homosexual or people who were just in the way. This wasn’t a death camp where people were sent to be killed. It was a work camp, and when they were no longer useful, they were sent on to camps like Auschwitz. Those who died in the boxcars were people left to die a horrible death when the Germans abandoned the camp and fled without unloading the cars. Daddy was the oldest of eight children. He was born in North Dakota and lived there until he was 18, when the family moved to Fayetteville, Ark. From then on Northwest Arkansas was home to him. He often remarked on how much Austria and Bavaria south of Munich reminded him of home and how he would like to go back. He didn’t get to return. He died in 1955 at the age of 52. As soon as we start driving from Munich to Neuschwanstein Castle, I understand why he had wanted to return. The countryside is hills and valleys with little creeks running in all directions. None of the pastures or fields are exactly square. The fences follow the gentle roll of hills and the curve of roads. Trees outline the banks of the creeks, and the hills wear small groves as crowns. Flowers and shrubs bloom around the farmsteads, and draft horses and small herds of grazing cattle are scattered across the pastures. I haven’t been able to cover his entire route from Casablanca through Sicily and his trip across Germany, but if I ever do complete the journey, he will be there telling me how he bargained for a rug in Casablanca, his first sight of Mount Etna in Sicily, and the hell of attempting to fight straight up from Naples to Monte Casino. My father has been gone many years, but each time my footprints follow his in the places he talked about, it brings him back so clearly it is almost a shock that I can’t turn to hug him and say again, “Daddy’s home!” Mia

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

here shall be eternal summer in the grateful heart.

~Celia Thaxter

OURStory

Mia Magazine:

Celebrating Another Year In October of 2008, we were sitting around a table scribbling on pads of paper and tossing around ideas about starting a magazine. The idea of publishing a magazine had been stirring around in each one of us for months. We founded the Leslie Group to aid non-profits and businesses in telling their stories through graphics design and communication tools, but we also wanted to encourage individuals to share stories with one another. A magazine specifically for women seemed to fit perfectly with the mission and purpose of our company and for each of us personally. We wanted to offer something that was more than tips on losing weight, what to wear, and how to decorate a house. We wanted to create a magazine that encourages the creativity, courage, and strength of women. The idea seemed a little far-fetched at first, but as afternoon turned to evening, a publication called Mia began to take shape. It had gone from a concept to a tangible project, complete with a timeline, a few

sum

men

009

2 mer

for men

financial projections, some story ideas, and a lot of faith in the power of storytelling. “Just one issue,” we said. “We’ll produce and publish one issue and see where it goes from there.” From there to here has been quite a journey. For that first issue, we were able to find advertisers who believed in our purpose and vision. The Summer 2009 issue was delivered to us on a Thursday morning in May. We opened the boxes and held our breath. They were all there - a short run of 3,000. Our distribution process was two-fold: place the magazines in locations where women gather (coffee shops, spas, salons), and ask women to take stacks of magazines to hand to other women. That short run was quickly gone as women told other women about Mia. And now, we’ve published nine issues of the magazine including the one you hold in your hand, and raised the circulation to 10,000. “Just one issue” has turned into the beginning of Mia’s third year.

FAL L

200

o yw

s vel tra ams My l dre n a ve e o nt tra e tru e in t com con en roz

For

y ne 2010 o t WINTER My Mt spo h tain rig a b ncer my o u n n eco in a

g blo My kids, wo nd a ht a wit dog, and e b if l one rock

men out wo r aNd ab al by fo a jouRN

Ins pIr a SUMM ut some tIo ER2010 tho thin n se eye g s

Abo

ney my Jour RINg dIscovEo I am Wh E NEW lIf Is Th IN

My tAL town kin ’ tuL up sA

PS tIonSHI R of my reLa ThE ElIxIlovE PuPPy

a joURna l by fo r abou t wome n

My eng cau the se heL n pin ChiLd ing r gF Am en, iLie s str

eS my taStINg My cooK E the book ToRIaN sTyl vIc oF migh shel ty Fre f q eviL u Le eens aveLS my tr EllINg sToRyT E laNd IN Th dER doWN uN

s plu art th My heal My more and

my ca Who kn use EW WoUl 80 So MUch d bE fUn my ta ThE co stes of faMil MfoRT y food

my art conf of a RE ESSionS lUcT SEaMST anT RESS

f okSHeL my bo s REvIEW s REadER oRITE BooK ThEIR fav

my Herit cadEnc age fRoM ThE E paST

Mia Mag

azine, Sum

mer 2010

my Heal tH hEalThypEdaling a lifESTy lE 1

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

As we sat around the table that fall evening, we believed in the concept of our magazine. We just weren’t sure who else besides us would “get it.” We should have had known better. Women are adept at sharing stories with one another; and we have been supported, encouraged, and motivated by thousands of women who understand the importance of a publication like Mia. We’re raising our glasses and toasting, but we’re not celebrating us. Instead, we’re celebrating you. Without the women who write, read, distribute, and tell their friends about the magazine, we wouldn’t exist. In Italian, Mia means “my.” We chose the name because we want Mia to be the kind of publication that any woman can pick up and feel belongs to her. The stories we publish are personal and heartfelt, and we are grateful to the women who are willing to share a part of their lives with our readers. And those readers have responded by becoming a part of the Mia community through subscribing, telling friends, handing out magazines, and—in the spirit of a full circle—submitting their own stories. It is you who have given us far beyond “just one issue,” and for that, we say, “thank you.” Mia

Subscribe To Mia Magazine Today Four issues for only $16

Subscribe online at www.miamagazine.net or complete the form below, enclose your payment and mail to Mia Magazine Subscriptions, P. O. Box 35665, Tulsa, OK 74153-0665 Please Print

Name Address City

State

Zip

E-mail r Is this a gift? From Address State Zip City For more information call 918.978.5567 E-mail

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

My MONEY Continued from page 21 How can you prevent this from happening to you? The best way I can explain it is to get inside the head of a con artist so you know what to look for. Here is how I imagine Barbara training other con artists.

A con artist’s playbook:

1) Pick your target well. You must find someone who is kind, ethical, generous and vulnerable. 2) Invent connections. I told Mr. Grossman, who was Jewish, that I had been married to a Jewish man who had passed away. I even wore a Star of David around my neck. 3) Ingratiate yourself. Be as helpful as you can be. Work hard at the beginning until the family has faith in you. 4) Get established. I did nothing they could suspect for the first three months. It prevented any concern about my motives. 5) Take in all members of the family. I was so sweet, charming the daughters as well as the father and his sister. 6) Once you’re established, give them a sob story. I told Mr. Grossman that I needed to go to the dentist so he gave me money. I went to the dentist and then got more money later, but used it to have my silicone implants removed. 7) Work fast. Before your victim has a chance to think about it, come up with another story. 8) Move on when the time is right. It was going so well that I continued. I could have quit earlier, but the money just kept flowing. I lost the job, but came out way ahead in the end.

In another con artist situation, I was assisting a Zimbabwean friend who was receiving a big award in Hollywood. I was coordinating her interviews, but had total laryngitis. I was vulnerable. A Zimbabwean man showed up with someone who knew her well. He was quite a charmer, sweet and funny. When my camera batteries ran out, he was out the door to get new ones. He told me he was gay, which is a good way to disarm a woman. I let down my guard, thinking I didn’t need to worry about the motives for his intense friendliness. His name was Leon. Leon told me he’d be visiting the area where I live in order to get an orientation for law school at Stanford University. I invited him to stay with me during that time. He came a few weeks later and brought a friend unannounced. I was paying for everything, and the food (and wine) bill was running $75 a day. He mentioned that he had lost his wallet. There were all kinds of odd things that I only understand in hindsight. A few months later, he had come back to the Bay Area and was staying in a hotel. He kept pushing to come over because he had “something” for me. I was sick and explained I

couldn’t see him. Plus, I just wasn’t feeling right about this guy. Soon after, his friend who had stayed at my home called and said that Leon had run up $5,000 on a friend’s credit card while he was in San Francisco. Leon was a con artist. I had ignored several signs, until I started to listen to my gut instinct. So I also devised a victim’s playbook, listing a few things to look out for to avoid the pull of con artists.

A victim’s playbook:

1) Follow your instincts. If something feels off, pay attention to it. Don’t dismiss it because you want to be “nice.” In Leon’s case, he said he lost his wallet with his ID and money, yet he had just arrived on an airplane. That was a hint right there. 2) Follow the facts. He said he had come to have orientation at Stanford because he got into law school. But he never went to the orientation, repeating a false excuse, “I called the professor and cancelled.” Someone can do that once, perhaps, but not again and again. 3) Does the story change? On the first visit, he was attending Stanford. On the next trip, he was going to buy property in the area. Why would someone buying very expensive property keep borrowing money? 4) Be aware of super sweetness. Leon was bending over backwards to cook, garden and clean. It was far beyond what a grateful and kind guest would do to show their gratitude. 5) Beware of personal tragedies. After Leon returned home, he called and said his grandmother had died and he needed money for her funeral; he merely had a “cash flow” problem. A family death is a classic sob story. In this case, it felt off to me. I just hadn’t known him long enough, and I didn’t bite. 6) Don’t invite friends of friends to stay in your home. I had made assumptions about the extent to which he knew my friend’s colleague at the beginning. Had I probed more thoroughly, I never would have invited him over in the first place.

People who haven’t been through this just might say, “Use your head and this can never happen.” I say, “Use your instincts about what does and doesn’t feel right, and put that together with what you know.” The con artist always has easy lies to answer your questions and knows how to get you to like him or her. If you can put aside your own desire to please, you can protect yourself and your family more successfully. Mia

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

We are now working on our

2nd Generation of Service from the Best Janitorial company in “Green Country”

You have OUR word on it!

shake up and shape up your summer ‘do with this brilliant line of hair products offered exclusively at

CoCo & Rose Salon

Brooke and I take pride in making sure that when our associates clean your office, it is as clean as our homes. If it is important to you that your office is clean each and every day, call us for a free estimate.

Brooke & Sandra Gardner

SEE WHAT WE MEAN BY FINAL TOUCH CLEAN

663-1919

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

Call today for a free consultation

www.tulsadentalcreations.com

Ask about our $500 refund and free whitening with qualified invisalign cases!

itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s invisible

Now . . . Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s your turn to have a beautiful smile dental creations dr. chad webster 918.307.0307 8190 south Memorial in Tulsa, OK

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

My CAUSE Continued from page 19

Teach For America – Expanding Educational Equality Teach For America

Founded in 1990 by Wendy Kopp, a Princeton University graduate who desired to change educational inequality in the United States. Enlists teachers or “corps members” to eliminate educational disparities in low-income communities. Has 20,000 alumni nationwide. Sends corps members to 39 regions across the United States. Reaches communities nationwide ranging from Los Angeles to Hawaii to the Mississippi Delta. Impacts over 500,000 students annually. Has influenced over three million students since its start.

Teach For America’s “Corps Members” (Teachers)

Demonstrate leadership, perseverance, and achievement as well as motivation and critical thinking skills. Must commit to teach for two years in their assigned region. Come from 500 colleges and universities as well as all 50 states and the District of Columbia. Have a variety of undergraduate and graduate degrees (not necessarily Education degrees). Obtain alternative teacher certification for their state. Paid by the school districts where they work. Usually receive the same salary and benefits as other beginning teachers.

Application Process

46,000 people applied to Teach for America in 2010 – only 4,500 people were selected as corps members. Applicants can apply online, which is followed by a process of interviews. Application process can last 8-12 weeks. For more information, visit http://www.teachforamerica.org.

M-F 10 am-5:30 pm Sat 10 am-5 pm 918.491.0808 Kingspointe Village 61st & Yale www.maryruby.com

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

â&#x20AC;&#x153;Achieve greater professional success while cultivating value and significance in other key areas of life.â&#x20AC;?

Services : Life Coaching and Active Meditation Classes

918 . 734 . 2552 tim@timhager.com

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

Myafterthoughts by Monica Roberts

“ ” ..my very arrival constituted a mid-life crisis for my parents.

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

This New Age This is the year that I turn 40. Apparently, if I exercise regularly, eat healthy, and have interests outside of work, children, and laundry (yeah, right) I could realistically live into my mid-90s. So, I’m not ready to call this point mid-life but it’s definitely mid-something. I just hope whatever it is allows me the luxury of a crisis. This is also the year my father turned 80. Yes, in 1971 when almost everyone else had babies at age 22, my parents became unexpectedly pregnant when Mom was 39 and Dad was 40. My brother and sister were in high school, and I suppose my very arrival constituted a mid-life crisis for my parents. When I imagine a positive pregnancy test at that stage of the game, my hand involuntarily tries to dial Laureate Psychiatric Hospital. And yet, 40 apparently is the new 25. Today women are having babies at my age and beyond with the help of power ovaries, IVF or, thankfully, China. We act younger, think younger, and buy into the notion that we’ll live much longer than our parents’ generation if we keep moving and don’t eat too many cheeseburgers. That’s encouraging, but as a 40-year-old raising children who are 11, eight, and two-years-old, I’ll admit that most days I’m actually fairly exhausted. There’s a reason women in their late teens and early 20s are so fertile, because that’s when you have the energy to chase those kids around. Education, wisdom, and financial wherewithal aside, Mother Nature is no idiot. Because my siblings were so much older, they had a completely different childhood with my parents. I remember sulking when they’d tell me about all the things my parents did with them: involvement in Boy Scouts, youth group, planning family vacations. Why weren’t they taking me on any fun trips? Where were they when the school asked for volunteers? Well, now I know where. They were in bed trying to take a nap. Fair or unfair, I won’t have the same level of energy for my youngest child, Oscar, as I did for my firstborn, Jack. No matter how many miles I log on the treadmill chasing after my former energy levels, I can’t seem to catch it. What I’m hoping is that Oscar is the beneficiary of my ability to laugh at life a little more. As opposed to the person I used to be in my mid-to-late 20s, I don’t care nearly as much about everything’s being so perfect. My husband and kids might like to beg differently, but that’s just because their standards are too low. When my birthday rolls around in September, I’m hoping to embrace this new age and what it brings. I’m hoping to feel like I’m 25. But just in case I don’t, please tell me that I look it. Mia

MeetourWRITERS CONTRIBUTING EDITORS

CONTRIBUTORS, continiued

Linda Watanabe McFerrin (My Home, “A Glorious Ruin,” p. 6) is a poet, travel writer, and novelist. She is the author of two poetry collections and is a past winner of the Katherine Anne Porter Prize for Fiction. Her latest novel, Dead Love, was published by Stone Bridge Press in September 2010. She lives in Oakland, Calif.

Linda Rubin (My Journey, “True to Herself,” p. 24) is a high school English teacher who also counsels troubled teens and serves as a court-appointed CASA child advocate. She is a cancer survivor and an incurable optimist. She lives in Tulsa, Okla.

Sheilah Bright (My Art, “Traveling, Photographing and Storytelling,” p. 12) blends her love of writing with her passion for travel. She has written for numerous magazines and newspapers and her travel photography can be seen at brightjourneys.com. Sheilah has two remaining continents (Africa and Australia) left to complete her goal of traveling to each continent before she turns fifty. She lives in Sand Springs, Okla. CONTRIBUTORS Linda Phillips Ashour (My Bookshelf, “Reading Tolstoy,” p. 17) is the author of Sweet Remedy and three other novels. She has written book reviews for The New York Times and articles for The New York Sun and her nonfiction has been anthologized in My Father Married Your Mother. She lives in New York City with her husband.

Charlotte Blood Smith (My Inspiration, “Walking in Daddy’s Footsteps,” p. 26) began her career as a journalist in 1968. She is a former stringer for The Tulsa World, and has written for over 100 different publications – from American Rifle to Quilt World. She is past president of Oklahoma Mystery Writers Association. She lives in Nowata, Okla. Paula Sullivan (My Reflections, “Father’s Wagon and the Knife Game,” p. 10) taught composition, creative writing, and British literature before retiring. She is now an ecumenical spiritual director and retreat facilitator. In addition to writing for newspapers and magazines, she authored The Mystery of My Story, Autobiographical Writing for Personal and Spiritual Development, Paulist Press. She lives in Seguin, Texas with her husband. Mia

Nancy Edwards (My Travels, “Competitive Whale Watching,” p. 22) was born in Tulsa, the youngest of six children, and grew up in the post-Vietnam and early Disco eras. Now a mom with two kids of her own, Nancy lives in Austin, Texas, where her day job is a marketing exec for a solar technology company. Leanne Grossman (My Money, “From the Playbook of a Con,” p. 21) has won multiple awards for publications and social media in nonprofit communications and is a founding trustee and advisor to Girl Child Network Worldwide, an innovative girls empowerment program initiated in Zimbabwe. Visit her website at portfolio-ofpassions.com. She lives in Oakland, CA. Nicole Pride (My Cause, “One Spelling Word at a Time,” p. 18) is a recent college graduate who double-majored in writing and Spanish. She served as a columnist and copy editor for her university’s newspaper and interned with Mia magazine this spring. She is a life-lover, life-learner, and can occasionally be seen letting loose on the dance floor. She loves jazz music, hates regret, and tries to catch life’s curve balls as they come. She lives in Tulsa, Okla. Monica Roberts (My Afterthoughts, “This New Age,” p. 37) is a freelance writer, marketing consultant, and columnist for Mia magazine. She enjoys cooking, reading, entertaining, and an occasional long walk. She lives in Tulsa, Okla. with her husband and three children.

Experience as seen on CBS, NBC, ABC and The Doctors Show HAIR COLOR, CONDITIONING, STYLE, HAIRCUT, WAXING, SKIN CARE, FACIAL TREATMENTS, MASSAGE THERAPY, BODY TREATMENTS, SPA PACKAGES, MANICURES, PEDICURES, EAR CANDLING, SPRAY TAN, MAKEUP APPLICATION HAIR COLOR, CONDITIONING, STYLE, HAIRCUT,10424 WAXING, SKIN CARE, TREATMENTS, S 82nd E Ave (105thFACIAL & Memorial) MASSAGE THERAPY, BODY TREATMENTS, SPA Tulsa, OK 74133 PACKAGES, MANICURES, PEDICURES, EAR CANDLING, 918.369.8482 SPRAY TAN, MAKEUP APPLICATION HAIR COLOR, TREATMENTS,www.bellavitaspaandsalon.com SPA PACKAGES, MANICURES, PEDICURES, EAR CANDLING, SPRAY TAN, MAKEUP APPLICATION

Your Relaxation Destination

Mia Magazine, Summer 2011

It wasn’t until she grew up and went off to college that Dad realized he only ever had one pride and joy. We know. We were there the whole time. And when you’ve been around for nearly 70 years, you get to see a lot. Most importantly, you get to see generations of families grow to live healthy and inspired lives. And as the local health insurance company, nothing makes Blue Cross and Blue Shield of Oklahoma more proud than to see our neighbors take with them the same security and trust that we’ve been providing for years. From the days of riding bikes in the driveway to seeing daddy’s little girl ride off on her wedding day, we’ve had a lot to celebrate with our members. But today, we will still celebrate what’s always been closest to us – the wellness of you and your loved ones.

We’re down the street. We’re Blue Cross. And because we’re here, we’ll always be there.

bcbsok.com

A Division of Health Care Service Corporation, a Mutual Legal Reserve Company, an Independent Licensee of the Blue Cross and Blue Shield Association

71986.0411

omen’s Health Care, P.C. Comprehensive, compassionate, and confidential care for women

PH: (918) 749-0804 • FAX: (918) 749-6249 2424 East 21st Street • Suite 340 • Tulsa, Ok 74114 Women’s Health Care, P.C. provides a full range of obstetric, gynecologic and surgical services. We offer education and counseling regarding all women’s issues from adolescence to post-menopause. Our ambition is to help women lead the healthiest life possible.

Dr. Jon C. Calvert is board certified in obstetrics and gynecology and provides care for a wide variety of women’s conditions using the latest treatments

Our specialty affords us the knowledge and skills to provide not only well woman exams and routine prenatal care, but also preconception planning/counseling, infertility evaluation, computerized urodynamic studies, post menopausal vaginal atrophy treatment, and a multitude of inpatient and outpatient surgical procedures. The practice is accepting new patients and each physician and staff member welcomes the opportunity to work with our patients to achieve and maintain optimal health.

In practice more than 25 years, Dr. Calvert is board certified in obstetrics and gynecology. Detail oriented, he works with each patient to reach a proper diagnosis and effective management plan. He has special interests in laparoscopic surgery, vulvar and cervical disease. He is one of a few of gynecologists who performs total laparoscopic hysterectomies.

Dr. Calvert has been named in the Oklahoma Top Docs for the past three years.

WOMEN’S HEALTH CARE, P.C.

Monday through Thursday, 8:00 a.m. till 4:30 p.m., Fridays, 9 a.m. till 12 noon.

For inquiries or to schedule an appointment, call: 918.749.0804