The Original Birther

The Original Birther

This whole Obama birther thing has me remembering that over 30 years ago my mother became obsessed with our birth certificates.  She paid for extra originals.  She had copies made of those extra originals.  We scoured downtown L.A. to find a place that could laminate and shrink copies down to identification card size.

My pre-teen self asked my mom what she was doing and she vaguely explained that it was important to be prepared to show the birth certificate.  In that way, I think she was some form of an original birther.  She knew someone, somewhere, sometime would make an issue of it.  That time has not come for me, and when it does, I better be able to find that crazy orange purse containing all of the family’s important documents.  Until then, I’ll have to watch my mom be self-satisfied in knowing that if she was Obama’s mama, he would have had lots of copies of that thing available years ago.

Remembering Religion

Remembering Religion

My favorite part of the spring religious season is listening to people recount the stops on their path toward peace with the idea of faith.

Today’s story:

“I remember my mom used to take us to confession as kids, but we were kids, we didn’t have anything to confess. So, after ‘confession’ we’d compare notes on how many prayers we’d gotten and then go shove our fingers into all the candles, just so we’d have something to talk to the priest about in next week’s session.”