Suzanne Schaffer

"You look so much like a girl in a movie I just watched," he said to me. He repeated it often enough during the week that I was curious as to what movie he was talking about. "Mystic Pizza," he replied when I asked him. "You look like Annabeth Gish." At nineteen I hadn't heard of Annabeth Gish nor had I heard of Mystic Pizza. Several years later I saw it in a video rental store and read about it. I didn't rent it because it was R-rated and I knew I didn't need to see it. I did see it edited for television some time later. And was appalled. This man, this pastor, thought I looked like this actress. Fine. In a movie with a questionable rating. Meh. Playing the part of a girl who has an affair with a married man. Not fine. This is the first time I remember being disillusioned. I wondered why this was an acceptable form of entertainment for this married man, this pastor, this leader. And why he felt the need to tell me. Repeat

I knew enough to know I didn't want to be there. My husband and I spent some time in Florida recently and took a drive down Route 1. We saw a myriad of red and blue flashing lights ahead of us as traffic slowed. We were stopped in a line of traffic as we craned our necks trying to catch a glimpse. Traffic started moving so we resigned ourselves to not knowing. Until a car marked Sheriff drove towards us and then pulled across in front of us and parked. A uniformed officer climbed out and readied an assault rifle, pointing it towards a parking lot on the other side of the street. A parking lot next to the beach. I just wanted to see the beach. Maybe catch a glimpse of a dolphin slicing through the water. Maybe see a sailboat pass.  Instead I witnessed numerous cars and officers doing the same as our new friend.  I am not an assault rifle girl. I'm a nail polish and cotton candy girl. As I watched the scene unfold I did what any girl-who-shouldn't-be-there would