Lost Series Finale Review (unedited; spoilers)

In the following moments after the finale, I found myself in a state of anxiety, frustration, exhaustion. Both my boyfriend and friend who were watching it with me seemed confused but were exclaiming their appreciation for it. As always, my expectations and desires make everything so hard. I might swear off watching television shows where no clear cut ending can be established ahead of time. As we know, Lost had to adapt to many changes in the cast and audience reactions (commendable still), but it meant some of the questions built up would remain unsolved or “left up to interpretation." Finally I thought all the anticipation, all the pondering and theorizing would be finished. 

Ties that Bind

I hear of so many young adults with the ability to pick up and leave, travel to a foreign country surviving off only what they can find and work briefly for. This impulsive adventuring has great appeal to me. Graduating from college would seem the ideal time to take said adventure: no ties, no career or family yet begun, no house to pay off or maintain; all the freedom possible to explore new places, test my limits and skills of survival, learn my mental capacity, discover what I really want from life. Too often have my thoughts wandered to the excitement such a choice would bring, and I long to satisfy the craving for real freedom I have sought all my youth.

Fur Coats

It's really funny to see hair shedding off my dog when I pet him.
It's not funny when he wants to climb on me while he's shedding.
Nice work clothes cease being nice.
I want him off so I push him,
thus unhinging more fur!
I could make a coat out of his loose fur.
Hmm...

Sister Experiment

It began as a simple invite on Facebook, which I typically ignore, and has developed into a frustrated attempt at clarifying my point. The three sentence explanation of the event was enough to warrant frustration, but the mob mentality of those who joined elicited outright disgust. Woman across the internets rebelled against the man by exposing their flesh in what has been dubbed the Boobquake experiment. This event arose in response to the declaration by an Iranian cleric that recent quakes and threats of more in their region are due to women's immodesty (click here for original article). Feminists jumped to the frontlines to combat these apparent fear tactics to keep women in-line. Some participants are regarding it as harmless fun, others are avidly opposed to any comment which seems to teeter toward being against the movement, deeming it blasphemous to feminism and free society. I am of course referring to the responses I received against my critical analysis of the event. I assure you I maintain similar values regarding female pride and freedom from male oppression in all its forms, but my dispute is specifically aimed at the method of the movement as posted on facebook (must have account to view).

Kick-Ass Review (R)

If you are between the ages of 13 and 18, a self-proclaimed geek, not homosexual, not male, not white are shocked by your pedophile tendencies and would cry with glee at the sight of a rocket pack, you will probably enjoy this movie. Everyone else belonging to a minority, for fear of being either offended or made to feel too young or too old, you'd be better off watching How to Train Your Dragon.
There is only one other movie I considered prematurely walking out on lest my soul bleed from the holes under my fingernails I had to create just to stop the raping of my senses. Kick-Ass didn't quite measure up to that sort of torture, but I had the urge many times (which I could name). Perhaps my tastes have become too accustomed to real films, or perhaps I'm just not a teenager anymore, but I refused to conform to the rest of the audience's low standards of what makes an entertaining film. I was awkwardly frustrated when the room jolted from their seats to applaud the screen and one person yelled in sarcasm "That was a terrible movie!" to which everyone shared a group-bonding laugh about. Obviously Kick-Ass was a flick, designed to appeal to the flood of hormones of a teen, a guilty pleasure of fulfilled sexual fantasies, stardom, and rebellion, meshed with an open appreciation for one race of geek. It doesn't help that it would be accepted as freshness when the only activities in my town for underage night owls looking for some danger is spying on the hippies in the park.

Potty Humor: Gender Stereotyping in Bathroom Propriety

Women have you ever used the men's bathroom when the women's was taken or flooded? You never know how many refuse to lift the lid in a men's restroom though and miss the hole, since it supplies their only chance to leave it down or up without fear of spousal abuse later, so you wipe the seat and just hover while you pee. Somehow men's restrooms tend to feel filthier and less inviting. Public restrooms in deserted areas are easier to get away with sneaking in and out of because no one would notice your breech of societal rules. But what about busy places like grocery stores for instance? Is it forgivable to rebel against segregated bathrooms when really one size fits all? Often the only differentiation between the two rooms is about four inches of white paint depicting a skirt. Some do have urinals, yes and I find it amusing that so many women in our country have never seen one. A urinal for a woman is a taboo. We have all wondered about them, but never dispute that we are essentially forbidden by gender rules to explore them. I mean explore in the most basic of actions, using sight to observe detail and construct an understanding in one's mind. My question is, what purpose does it serve to have separate bathrooms? In most small businesses and in our homes there is one bathroom for everyone. If there is a constant flow of squatters (heh heh..) like at airports than I can somewhat understand the need to respect different cultural gender proprieties. More importantly how is it that some are so insistant that only that gender uses their designated restroom. So what about queers and transgenders, drag queens, transvestites, bisexuals, where do the rest of us fit in that black and white equation.

Good times...

You know those times with friends when the conditions are right, when everyone is energized and full of laughter. Yeah, why are those so rare?

Curse of a Caregiving Personality

A week has come and gone. I drove my little sister Michelle back to our parent's, back to her reality. My boyfriend joined us so we could visit his family. After arriving, I pried my littlest sister downstairs to greet me. She had something for me: a gold pen with my name engraved on the cap and the words "an attractive and considerate person" on the box. It surprised me somehow to know that she does think of me, and that I am a positive influence in her life no matter how far away I am. The tears caught in my throat, which she gathered as I was explaining how meaningful it was to receive something tangible back from her. I couldn't remember the last time we exposed our tears to one another. She covered her eyes and turned away shyly. Emotionality is a contagion in a family of sensitive women.
She interjected my emotional appraisal of the pen, "You'll still have me for the summer won't you?"
Pondering the sudden topic change, I nodded reassuringly. "Of course." I would take you back with me now but that is unfair to Jim and I need a few weeks to catch my breath. "Do you think you hold out until then?" I needed to know how desperate she was.
"Yeah. I can wait." Her voice seemed relaxed enough, verifying her words.
"Well if not, just call me." I hugged her again.
"I love you."
My heart drove into my brain. I wanted to pick her up and wisk her away right then. Required all my strength, faith in her resiliency and ability to survive to shove that protective urge down into a knot of weight in my chest where it would stir until I could release it safely.
Wait, just a little longer baby. "I love you too."

Beam Me Up

I never admitted that all developing adolescents, including my sisters, experience stages of sexual development. Not quite the same as realizing that your grandparents still have sex, because you don't have to clean up your vomit afterward, but equally disconcerting. Just one more thing to the list of denial.
I came home from work to find the office door closed and my little sister missing. I thought maybe she was hiding her emotional attack. As a courtesy, I knocked to provide time to compose herself, and walked in. But her look of modesty paired with a silly grin gave her away. A glance to a blank screen of the computer she was facing implied she was watching something she didn't want me to know about. Ho ho! Little miss modest does have naughty thoughts. I smiled suggestively, asked if she was okay, then walked out.
I came back an hour later and repeated the same ritual: knock, observe nothing on screen, you okay. But my curiosity had me lingering in the doorway longer than before.

The Believer - An Evening With Hapa

Perhaps I was wrong (refer to Writing Style Experiment). My friend had a dream come true, to play with those who inspired the path he follows, Hapa. Each concert, every gig working toward a way of living, learning guitar, building two groups together, endless rehearsals, a degree, jam sessions, all with a belief in what Hapa stood for, what he felt they accomplished and brought to his life. For some an idol is essential inspiration, a starting point or ideal. It was ill of me not to acknowledge that a belief is more than just the walking vessel. My apologies. They were not my models, but I appreciated the escape they provided nonetheless.

The concert was sold out, fans of young and old filled our little university recital hall. Add in our music professors and cream pies and we got ourselves a party! We could shave their heads if they would prefer that.
Ha'ena, my friend's local cover band, were invited to open the show for their idols as guest performers. Let us know how it was guys to watch and chat with them backstage. Chicken skin was your phrase?

I cannot fathom that true bliss of exchanging words with my guiding light. For comparison, would you compare it to meeting God? Better make certain Hapa doesn't read this, may overwhelm their egos. Possible?

The performers themselves were not what I expected. Familiarized with the relaxed traditional Hawaiian music my friend's group Ha'ena plays, I was surprised when a Billy Joel impersonator walked on stage and began dancing with his guitar like he was a one man band (minus the bad accent, at least Barry admitted being howlie). But it was entertaining to see a rock star in action, and the musician in me still sat amazed at the way their hands glided over the strings. I sware it was an optical illusion (what is this supposed to be?); I heard the notes, but my eyes couldn't catch their strumming. But I sank at the warmth of Nathan's voice. To hear vibrato and warmth like his applied to traditional songs was an experience all in itself. Never have I been so aroused by a man's falsetto. Whew.

I always enjoy watching traditional hula as well. The grace and simplicity of the movement speaks of a strength found in feeling connected to something greater than any one person. It demonstrates an appreciation for the land and ocean, for family, and encourages respect for the female form rather than the overly sexualized generalization created by media.
Truly a pleasure to be a participant in a rich display of empowerment. I am so happy for you my friends. Chi-hoo Ha'ena!

Disclaimer: For personal reassurance, I maintain high consideration for those whose lives inspire my writings. It is never my purpose to tell another's story, only to theorize about myself and my environment based on observation. I am fascinated by the affect the slightest interaction has on my perception of the world. I aim to share my musings on the human experience while the inspiration is stirring. Thus my work is my interpretation of his behavior based on my own colored lens and filtered through my own experience.

The Beauty of Grief

For days my sister has been staying with me, as a zombie, forcing herself to move through each hour denying the corroding pain yet to be tended. Frustration. Sensitivity to criticism. I felt the stalking presence of a sorrow desperate to be unleashed, and for days I have been waiting.
Before I left my parents I decided to dismiss the burden of being caregiver and counselor to her. I would simply provide an environment of respect and freedom for her to do with as she pleases. If I created an atmosphere where she could feel safe, maybe whatever processing or knowledge she needed would be made clear without my tampering. I hoped the visit would at least supply her with a different perspective on how one can live (without constant yelling, away from the physical reminders that triggered her breakdown).
We came home from a visit with a friend. She mentioned having stomach pains and headed for the next room to hide. Noticing her desire to escape, I jumped at the opportunity to finally talk with her alone. I walked unexpectedly into a hug when I entered the doorway. I asked what was wrong. She described the pains in her stomach. Anxiety. The last time she had an attack around me she utilized distraction as her method of coping. Her attempts to push her feelings aside were vocalized by a distinct monotone moan that only proved her efforts were not amounting to any relief. The moment I heard those same moans begin during this incident, I defaulted to my grief training. I encouraged her to embrace those feelings rather than continue to suppress them.
Little by little, sobs echoed in my ear. Still locked in embrace, she acknowledged the feelings that were rising to the surface by name: frustration, anxiety, sadness. At last! I thought. She’s finally crying. I wasn’t necessarily waiting for her to cry, but rather to be honest with herself about what she was experiencing. In my experience supporting others, this was a major indication of progress (however that might be defined when referring to a process that tends to be cyclical).
I continued to encourage her to just allow the tears to flow, to try not to hold back as she rested on my shoulder. She explained how difficult it has been dealing with the overwhelming fear of “losing it.” A common symptom of panic disorder is a fear of losing control or subsequent attacks. For her, this fear was stifling her need to grieve. When I say grief, I mean a process in which the individual allows whatever they are feeling to be expressed freely for the purpose of releasing energy, sharing, arriving at any conclusions, coping with the loss, and questioning what causes the concerning behavior: the manifestations of the pain or fear that exists at the core of the problem. For her, guilt and betrayal weighed heavily on her conscious.
As we discussed her fears and hesitations about talking to others (particularly counselors or professionals), she unfolded the story that landed her in the hospital. She spoke about the pain of being betrayed by her most trusted support system. She spoke of desperation and shame about how the situation erupted out of her control. She spoke of isolation. Yet she didn’t know she would do anything differently, pitted against herself by her own understanding for those involved. Dying for justice.
All at once she exploded into a rage-induced sob, dropping to the floor by my feet. Droning wails spilled out, self-accepting humility. No holding back. She simply roared.
I caressed her back while she sat bowed against the floor in prayer pose to reassure her that it was okay to exist exactly as she was in that moment. But my heart crumbled for my little sister. Her cries of pain stung what I could imagine being my very soul. The tension aroused by my protective urges melted away to sheer empathy. I felt the betrayal and guilt familiarized by my own experiences and joined in her grief. It was a beautiful exchange. At long last, I had met my little sister.

Preparation (1)

I love my Jadzia. It pains me the thought of her suffering, something she has endured too much of it seems. From being left out in the cold, taking a leap of faith into my life from the cold rain. I ran so hard in hopes I found a lost kitten. I took her in and yet I still felt I had betrayed her. She stayed at my parents house, abused and neglected, trapped and tense. I didnt recognize her. Bringing her here was the right thing to do. She was fat and happy for a couple years. She seemed content at last. And now she is sick. Wasting away. Won't eat, barely drinks. Sleeps her life away more so than usual. She avoids the dog. Its as though she cant wait until I walk in to lay down. She wants to lay in my lap and be comforted so badly. I fear I will regret the many times when other things were prioritized. I want her healthy. It shouldnt be her time yet. Not like this. I was preparing for a few months now and I realize I just refuse to let her go in pain like Shante. Let her go peacefully, without suffering. I believe her lack of interest in food and loss of weight and bad breath are all related. Maybe tooth problems. If I can get her into the vet to check her mouth. I could. I suddenly have a feeling of emergency, if I dont do it asap she might die, even though she has been surviving for weeks now like this... God. Weeks like this. What torture. If she is in pain no wonder she has been sleeping more. Only way to cope now. Pretty soon it will be permanent though. Maybe she can get better and live a few more years. Maybe I can afford the work. I miss the days when she was healthy and sassy. Oh my baby girl. Mommy is here for you. I know youve been trying to tell me something. All these signs are pointing to problems and I am afraid they wont be able to tell me what is wrong and I again waste hundreds.
Please... just please. I dont even know what I am asking for. I dont want her to die yet. If I cant find what is wrong than I submit, but please let there be an easy and obvious problem and solution. My Jadzia.

Sleep as Preparation (2)

I must let go.
What will life be like? How could I possibly carry on with the daily routine? A hole will be dug. Menacing in the corner, reminding me of a beautiful relationship. Something will be missing.
Exhaustion. The both of us. End the suffering. Sleep is her escape, a hint. It is her wish, to sleep eternally. Dont force her to give up. She clings to life for you. Her love has lasted so long already. Return it now. Prove to her you love her enough to let her find peace. She is trapped to her body. A body that is deteriorated and weak. It can no longer sustain her.
She has lived a rough life. The last couple years have been good.
We exchanged a love I never fully appreciated until now. You were always be my side. You have been telling me your time is near for some time. You allowed ample time for me to prepare, to begin grieving, to say goodbye. I will release you. Thank you for all you have given me, for the time you held on even though you were in need of relief. I tried to ease your pain but have merely extended it. I will always love you. I brought you from the pouring rain, took you away from isolation and depression at my parents. We shared a couple wonderful years. You were fat and happy and I enjoyed knowing that. You got to live like a happy house cat for a while. Please forgive my ignorance, my blindness to your pain. You hide it so well. The epitomy of strength. You represent the sort of woman I have always wanted to be: strong, resilient, lovable, dependent and independent, spirited, patient, a quiet wisdom.
I am scared for this. Will you let me know clearly that you are ready to go before we insert the needle? Will you tell me goodbye somehow. Will you indicate you love me? Will you just go peacefully, relieved to be set free? Perhaps thirteen is enough for all you have endured. I remember so much. All the trials to make you safer, to ensure your happiness and now this final one.
I love you my baby girl.
My Jadzia.

When will I know you

As my maternal clock tempts me into rushing, I resist until I am certain the circumstances speak well to me. Until the doubt has receded, when I will not fear the abandonment, divorce, entrapment and despair that has befallen the women of my past, when my feminist ideals permit me to surrender pursuit of a career to the potential joy of a baby.
I think of you often. Who might you be? Will you love me? Will you talk to me about your problems, consult me for guidance but capable of finding your own answers? Will you adopt my principles and build upon them? Will you treasure my writings, my pondering about you? Will you be empathetic like me? Will you cry at the thought of an animal being mistreated? Will it anger you? Will you be bold enough to stand up for your beliefs, defend those unable to? Will you rise above the superficial, materialistic, judgmental and often insensitive influences of our culture? Will you be curious about other perspectives, about the questions of death and existence, or religion and not simply discard it as a weak or meaningless practice? What will you believe? Will you have faith in something despite your awareness of its potential to be false? Will you understand the power of your thoughts on your actions, those around you, the course of your life?
Can I possibly teach you all of this?
I yearn for the experience of holding you to my breast and looking into the eyes of a soul I have been waiting to meet.
Rather I should be asking, who will I be, what will I do as your parent. Hopefully, by monitoring my own choices in raising you, I will find that whoever you become is someone I will be proud to call my child.

Turning Point

This could be the turning point I have been expecting. A major source of frustration and pain for me has been not being there for my little sisters. They are in desperate (exemplifies my tendency to exaggerate a problem) need of someone who can guide them in the right direction. Both have been cut off from the high school, which was a major outlet of support for them. Both are depressed and feeling isolated and uncertain about where to go from there.
After speaking with Michelle and feeling like nothing I said was good enough for her, that nothing I could say was what she wanted to hear, I realized first that maybe what she needed was for me to actually be a sister, not a counselor. Just as I needed to figure out how to be a daughter to my mother. How to not take on the responsibility alone of counseling my family, but being a part of it. Struggling with them, sharing my hardships as I have complained they do.
I should hug her, listen to her, play with her hair, tell her it will be okay. Maybe that is what a sister is supposed to do. I have been stuck in the role model mode, having sacrificed my obligations as a sister.
If Laura and her both come down here to live with me, I can get a full time job to support us, all the while encouraging them (indirectly so there is no real pressure) to search for a job or schooling or volunteering, anything to get them into new experiences. The goal being to build their character, their self-esteem, their recognition that there are opportunities out there. I can immerse them in my atmosphere here, my support group, my own love (since I am apparently needing something to love after my kitty died and my maternal clock is taunting me). This town is kinder, smaller, and provides an excellent setting for new beginnings. There are so many programs in this little area that we could look into that would be educational and fun. I am hoping the many resources available to me can be available to them through me. Brittany could take them horse riding. They could babysit for Channing? Maybe?
However, I am concerned about losing the main figure of my support group, Jim, if my sisters and I choose to do this. Will he want to live with my sisters as well? We could get a different place with a few rooms, they could stay in one.
This would give me the chance to guide them more thoroughly in their lives, and offer me some peace about leaving them. It could be a great opportunity to really get to know them.

Writing Style Experiment

Never fails. Put my laptop aside convinced at last that I should sleep, only to pick it back up not two minutes later burning to type something more. Life of an insomniac… with a need to write… and inability to stop thinking… over analytical… too easily inspired by the silence of night and freedom to dwell inward… … Right, freeze ray.
It seems certain conditions must be understood for comedy to really be appreciated. I am pondering the question of how something intended to be funny makes one person laugh and not another. If you have a level of respect for someone, they become the funniest damned person in the world. Perhaps as a way to impress them or because the laughee believes the person intelligent and therefore must be clever even if the laughee had no clue what the punch line was. Amazing how we assign certain qualities of wit and intelligence to our models. Of course we learn later that they are really drunk, misinformed, airheads equally capable of being swayed and influenced as we were by them. No bitterness there, I promise. Maybe God wasn’t being selfish when he carved into stone (which means it must be real) not to idolize anyone or thing beyond him. Disappointment is a bitch.
This entry is of course dedicated to my boyfriend, who admires his humorous authors for their wit and blatant disregard for societal expectations of decency and filtering ones inner dialogue of vulgarity (maybe I went too far; love you honey!). Thought I’d give it a try. It’s entertaining to say the least, freeing in a way and in another way a bold faced lie because the sort of mood this type of writing requires is like a drunk sorority girl, you’re hot enough for her to dress her back up before she wakes up just so she doesn’t suspect something happened last night, but something deep down tells you something would give you away (just to distinguish from some(Bush reference?), I intentionally used vague words in that similie). Wait. That had nothing to do with the point I was trying to make. See this is why this type of writing doesn’t befit me. It sends my analytic personality into overdrive. Who knew! Thought it would demand a Fuck you, and this, and me attitude and the ability to offend every race, creed, gender, and (enter a category which will inevitably manage to deny that white, middle class, and male are also included within it), which I have done none of. FAIL. Defendant sentenced to never writing this way again unless voted to by popular demand (did I mention I’m more likely to use clichés in this mood?). Yeah don’t ask where the court reference came. I can’t track the process, just release it.
Oh right, the point. So my boyfriend is my idol in many ways. After I began to acknowledge myself as a writer (an obviously undetermined sort), my spidey senses tingled about why he enjoys the particular authors he reads every week. Being only exposed to the type of reader he is set me up for trying to model those writers in order to receive the sort of reaction they elicit from him (paste asinine comment about expecting an asinine comment here). I also realized that maybe he won’t find my material funny anyway, simply because he knows me too well and is more likely to lift an eyebrow and give me some asinine (Muahaha!) comment about ‘being cute.’ Feminists unite!

Here is where I become genuine. The above seemed necessary in my scramble to overcome the hesitation of finally compiling my writings in one spot and the doubt that resulted. I know what sort of writer I am, inspirational, observational, analytical. But all for the purpose of improving myself, my life, and those I influence. Laughter is important, but I escape through other methods for that fulfillment. My writing is my processing. Managing my sensitivity, empathy, and genetic predisposition to anxiety disorders has been my greatest challenge. Yet, I have managed to survive and embrace the possibility of happiness through this processing. It is my therapy. My effort to inspire others while helping myself. I do rediscover the same answers to the same problems at every interval. It has become an inside joke for me. Thus my writings serve as logs to track patterns, to observe myself from a third-party perspective, to confront the hardships I encounter.
For me, strength is not a measure of resilience or push and pull, but of one’s ability to climb out of pitfalls. Health is not a measure of one’s ability to avoid illness, but of one’s ability to manage the given stresses of life. My ideas are often contradictory, and I allow that for the purpose of learning. Critics are quick to identify when someone contradicts themselves, as if it indicates a lack of true commitment to or definition of one’s ideals. I, on the other hand, strive to create a safe environment for my thoughts to move freely. This site will be my playground.

PS. Maybe the above theory about laughter and role models is crap. I watched that link again expecting to poke fun at my boyfriend for his obsession with watching that reporter receive whiplash and ended up laughing myself into shame. I hate disproving my own ideas.

This rant was not what I picked my laptop back up for. Balls.

Being Bipolar

Bipolar is one of those psychological disorders (by ‘one’ I mean all of them) that is often misunderstood. Here is my attempt at explaining it based on my current mixed manic-depressive mood. Subject (and almost guaranteed) to change (see actual definition of bipolar).
Bipolar is an experience where each manic phase comes with an epiphany that is followed by a low that makes you realize how dumb your epiphany was. Wash, rince, repeat. Then years of diary entries later testify that you’ve rediscovered the same answers to the same problems countless times throughout your life. Like 50 first dates, except in this case you don’t get to forget the terrible thing that happened, you repeat it at every crossroad, doomed to forever re-experience the same cyclical torture. Like marriage. Yeah. Being bipolar is sort of like being in a bad marriage. Without the sex. Apparently you can take pills for that too. Sex I mean.

Doubt

This was a film deserving of its nominations. While the obvious preoccupation with this movie would be deciding whether the priest did indeed commit the undeclared acts suggested of him or not, I avoided that debate, since it was never satisfactorily stated. Big surprise. Instead, I appreciated the subtleties of the filming, like how slight tilts of the camera angle at certain moments in the plot added to the suspicion, and the greater lessons suggested.
The plot itself was brilliantly set up. There was a fair balance between the two rivaling characters, giving them equal ground to walk on, negative and positive aspects. As the viewers we did feel the pull either way, making the doubt most realistic.
The accuser, the principal of a religious school based in 1964 in New York (before the mess with the Catholic Church was going on), is an intolerant leader who expects her students and others in the Parish to follow the guidelines strictly. She is constantly correcting the people around her and demands a way of perfection. The preacher however, is portrayed as a lenient father, who breaks the rules on occasion for simple pleasure: sugar in his tea, a smoke outside, drinking with his fellow priests. He teaches boys basketball and regards his students with respect, letting them ask questions that pertain to their immediate lives, giving them advice and modeling they need. When his relations with a particular child come into question, he is accused of making advances on him. He claims to be taking him under his wing to protect him. The boy is an outcast, bullied, isolated, abused by his home father, and black in a white school. However, the sister believes the boy to be a prime target for a wandering priest. Right off she suggests that she's seen it before, that her experience tells her the Father is trouble. Above all the rest of the suggestions made by the camera angles, the shots, the lack of information, hers is key. She saw everyday behaviors, possibly misdiagnosed behaviors that she came to conclusions about because of past experience. It only takes one to ruin it for the rest.
One accusation or case of sexual assault on someone thought to be the most trustworthy and holy of men spreads doubt like a brush fire through the church. Suddenly everyone is concerned about the behavior of religious leaders in relations with children. A touch on the shoulder becomes force, a place of confession becomes the right circumstances for a predator to strike.
In psychology we recognize the Power of Suggestion; we compensate for it in studies by using a placebo effect and go to great lengths to control it. It takes one scare and suddenly we have instances of discrimination: those of Japanese descent are forced into camps, the wrong words could put you on the Black list, "random" searches of persons thought to be Islamic or of Middle Eastern descent. Our history is built on the doubt that leads to the rights of innocent people being ignored.
We never get to learn if the Father accused in this movie was guilty. We are left guessing if he who breaks the rules once in a while is truly out to help those who need a role model, or is abusing his position. Is the strict principal filled with conviction that is based on no definite evidence only seeing what she expects to see? How can we ever really know the truth when the mob mentality holds the control with its chaos, when its better to be safe than sorry.

Inglorious Basterds (R)

Tarantino has done it again and with such a sick but satisfying humor that you can't help but walk away delightfully offended. His trademark setup of using conversation and dialogue to create the tension that would otherwise be overdone special effects in an action movie, has been taken to a new level. The dialogue is clever, often with philosophical underpinnings, but mostly brash, adding that necessary comedic element so indicative of his scripts.
If you're not used to his style, you may be rather confused at the hype since it seems to move along randomly, without any indication how it might all come together, and seems to twist and blatantly alter history. Just as Abrams went his own way with an alternate reality of Star Trek (minus the annoying hollywood abuse of Uhura as the tamed woman turned nurturer for our big hero), the story is a filmmaker's conception of how WWII might have gone; a sort of bizarre fairytale telling about various efforts coming together to put Hitler and his Nazi's in their place, a place where they are blindfolded, stripped naked, and piled together for any person who ever secretly dreamed of revenge to point and laugh at them (the terrorism reference should be familiar).
I appreciated the non-sugarcoated violence. Tarantino has no qualms about showing dismemberment or lingering on a shot of tearing flesh while portraying total indifference in the characters as though to mock our rolling stomachs. Ah the subtleties.
The movie itself is a wonderful experience for an American to hear such a mix of language in a way that appeals to our short attention spans. It is mostly subtitled, showing a rich diversity of French, German, English, American, and even Italian. And he left some room for humor in his subtitles as well, if you know to watch for it. Perhaps, almost equally delightful as the script was Christoph Waltz's performance as the villain Colonel Hans Landa, which he has already won an award for at the Cannes Film Festival in France. His character is a cunning, psychotic villain, a true hunter, capable of noticing minute details and steering his prey into a trap with finesse and delight. He is quite the similar in many respects to Brad Pitt's character, a deceptively stupid American in charge of the Basterds who speaks bluntly and without any attempt at fancy talk, but together they provide a balanced humor by contrasting one another's style.
I highly recommend this movie to anyone who appreciates a good film and dark humor. Just be prepared to go "WTF?"

Ciudad de Deus (City of God) (R)

I do not usually watch foreign films because the cultural differences are often too much for me to truly appreciate, but this one has me questioning the depth and quality of America's film industry in comparison. The scenes of violence and blood are vivid and realistic, as though it is more a documentary than scripted scenes. It is haunting when a child of no more than seven is crying from a shot to the foot as his life is being subject to an either or choice by another child holding a gun. Children pushed to limits you and I could never know, forced to fight and steal or die and be exploited.
The movie tells the story of a slum on the outskirts of Rio de Janeiro, a city known for its beauty and history. Gangs of adolescents run the streets through threat of violence while managing drug trade for income. Calling their lifestyles "hood" these boys rise and fall quickly, living until they are struck down by corrupt law enforcement, or assassinated by other gangs. Lives in poverty, where starving dogs roam the streets, where the youth must steal from passing vehicles for gas fuel.
The narrator, a boy witnessing the events of gang violence and drug trade take place in his neighborhood while pursuing his dream of being a photographer. His inside advantage to the crime that plagues his streets allows him opportunities to capture images he sells to a newspaper, eventually establishing himself as a photographer and the chance to earn an honest living.
If you can get pass reading the movie through subtitles, and still catch the subtleties of the films artistry, this movie is a beautiful insight into a hell most of us can never imagine.