Orcas are always bigger in real life than I expect them to be. They are technically dolphins, not whales, so my brain always thinks of them as large-dolphin-size. And then I see them again in real life and remember that they are actually small-whale-size. Photos don’t really do them justice.

This was a belated birthday trip for Elizabeth, who turned 15 about three weeks ago. My little (hah, she’s taller than me) adrenaline junkie wanted to check out the new roller coaster, Manta. When we saw it in person Manta looked disappointingly tame — no loop-de-loops or steep drops or gimmicks, just a nice swoopy coaster. It’s unexpectedly fun to ride, though, we did it twice yesterday and loved it. (Actually there is a gimmick, but you don’t see it until the ride begins.)

The older coaster, “Journey to Atlantis,” is still the reigning favorite. Elizabeth’s bff Emma rode it once, Luke and I rode it twice and Elizabeth braved the chilly weather and splashy soakiness to ride it three times.

I love the Atlantis-themed aquariums in and around that ride. Really beautiful designs.

They’ve added a few new rides besides Manta since the last time we were there.

There’s also a new sea-turtle exhibit over by the Shark Encounter.

Sea turtles know how to boogie.

Can’t remember which aquarium this guy was in. He seemed to enjoy looking out as much as we enjoyed looking in.

I don’t know what these are, but I like them!

Petting the mantas.

Why do they call these sea lions? They look and sound like dogs…all they need is little corgi legs.

April in San Diego is gorgeous. Everything is in bloom.

Obligatory “smile big” pic. Can’t believe how tall Luke is getting.

That’s probably enough for one post. Happy Birthday, sweet girl. You make me so proud.

Addendum: A Sea World rep has asked if I would include a link to the park in this post. I don’t really do advertising on my blog, but I see no harm in this case — Sea World is pretty awesome and we love it.

So here is where you can check out the park’s attractions and visiting info.

(I have no affiliation with Sea World and I’m not being paid to add the link, it just seems like a good cause.)

In my defense, I’ve been a bit distracted. Let’s look at the scorecard, shall we?

In 2012 I wrote the complete outline and about 90% of the first draft of what I hope will become my first published novel. It’s going to be amazing once it’s polished up.

In 2012 I lost a cherished friend of 24 years. That was…difficult.

In 2012 I finally realized that trying to keep the peace by endlessly accommodating my ex-husband’s escalating demands was not only futile, but actively counterproductive. It only made him see me as weak, an easy target for bullying. 2012 was the year I stood my ground.

In 2012 hate and violence were brought to my doorstep, presumably to teach me a lesson about standing my ground. If that was their intention, it backfired.

In 2012 I realized there’s not much that scares me anymore.

In 2012 some other important things happened that I’m either not comfortable talking about on my blog, or that I’m not at liberty to post here.

So you can see why it almost slipped past me unnoticed, this small but significant accomplishment.

But yesterday it hit me: I am now a paid writer. It’s not the way I’d always planned, and one unfortunate tradeoff is that my novel has been moved to a back burner as I write informative articles, product descriptions, how-to guides and so on. But people are giving me money to conjure words in my head and write them down, and that is momentous. I can now officially call myself a writer, and not feel like a fraud. I am paying bills with money that I earned writing down words. People, that is one big fat checkmark on my shortlist of life goals.

So farewell, 2012. You were not always kind nor gentle, but I have emerged from your flames a stronger, braver and wiser person. And I have emerged A Writer. For real.

Happy New Year, everyone. Here’s hoping 2013 brings us all a few more granted wishes and a little less of the other stuff.

The scorching heat kept the crowds away, so we didn’t have to stand in a single line all day. We pretty much had the place to ourselves.

Elizabeth was the only one of us with the intestinal fortitude to ride Fireball.

…Twice in a row.

They’ve added a water park since the last time I was at the Castle, and that’s where all the people were. Next time we’ll bring bathing suits and spend more time splashing around.

I was a little disappointed to see that the actual Castle building itself has suffered a decline in artsy ambience. The upstairs is closed off now; when I asked an employee she said it had been converted to offices. And the awesome old medieval decor downstairs was traded in at some point for just cramming as many arcade games into every square inch as could possibly fit. There were still air hockey and skeeball though (and air conditioning!) so we did spend a little time inside.

But where Castle Park really shines is in its miniature golf courses.

Sadly my favorite course was closed yesterday, but the one we played was almost as fun.

Confession: I’m not the world’s biggest fan of youngsters in general. But I love hanging out with these three in particular. They’re smart and funny and fun and nice.

Elizabeth’s favorite ride was the flying saucer. I didn’t think to get a pic of it because it doesn’t look like much from the outside. Riders walk into a UFO-shaped structure and stand against padded walls. There are no restraints, and none are needed. The saucer starts to spin, faster and faster, and centrifugal force makes the padded sections of wall slide up, with the people pressed flat against them so their feet leave the floor. I’ve ridden it before but I didn’t yesterday, because my 43-year-old stomach can’t handle the spinny rides the way it used to. Emma and I waited outside while Luke and Elizabeth tried it for the first time. We both marveled at how fast it was spinning. “It looks like one of those…what are they called?” I asked Emma.

“Those things they use to train astronauts for zero G?”

“No, the tiny things that scientists use in labs.”

“A centrifuge?”

“That’s it! How do those things work, anyway?”

Emma gave me a tidy little discourse on how and why a centrifuge can separate blood cells from plasma and so on. It was awesome. Even the ride operator was listening in. When Luke and Elizabeth stumbled out of the UFO we asked them if their blood cells were all separated from their plasma now. They said it was entirely possible. And for the rest of the day Elizabeth couldn’t stop talking about how amazing and mysterious centrifugal force is. And the thing is, I know very few adults with whom I can have those kinds of conversations and make those kinds of jokes. I do know a few, and treasure their friendship with all my heart, but why aren’t there more grownups who manage to bring their wonder and whimsy and uncomplicated enjoyment of life with them into adulthood?

Anyway, we had a ridiculous amount of fun yesterday. Happy almost-birthday, Luke! You’re one of the coolest kids I know, and I love you like crazy.

The Temecula Library (the big new on on Pauba Rd, not the little old one on Ynez) has a wonderful children’s area, but Luke has mostly exhausted its nonfiction section in his ceaseless quest for knowledge. Yesterday I introduced him to the Adult Nonfiction section, which he vanished into with great enthusiasm while I plugged my flash drive into a library computer and worked on my book. Sunday is usually a no-computer day in our family, but Luke rarely gets to go to the Temec library during the school year, and working on my book allowed me to let him stay longer than I otherwise would have had patience for. By the same token I allowed Elizabeth to bring her laptop and enjoy the library’s free wi-fi at connection speeds that are orders of magnitude faster than anything she can get at home. Like drinking from a garden hose when you’re used to sucking on a straw.

Luke had won two free movie passes in a school raffle, so our next destination was the Edward Cinema at the Promenade. Our plan was to confirm showtimes and to secure three tickets for The Avengers and then go get some lunch, but holy crap, everyone in the world was apparently taking their mom to the movies yesterday. Several screenings of The Avengers were already sold out, including the one we wanted. No problem. We got tickets for a showtime that was two and a half hours later and not in 3D, and then traded one throng for another at Souplantation. I was beginning to remember why I don’t normally venture out into civilization on Mother’s Day.

Lunch was nice though. Souplantation is my favorite place for a casual meal out, especially if the kids are with me. After that we still had lots of time to kill, so we did some grocery shopping at Sprouts (I had our cooler and ice packs in the trunk) and then we decided to wander the mall for a while. We headed back to find a spot in the parking garage nearest the theater.

In the past the kids have asked about what the top of a parking garage looks like, and yesterday seemed like the perfect time to find out. We drove all the way up to the roof level, which is apparently where all the vanpools and such park out of the way, and walked around the edges to look at the mall from a new angle. From up there we saw the Apple Store, and that reminded me that I’ve been wanting to talk to a Mac expert about a tech issue, so we headed in that direction next.

The kids scampered into the Apple Store like cats into a catnip garden, and I found the nearest Mac Guy and explained what I wanted to know. He spent at least fifteen or twenty minutes earnestly and thoroughly answering my questions, delightfully mixing in the sort of friendly conversation that not enough men bother with these days, and then said he would like to see me again, and if he’d been just a little older I would have taken him up on it. My ex-marriage seems to have flatlined my capacity to take chances on younger men. Even so, being flirted with by a charming male is an undeniable mood-booster, and I left the Apple store feeling positively exuberant.

It seemed to be a day for trying things we’d never had time for before, so Elizabeth said she’d like to check out the view from the veranda above the fountain courtyard between the cinema and the main structure of the mall, and so we did. By then it was a little over half an hour before the movie was due to start, and we wanted to get there early to be sure we got good seats, so we headed down.

Yeah. Apparently years of catching Tuesday morning matinees had left us unprepared for certain modern realities. The theater was freaking packed, and the ONLY place we found three seats together was up in the nosebleed section, unless you count the area directly in front of the screen where you’re looking up the actors’ pant legs. Nosebleed section it was. Luckily it’s a stadium cinema, so we didn’t have any trouble seeing the action.

Even if I hadn’t already known that “The Avengers” was a Joss Whedon project, I would have realized it fairly early on. Joss’ fingerprints are all over this movie, from the clever dialog and the constant little unexpected twists to the painfully detailed fight scenes and the wonderful combination of the familiar and the bizarrely original. This was a terrific movie.

On the way home I remembered that I hadn’t checked the mail Saturday, so I stopped at our mailbox and discovered that my oldest friend hand sent me a beautiful handmade Mother’s Day card, in which she’d written a lovely small poem describing a mother’s comforting whispers and lullabies as the music that soothes the world’s ills. I spent the rest of the drive home contemplating the incalculable worth of old friends and poetry and beauty and life in general.

It was after 11pm when we got to bed, unheard of on a school night for us. Totally worth it. I think this was the most enjoyable Mother’s Day I’ve ever spent.

TL;DR: Go see The Avengers.

I had to put Stormy down yesterday. The vet’s best guess was a twisted gut, or possibly an intestinal stone, though only an autopsy could say for sure. But she was in horrific pain, and any possible treatment would have involved surgery. Due to Stormy’s advanced age (not to mention my lack of money) that wasn’t a realistic option.

I’ve written before about what Stormy meant to me. She’s been a cherished companion for more than half my life.

**************************************************

In the two years since I wrote the “Love Remembers” post, Elizabeth has taken a new interest in riding and she and Stormy have shared many a sunny day out on the trails together.

**************************************************

For 24 years Stormy illuminated my life in one way or another, from the fiery but loyal skyrocket of her youth to the warm and steady candle that cared for my children with such attentive devotion.

I do not know what happens to the souls of horses when their bodies fail. I am irrationally comforted by the dream Elizabeth had last night and described to me this morning, in which she saw Stormy walking peacefully in the paddock past her own lifeless body.

Sweet travels, my dear old friend. You will never be forgotten.

It all started when Elizabeth accidentally left a charger at her dad’s house, and found herself with no way to awaken her comatose laptop for a few days.  Like most of us, Elizabeth is brilliant in some ways and clueless in others, and the desperation of being computerless led to…well, some poor choices.  She was cranky and difficult and just when I was ready to sell her to the gypsies it was discovered that one of her poorer choices was attempting to use the power adapter from the expensive Yamaha keyboard Luke got for Christmas to charge her laptop.  Clearly electronics is one of her “clueless” areas.  Anyway, this killed the adapter.  So now we had TWO nonfunctioning devices.

There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth over Luke’s blown-out adapter, and I was rattling off punishments and whatnot, and then it occurred to me that she’s not a toddler anymore and can actually fix these sorts of problems herself.  We went to Amazon.com, found a replacement adapter for about $13, she handed me the money from her savings without complaint, and the three of us considered the matter settled.  Yay for kids growing up and becoming responsible for the consequences of their poor choices.

Except!  You can’t just make a $13 order on Amazon.  I mean, you can, but then you don’t get free shipping, and who wants to pay for shipping if they don’t have to?  Besides, I had $42 worth of reward points from my Amazon Chase card on my account, just sitting there waiting to be spent.

My Chase card is a source of moral conflict for me.  I mean, Chase is evil, everyone knows that.  I know I should close my account with them.  But points!  Free stuff!   Delicious points worth yummy free stuff!  So, I keep my Chase card, and use if for everything I buy, and continue to feel morally conflicted about it.  Life is complicated.

So anyway, I ended up getting a car charger for my cell, which I’d been needing for a while now, but it wasn’t eligible for free shipping, so I had to keep shopping, and I ended up buying a pair of jeans.  I’d never done that online before because you never know how they’re going to fit, but these looked really cute so I took a chance.  I had to choose between “long” and “short,” so I picked “long” because lately I’ve been wearing shoes with higher heels when I’m out in public, and some of my jeans are too short to look right with heels.

When the jeans arrived I was thrilled with how well they fit and how cute they look, but — the legs were very much too long.  Luckily, thanks to Elizabeth’s interest in sewing, I thought nothing of sitting down and hemming them to the perfect length.  I even had the right color of gold thread that Levi’s uses, so it doesn’t look like a homemade job.

Which brings us back to my Facebook update: “I must remember to thank Elizabeth for getting me back into sewing.”

It’s just not the same without the details.

The problem is that if, in spite of all of their efforts to finish you off, you manage to claw your way back to your feet and move on with your life, they expect you to pretend that none of it ever happened. They get morally outraged if you view their friendliness with a certain healthy skepticism after that.

Look, I’m happy to consider the possibility that the next time I stumble, you won’t close right back in for the kill. I would like to think that you might actually be in the other group next time, the one speaking words of encouragement and support as I struggle back to my feet. But it would be foolish of me to assume that you won’t use my vulnerability against me. I mean, you’ve already demonstrated that you probably will.

If it’s my trust you want, I’m sure there will be ample future opportunities for you to earn it back. Until then, you’ll just have to get along without it. Sorry, but that’s just how reality works.

Thanks for your time.

Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V
Part VI

** ** **

The easy answer is to proclaim that woman’s mission in life is to be a mother. Most women want to be mothers, but they were also trained for many other professions. Is is possible to be a good chemist and a good mother? Can a mother be in two places at the same time? What about the needs of the children? And what about the country’s need for talent of all kinds? If women were intended by nature to be mothers, why does nature also endow them with intellectual gifts equal to those of the men? And what right have men to ask their mates to deny their talents and devote themselves to housekeeping?

Some people have suggested that a woman should get a full education, then marry, raise her children, and after about ten years, go back to her career. The children would then be taken care of by some member of the family, or a maid. The chances of resuming her career after ten years, however, are not very good.

Perhaps the husbands of such women should stay home and raise the children. The husband as breadwinner is only a convention based on the assumption that he is the stronger of the two. In this age of technology we don’t need strong people; we need skilled people.

Perhaps there should be all-day schools that would take care of the children from 7am to 6pm.

Perhaps women should postpone going to college until after their children are old enough to be looked after by others.

Perhaps those college girls who feel very intensely about a life devoted to science or the arts should be encouraged not to get married at all.

At any rate, we have worked ourselves into a situation we did not anticipate when we proclaimed liberty and justice for all and built an educational system to promote it. Perhaps we did not truly believe that woman could become the equal of man. Well, she is, and, in many instances, superior. Man had better find a just way of giving her her due.

There are many fine mothers who want to stay at home but are forced by economic necessity to neglect their children and go out to work. Society should subsidize these women adequately and keep them at home. We cannot have Papa on the night shift and Mama on the day shift, leaving kids to shift for themselves.

There are also many mothers who use work as an excuse to get away from the responsibilities of home. They rationalize themselves into a job that will provide the “luxuries” they claim the children need. Most children would rather have the mother at home than any “luxury.” A key to the house is not a substitute for the welcome of a mother at the door. Unwarranted mother absenteeism is an unhealthy condition in the house.I am not talking about leaving the children with Grandma or some other competent and devoted person while the parents grab a few hours or days together. I do refer to chronic neglect in so-called “rich” homes where children of educated parents are being raised by semiliterate strangers. It does not make sense for an intelligent mother, presumably aware of the emotional, aesthetic, spiritual and physical needs of children to turn hers over to the care of a housekeeper. One of the most revealing comments was made by a youngster who, when his mother said, “Don’t tell me what to do. I know how to bring up children,” replied, “You do? Were you once a maid, Mom?”

** ** **

It’s unfortunate that in the half-century since this book was published, we seem to be no closer to resolving these issues. In many ways we’ve lost ground: instead of working together for a mutually beneficial solution, resentment and hostility seem to be mounting on all sides.

One thing I do take exception to is Mr. Levenson’s question, “If women were intended by nature to be mothers, why does nature also endow them with intellectual gifts equal to those of the men?” Is he suggesting that parenting isn’t an intellectual pursuit? That intelligence and wisdom and knowledge are wasted resources in the upbringing of the next generation of humanity? I don’t think that’s true AT ALL. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Another thing I’d like to add is that the father can make or break a mother’s sense of fulfillment and contentment in her role as homemaker. In my opinion, any man who gets his wife pregnant and then abandons her to her domestic fate while heedlessly continuing to enjoy freedom and recreation without her has earned himself a spot in the Special Hell. If both husband and wife aren’t ready to shift their priorities to accommodate the needs of children, then they should not become parents. Period. It’s not like the world is underpopulated, or needs more neglected children.

I could rant almost indefinitely on the subject, but this post is already too long. I’d enjoy hearing other people’s perspectives, though.

Part I
Part II
Part III
Part IV
Part V

** ** **

For the college graduate, male, the world today offers great opportunities. For the college graduate, female, there are almost equal opportunities, and more than equal agonies. The problem becomes more acute each year as more and more women attempt to combine careers with matrimony only to find out that the problems of home and children fall to her. What happens to the right to self-fulfillment, which is as much hers as her husband’s? She was promised the world. She is a free, thinking, educated, emancipated woman, with a message to deliver. She is different from her mother, whose world was limited to the home. She is at home in the arts, music, literature, science and philosophy. She is, in fact, at home everywhere but at home. At the age of twenty-one, holding a diploma full of career promises in one hand and a marriage license full of romantic promises in the other, she is carried over the threshold — into the kitchen. This is the true “commencement.”

For a year or two everything works out fine for the young couple. They are both working. He picks up the newspaper; she picks up the TV dinner. There are quick fun meals, rich desserts, much talk about their respective jobs, and much honeymooning. This is the college dream come true.

Then comes the baby, and with it the explosion of the equal-rights principle. Motherhood is the one career for which she has had virtually no training. While the possibility of such an eventuality was vaguely mentioned in college, it was just one of those remote bridges to be crossed if and when she got to it.

She is now trapped at home. He is out in the free world. She becomes jealous of his freedom. He comes home at 6pm to greet this prematurely old young lady, her dark hair highlighted with farina sprinkles, a strong-smelling kid on her arm, and anything but a Mona Lisa smile on her lips. She thinks, four years in college for this? He takes one look at her and he thinks, Oh, boy. What I married! and politely kisses her between the smudges. If she can afford full-time help she becomes jealous of the child’s natural affection for the mother-substitute. The child, naturally, has learned to love the hand that feeds it. The mother is afraid of losing the love of her child. She wants to be a mother. She also wants to have a career. Grandma had a saying about this dichotomy: “You can’t sit at two weddings with one fanny.”

Her job is more difficult than her husband’s. He has the greatest “out” in the world. He is making a living for the family. He can leave the scene of the crime every morning with the approval of the whole world. She cannot. She would trade places with him gladly, but she makes a noble attempt at homemaking, a career which, she hopes, will eventually provide the same satisfactions as the chemistry laboratory.

She gets down to the business of being an “enlightened” mother, of fulfilling the multiple roles expected of her: wife, mistress, and delightful companion in the evening: and, with the rising sun, chauffeur, shopper, interior decorator, crabgrass puller, den mother, PTA-er, bazaar chairlady. She appears to herself as a cubist painting of a mother and child: two heads, four eyes, three ears, four bosoms, one baby, mandolins, pots, pans, microscopes, diplomas and the death mask of a college girl.

Meanwhile, back at the lab, there’s her husband, the all-American boy, whose unmarried secretary looks like his wife used to. She’s pretty and young and calm. No kid has vomited onto her typewriter, and she has the freedom, time and availability that his wife has sacrificed — in the service of his home.

The frightened wife picks up the challenge. She’s got to look and behave like a seductive secretary. She colors her hair, lowers her neckline, heightens her heels, shortens her dresses, lengthens her eyelashes to re-entice her husband, whose sense is coming out with his hair. He thinks he has remained handsome, irresistible, the eternal Don Juan. The wife knows he’s behaving like an idiot, but she mercifully keeps the news from him.

The conflict in the mind and heart of the college-educated married woman is only one more aspect of the problem of individual fulfillment of one’s greatest gifts. To deny selfhood to a woman because she is married and a mother leads to profound unhappiness, a nagging sense of “might have been,” and too often a resentment against the husband and children who lured her away from her true mission in life. The tortuous division of loyalties inflicted upon this woman by our ambiguous promises of equality of opportunity for both sexes leads many women to the psychiatrist.

** ** **

More on this subject tomorrow.

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

Quick note: When this book was written, the polite term for a black person was “Negro.” That word has become politically incorrect, even offensive, but in context it’s obvious that the author meant it respectfully. Hopefully it will be accepted here in the spirit in which it was used, and give no offense.

** ** **

The founding fathers said: “All men are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights.”

Christianity says: “The Lord make you to increase and abound in love toward one another and toward all men.”

Judaism says, “What thou thyself hatest, do to no man.”

Confucianism says, “What you do not want done to yourself, do not do unto others.”

Islam says, “Help one another in righteousness and piety.”

How, against this background of lofty principles to which all men pretend to subscribe, do we explain to our children the petty hatreds, slurs, restrictions and humiliations inflicted upon those singled out as “undesirables” by self-appointed “desirables?”

Of all obstacles to a human being’s growth to full stature prejudice is the worst. It destroys more individuals than war. It is hereditary, not in the blood stream, but in the stream of conversation within the home. Out of the mouths of babes come adult slanders, repeated word for word.

How do you go about explaining to your child the meaning of words like spick, dago, wop, sheen, kike, nigger, hunk, polack, shanty, mockie, hebe, chink, coon, greaser? You might refer him to some glossary where he will get nice, sterile definitions with all the pain removed, or you might refer him to a living victim with all the pain still in him.

What a horror it must be for a child to discover that his skin is the wrong color. How can he liberate himself from the despised skin? Of all disadvantages, this, the terrible disadvantage of color, was the one my brothers and I did not have to overcome. A child learns early in life that color hatred is not just skin deep. It goes clear through to the marrow of his self-esteem. Hate my skin, hate me. Often he comes to accept his oppressor’s judgement and ends up hating himself and his group. What an iniquity in a civilized world to burden a newborn child with the hatred of ages.

Society has no right to mislead any child by promising him rewards for good conduct which it will not deliver. If he is treated like the experimental guinea pig in the maze he will behave like the guinea pig. A reward, usually a piece of cheese, is placed at the end of the tricky passageway. The guinea pig will make hundreds of learning attempts until he finally finds the right road to the reward. However, if after he has succeeded in learning the right road, you remove the cheese, even a guinea pig can have a nervous breakdown or become violent. The child who makes every effort to learn the “right way,” who strains to achieve the reward only to find it cynically withdrawn at the last moment, will break down. If we offer a reward for virtue we must offer it without consideration of skin color, language or religion, or we will reap the reward of violence.

This aberration called prejudice is an ancient malady and no one is completely immune to it. Even those most often victimized by prejudice may nurture prejudices of their own, perpetuating the vicious cycle of unreasoning, sick hate: white against black, black against white, nation against nation, neighborhood against neighborhood, man against man.

…The violated minority can appeal for justice but the final solution of the problem will have to come from the oppressor. Basically, anti-Semitism is a Christian problem. The Negro problem must finally be solved by the white man. After all, who done it?

Shedding a prejudice is an agonizing experience. An illogical hatred nourished for hundreds of years for whatever reason — religious, economic, or political — finally becomes a mass mental disease. The white people of this country are predominately favorable to the Negro’s demands for equality, yet many cannot shed their prejudice. When they say “The Negro is not ready yet,” what they mean is “I am not ready yet.”

It will take longer to unravel the knots of hatred in the white man than it will to achieve equality for the Negro. I have heard white men of good will say, “I don’t want to hate him. I hate myself for hating him. I don’t know why I hate him.” One woman’s deep-rooted fear of the Negro came to this: “Who is she to hate me? I am somebody. When she becomes somebody I will be nobody. If she moves next door we all become nobody. We can’t all be somebody.”

I am concerned here primarily with the effect of prejudice on the chances of the newborn babe delivering his message to the world. What are the odds for a kid born with the unpopular skin of the century? How can we afford the possible loss of this child’s talents, one of which may lead to a cure for cancer, or perhaps even a cure for the greatest killer of them all — prejudice? What might happen to the world if for one generation we did not teach our children to hate?