During my early twenties, I fell in like with a cute mechanic who had the energy of a tornado and was one of the happiest fellows I've ever known. He worked for a car dealership and specialized in that make of car, which made him a highly prized employee. At his slightly dilapidated house, he had a detached garage where he earned extra money working on people's cars. Rolando could also cook! I made the decision to move in with him when my own digs became unlivable due to the fact that my roommate was insane and was bringing home all sorts of trashy men who wandered aimlessly at all hours of the night. I would wake up and find a complete stranger staring down at me.
We were nowhere near the moving in stage of a relationship (and probably never would have been, given our very different backgrounds) but Rolando was not okay with leaving me in danger. He insisted that I get out of there and cheerfully helped me pack and move my belongings. Rolando had a heart the size of Texas, so he was welcoming and sweet.
Larry was one of his closest friends and was even more blue collar than Rolando. He and his wife, Faye, lived in a trailer park. We socialized with them on a regular basis. About once a week, we went to their home for dinner or they came to ours. Larry was a traditional blue collar man, had not finished high school and had very firm ideas about a woman's role in marriage and in the world. He was respectful to me, but I often felt like he wanted to haul off and belt me one for my sassy mouth. .
Faye was also a high school drop-out. She was extremely meek, rarely spoke if Larry was in the room and smiled only after giving a quick glance in Larry's direction to gauge whether it was appropriate. My heart ached for her. I was sure that he beat her, although I had no evidence of that. In one of the very rare moments when she and I were alone, she confided in me that they had been married five years and she had survived four miscarriages. I asked her what the doctors had said about it and she just looked nervous and shook her head. I didn't push. She had other medical issues too, which made her frail. When I found out that she was younger than me, I was shocked. She looked about fifteen years older!
One day, when Rolando and I were discussing having them over for dinner, I accidentally referred to them as "Fairy & Lay". We giggled and Rolando admonished me not to say that in front of Larry. But of course I talked about it when we were all together - and referred to them by the new moniker. I laughed about it as the silly mistake that it was. But Larry was not amused. His face got beet red and he screamed at me, "STOP SAYING THAT!" Everyone got very quiet. Rolando said, "Hey, now," in his sweet voice. Then Larry went outside. Faye sat at the table, frozen. "I'm sorry," I whispered, "Rolando told me not to say anything and I didn't listen." Rolando got up and went outside too.
We were finished with dinner, so I started clearing the table and Faye got up to help me. As we stood in the lopsided kitchen washing dishes, Faye said, "When he was little, the other boys teased him because he liked to draw. They called him a girl." I suddenly understood why "Fairy & Lay" might be horribly offensive, rather than just a slip of the tongue. I also had a sudden acute awareness that my outspoken nature, while being a natural outcome of being raised by well-educated, liberal adults who encouraged debate, might be painful to someone who had been bullied as a child. What I had thought of as light banter probably sounded like barbed attacks to Larry. He was not equipped to handle a quick-witted debate and I had been abusive to engage with him that way.
That denouement was a hard one for me. In my mind, HE had been the abusive one and Faye was the probable victim. Now I had to confront the realization that I was, in fact, the abuser. Ouch. I dried my hands on a towel and went outside. Larry and Rolando were sitting on lawn chairs, beer cans in hand, watching the sun set over the meadow behind Rolando's house. I walked over to them. They both looked at me. "I'm sorry I upset you, Larry. I was being silly and I should have just shut up." He said, "Yeah, you should have." I waited, but realized I wasn't going to get anything else. That was just his way.
I would like to say that this incident marked the end of my tendency to engage in debates with a razor sharp edge to my words. Alas, I am still that woman. I manage to keep my mouth shut more than I open it, but anyone who knows me knows I have not kicked the habit completely. On my better days, I can awaken a spirit of loving kindness to guide my words and maintain civility. When I manage it, I am always hopeful that the more bitter me has been put away forever.
Rolando used to say to me, "pass the sugar, please," when I was being a little sharp-tongued. It was his way of gently telling me to change course. And it always worked. Sometimes I say it to myself when I feel myself getting worked up over something. I'm not as good at it as Rolando was, but I'm a fairly good imitation.
Sunday, December 9, 2012
Thursday, November 29, 2012
amahl and the night visitors
As a child, I was required to sit and listen to the Metropolitan Opera (sponsored by Texaco) on the radio every Saturday afternoon. Mother would allow us to read, play quiet games, draw or even lie still with our eyes closed, but we had to be in the living room for the whole opera. Mother did her best to make it exciting. Before the opera began, she would explain the story to us, sing a little of the music for key scenes so we would recognize what was happening when we heard it. She would also tell us a little about the composer and the musicians scheduled to perform that day.
I complained bitterly, of course. No other form of torture was quite as exquisite as the opera torture. I would whine and beg in my most theatrical voice and drag myself into the room on zombie legs, rolling my eyes and sighing heavily. Mother ignored my mini-operatic antics, determined to infuse us with some culture.
Years later, Mother would confess to me that she had originally dreamed of becoming an opera singer when she was a young girl. Her voice was a choir voice, not an opera voice, so she lived her dream vicariously through Joan Sutherland, Leontyne Price, Marilyn Horne and Jessye Norman.
My first exposure to Amahl and the Night Visitors was during this time, although I have no clear memory of listening to it on the radio. Mother had a record of the opera and we listened to it during the Christmas season every year that I can remember. And now I listen to it every year, because I have come to love the story so much. Amahl and I are old friends!
Here is a synopsis of the story:
Amahl, a disabled boy who can walk only with a crutch, has a problem with telling tall tales and, occasionally, lying. He is sitting outside playing his shepherd's pipe when his mother calls for him (Amahl! Amahl!). After much persuasion, he enters the house but his mother does not believe him when he tells her there is an amazing star "as big as a window" outside over their roof (O Mother You Should Go Outside; Stop Bothering Me!).
Later that night, Amahl's mother weeps, praying that Amahl not become a beggar (Don't Cry Mother Dear). After bedtime (From Far Away We Come), there is a knock at the door and the mother tells Amahl to go see who it is (Amahl ... Yes Mother!). He is amazed when he sees three splendidly dressed kings (the Magi). They tell the mother and Amahl they are on a long journey to give gifts to a wondrous child and they would like to rest at their house, to which the mother agrees (Good Evening!; Come In!). The mother goes to fetch firewood, and Amahl seizes the opportunity to speak with the kings.
King Balthazar answers Amahl's questions about his life as a king and asks what Amahl does. Amahl responds that he was once a shepherd, but his mother had to sell his sheep. Now, he and his mother will have to go begging. Amahl then talks with King Kaspar, who is childlike, eccentric, and a bit deaf. Kaspar shows Amahl his box of magic stones, beads, and licorice, and offers Amahl some of the candy (Are You A Real King?; This is My Box). The mother returns (Amahl, I Told You Not To Be A Nuisance!). Amahl is told to go fetch the neighbors (All These Beautiful Things; Have You Seen a Child?) so the kings may be fed and entertained properly (Shepherds! Shepherds!; Emily! Emily; Olives and Quinces; Dance of the Shepherds).
After the neighbors have left and the kings are resting, the mother attempts to steal for her son some of the kings' gold that was meant for the Christ child (All That Gold). She is thwarted by the kings' page. When Amahl wakes to find the page grabbing his mother, he attacks him. Seeing Amahl's weak defense of his mother and understanding the motives for the attempted theft, King Melchior says she may keep the gold as the Holy Child will not need earthly power or wealth to build his kingdom. The mother says she has waited all her life for such a king and asks the kings to take back the gold. She wishes to send a gift but has nothing to send. Amahl, too, has nothing to give the Child except his crutch. When he offers it to the kings, his leg is miraculously healed. With permission from his mother, he leaves with the kings to see the child and give his crutch in thanks for being healed.
The scene in which Amahl leaves with the kings (to go see the baby Jesus) is particularly poignant. It didn't stand out for me when I was a child. But now that I have a son of my own, I feel Amahl's departure in my very soul.
Mother: "Don't forget to wear your hat!"
Son: "I shall always wear my hat."
together: "So, my darling goodbye! I shall miss you very much."
Mother: "Wash your ears."
Son: "Yes, I promise."
Mother: "Don't tell lies."
Son: "No, I promise."
together: "I shall miss you very much."
Son: "Feed my bird."
Mother: "Yes, I promise."
Son: "Watch the cat."
Mother: "Yes I promise."
together: "I shall miss you very much."
I cry every time I hear this part. I know the pain of the mother, letting her child go. And I know the pain of saying good-bye to your mother. But then I imagine Amahl traveling to Bethlehem to visit the Christ child. I picture him standing in the stable, just behind the three kings, waiting for his turn to approach the baby. I imagine his eyes widening as he looks at Jesus for the first time, recognizing the awesome gift sent by God.
Every Christmas season, I look for Amahl in every nativity scene on display. He isn't always there. Sometimes there are no shepherds. Sometimes the shepherds are all grown men. But when I see a young shepherd boy, I always think, there you are, Amahl, my old friend! Am I not blessed to have such a friend?
I complained bitterly, of course. No other form of torture was quite as exquisite as the opera torture. I would whine and beg in my most theatrical voice and drag myself into the room on zombie legs, rolling my eyes and sighing heavily. Mother ignored my mini-operatic antics, determined to infuse us with some culture.
Years later, Mother would confess to me that she had originally dreamed of becoming an opera singer when she was a young girl. Her voice was a choir voice, not an opera voice, so she lived her dream vicariously through Joan Sutherland, Leontyne Price, Marilyn Horne and Jessye Norman.
My first exposure to Amahl and the Night Visitors was during this time, although I have no clear memory of listening to it on the radio. Mother had a record of the opera and we listened to it during the Christmas season every year that I can remember. And now I listen to it every year, because I have come to love the story so much. Amahl and I are old friends!Here is a synopsis of the story:
Amahl, a disabled boy who can walk only with a crutch, has a problem with telling tall tales and, occasionally, lying. He is sitting outside playing his shepherd's pipe when his mother calls for him (Amahl! Amahl!). After much persuasion, he enters the house but his mother does not believe him when he tells her there is an amazing star "as big as a window" outside over their roof (O Mother You Should Go Outside; Stop Bothering Me!).
Later that night, Amahl's mother weeps, praying that Amahl not become a beggar (Don't Cry Mother Dear). After bedtime (From Far Away We Come), there is a knock at the door and the mother tells Amahl to go see who it is (Amahl ... Yes Mother!). He is amazed when he sees three splendidly dressed kings (the Magi). They tell the mother and Amahl they are on a long journey to give gifts to a wondrous child and they would like to rest at their house, to which the mother agrees (Good Evening!; Come In!). The mother goes to fetch firewood, and Amahl seizes the opportunity to speak with the kings.
King Balthazar answers Amahl's questions about his life as a king and asks what Amahl does. Amahl responds that he was once a shepherd, but his mother had to sell his sheep. Now, he and his mother will have to go begging. Amahl then talks with King Kaspar, who is childlike, eccentric, and a bit deaf. Kaspar shows Amahl his box of magic stones, beads, and licorice, and offers Amahl some of the candy (Are You A Real King?; This is My Box). The mother returns (Amahl, I Told You Not To Be A Nuisance!). Amahl is told to go fetch the neighbors (All These Beautiful Things; Have You Seen a Child?) so the kings may be fed and entertained properly (Shepherds! Shepherds!; Emily! Emily; Olives and Quinces; Dance of the Shepherds).
After the neighbors have left and the kings are resting, the mother attempts to steal for her son some of the kings' gold that was meant for the Christ child (All That Gold). She is thwarted by the kings' page. When Amahl wakes to find the page grabbing his mother, he attacks him. Seeing Amahl's weak defense of his mother and understanding the motives for the attempted theft, King Melchior says she may keep the gold as the Holy Child will not need earthly power or wealth to build his kingdom. The mother says she has waited all her life for such a king and asks the kings to take back the gold. She wishes to send a gift but has nothing to send. Amahl, too, has nothing to give the Child except his crutch. When he offers it to the kings, his leg is miraculously healed. With permission from his mother, he leaves with the kings to see the child and give his crutch in thanks for being healed.
The scene in which Amahl leaves with the kings (to go see the baby Jesus) is particularly poignant. It didn't stand out for me when I was a child. But now that I have a son of my own, I feel Amahl's departure in my very soul.
Mother: "Don't forget to wear your hat!"
Son: "I shall always wear my hat."
together: "So, my darling goodbye! I shall miss you very much."
Mother: "Wash your ears."
Son: "Yes, I promise."
Mother: "Don't tell lies."
Son: "No, I promise."
together: "I shall miss you very much."
Son: "Feed my bird."
Mother: "Yes, I promise."
Son: "Watch the cat."
Mother: "Yes I promise."
together: "I shall miss you very much."
I cry every time I hear this part. I know the pain of the mother, letting her child go. And I know the pain of saying good-bye to your mother. But then I imagine Amahl traveling to Bethlehem to visit the Christ child. I picture him standing in the stable, just behind the three kings, waiting for his turn to approach the baby. I imagine his eyes widening as he looks at Jesus for the first time, recognizing the awesome gift sent by God.
Every Christmas season, I look for Amahl in every nativity scene on display. He isn't always there. Sometimes there are no shepherds. Sometimes the shepherds are all grown men. But when I see a young shepherd boy, I always think, there you are, Amahl, my old friend! Am I not blessed to have such a friend?
Saturday, November 3, 2012
furry reading
My cat is CEO of a fur production
company, my ceiling fan is the distribution center and I am funding the entire
operation. It is safe to say that the only thing in the house that is enhanced
by the addition of cat hair is the cat. But still he soldiers on, eating his
kibble and growing more orange and white hairs, then shedding them so the fan
can do its work. I hate to admit it, but he’s stuck with this same job for
almost thirteen years. The longest I’ve ever done the same job is six years, so
I suppose I should show some respect.This morning I resolved to read a book. I haven’t been reading books lately. Instead I’ve been playing Bingo on Facebook and watching television shows and movies that I recorded on my DVR. I am now so accustomed to fast-forwarding through commercials that it is agony to watch anything in real time. If I find myself watching something in real time, my index finger hovers over the fast forward key, itching to move things along. I’ll even hit the pause button when I get to the commercials and go do some task. This sometimes backfires on me if I am flipping back and forth between two shows and I forget I paused one, flip over to the other show, then flip back to find that I missed an entire section of the original show. I want to beat myself in the head with the remote control when that happens, but I can usually restrain myself.
Until a few years ago, I had over 1500 books in my house. I read every day and sometimes well into the night if it was a particularly good read. I enjoyed literature the best, but I could also go for the occasional mystery or suspense or even certain non-fiction. I’ve often been deeply affected by a book, thinking brand new thoughts or feeling things I hadn’t realized I was feeling, or feeling stupid that I hadn’t known something or noticed something. There are a handful of books that have been life-changing.
But a few years ago, I found myself being transferred by my company for the fifth time in six years. I could not face packing all of those books again. Plus, I would be downsizing from a 3500 square foot house in Memphis to a 950 square foot loft apartment in Philadelphia. Something had to give! So I weeded through all of those books and got rid of all but about 150. I know that sounds horrifying to anyone who loves books! But I was careful to pass my books on to true book lovers.
So, why did I stop reading? I was working incredibly long hours and was exhausted when I got home. Facebook was easier and required less energy and thinking. Computer games allowed me to escape. Television was even better because it required no energy AND it allowed escape. There were lapses in my full stop. After I watched the first season of Game of Thrones on HBO, I immediately bought all of the books and read straight through them all. Fantasy isn’t my preferred genre, but I admit that I loved them. I did the same thing with The Hunger Games trilogy after I heard people talking about the books. Again, SF is not my preferred genre, but they were good, though not nearly as good as the Game of Thrones series.
So anyway, a switch was flipped in
my brain this morning and I walked over to the bookshelves to peruse what is
left of my collection. I settled on Growing Up in the South, An Anthology of
Modern Southern Literature, edited and introduced by Suzanne W. Jones. The
first piece is a selection from the autobiography of Harry Crews entitled A
Childhood: The Biography of a Place. As I read it, I can feel my brain
stretching just a bit. It is out of practice, since it has mostly been focused
on Bingo games, television remote controls and a level 71 Undead Hunter named Amathyst.
(Yes, the misspelling was intentional.) And I have even taken a break to write
this.
Since it is late morning, the sun is shining in the window next to my chair. I can see individual cat hairs occasionally floating through a ray of sunshine. It makes me smile. That production factory may have been in operation for almost thirteen years, but I've been reading for over FIFTY years! Maybe I'm not as much of a flibbertigibbet as I originally thought!
Since it is late morning, the sun is shining in the window next to my chair. I can see individual cat hairs occasionally floating through a ray of sunshine. It makes me smile. That production factory may have been in operation for almost thirteen years, but I've been reading for over FIFTY years! Maybe I'm not as much of a flibbertigibbet as I originally thought!
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
bamboo memories
Hand in hand up the spiral staircase,
to where you would stroke my white-blonde hair
to where you would stroke my white-blonde hair
and tell me how sweet I was
and how much you wished
you could have a little girl like me.
Then to explain where and how you found me
to my distracted, bickering parents who,
caught up in their own melodrama,
to my distracted, bickering parents who,
caught up in their own melodrama,
just sighed in relief to have me back home.
Did they thank you, rorikon?
And all these years later,
your features are missing from my memory,
along
with the painful details of just what you did.
But I remember you.
But I remember you.
Oh, I remember you.
In each romantic assumption I made,
and in each failure to protect myself,
your hand continued to touch me
and in each failure to protect myself,
your hand continued to touch me
and your reassuring smile corroded my soul.
My skin must have been transparent
because others saw you there in my bones
and snatched me up as their victim,
adding detail to the branding you carved.
because others saw you there in my bones
and snatched me up as their victim,
adding detail to the branding you carved.
With every longing to find THE ONE
who would love me so absolutely,
your vile intentions continued
to burn me and keep me alone.
who would love me so absolutely,
your vile intentions continued
to burn me and keep me alone.
Late in life now, I still imagine you, rorikon.
But with other unfortunate angels to follow,
I’m sure you’ve forgotten me long since.
But I remember you.
I’m sure you’ve forgotten me long since.
But I remember you.
Oh, I remember you.
Sunday, October 21, 2012
the louvered door
Comparing notes with other writers is always a source of inspiration. Lately, we've been sharing our earliest recollection of writing and our first self-identification as "writer". I'd never really given the topic any thought, but I laughed when I realized that there WAS an actual beginning for me. And it's all thanks to my Mom.
My Mom was distracted, to put it mildly, when I reached my pre-teen years. She was newly divorced and was, no doubt, reeling from huge changes in her life. We had been a family of six, but in the course of a 12 month period, my oldest brother went off to college, my father moved out of the house and the next fall my oldest sister left for college as well. Then, Mom relocated me (age 9), my sister (age 10) and herself from Massachusetts to Georgia.
And there we were - all trying to recover from the shock of the multiple changes in our lives. My sister's reaction was mostly internal. But I managed to find a group of hoodlums to hang out with and at around the age of 12 began a multi-year effort to put myself in the most dangerous possible positions. This included associating with members of the Hell's Angels, going to late night parties after I was supposedly in bed, hitch-hiking all across the country and some experimentation with drugs. Today, I consider it a miracle that I made it through that portion of my life without having been raped or murdered.
But this post is not about those years. (Maybe later.)
Just prior to starting the 10th grade, Mom relocated us again, this time to rural North Carolina. And once again, I had to find a new group of friends. Although I had put my most dangerous behavior behind me at this point, I still hung out with "hippies". I played guitar and sang in a local rock band, I still smoked pot and I was still fearless, which at 15 should read DUMB. And, like most teenage girls, I kept a diary, in which I recorded my most secret thoughts, which included excruciating details of the moods and dialogue of whatever boy I was admiring at the moment. I kept that diary in a box, under some shirts, in the bottom drawer of my dresser.
I frequently played hookey from high school, sometimes to hang out with friends, sometimes just to hang out by myself at home. To say that I did not fit in at my rural high school was putting it mildly. At that point I was pretty worldly, having seen and done far more than your average 15 year old. Add to that the ingrained racial segregation at the high school and it made for some unpleasant social experiences. I truly did not want to be there on any day.
One day, I stayed home from school and was sitting in my room playing guitar and singing. I heard a car in the driveway, hopped up to peek out the window and was shocked to see my Mom walking up the sidewalk towards the front door. I panicked and quickly made a decision to hide in my bedroom closet. I got the folding, louvered doors shut just in time. I was squatting in the most uncomfortable position you can imagine. I could just see out through the louvers. To my absolute horror, Mom walked straight to my room, opened the bottom drawer of my dresser, pushed the clothes back, opened the box and removed my diary.
She sat on my bed, flipped through some pages and began to read. It occurred to me that the turning of the pages was to pass the parts that she had already read. She had done this many times, I realized. I sat in furious silence as she read my most private thoughts. My brain whirled. What had I written? What was she now reading? I honestly could not remember.
Eventually, Mom closed the diary, returned it to the box, rearranged the clothes on top of the box and closed the dresser drawer. And, as quickly as she had arrived, she left, her heels briskly clip-clopping back down the walkway to her car. I painfully removed myself from that closet and snatched my diary out of its hiding place to read the whole thing from beginning to end. As I read certain passages, I felt psychic pain at the thought that Mom had read what I had written. I actually gasped and groaned as I read.
For days after this event, I wrote nothing in that diary - not one word. On Sunday, as fate would have it, the Dear Abby column featured a young girl asking Abby whether it was right for her mother to read her diary, as she had caught her doing. Abby responded that parents should respect the privacy of their children and that her mother was very wrong to violate her privacy by reading her diary. I actually read the whole thing aloud to Mom at breakfast, then looked straight into her eyes and said, "I'm so glad that I have a mother who would NEVER do that to me." Mom did not even blink. That made me even madder!
So I began my campaign of revenge. Into that diary, I began to spin the wildest of tales. I wrote of possibly joining the carnival after meeting "Tim", a carny. I wrote of an opportunity to move to California to study with a swami. I detailed entire conversations that never took place. I described events that had never happened, usually involving jumping off of bridges or balancing on things that could lead to death if I fell. I wrote about shooting guns and learning to fight with a knife. I wrote about males that I had met who clearly wanted to do things to me and with me. These descriptions I would leave open, with a "should I?" ending.
This was the beginning of my creative writing. I wrote for the sole purpose of freaking my Mom out. I remember sitting and thinking, trying to come up with something suitably outrageous. And I would design my words for maximum shock value. It gave me great pleasure to come up with something really good. I would grin and laugh as I scribbled away. And that is the writing process, in a nutshell - trying to think of something really creative and writing it for reader response. The excitement of reading something you've written - and knowing you got it right - is really why we do what we do.
I have no idea if she ever read a word of it. Maybe I showed my hand with the Dear Abby column and she never did it again. Or, maybe she was smart enough to add the two things together and figure out that I was embellishing. Who knows? But it got me writing, which I have continued to do my entire life.
Interestingly enough, my views on the right to privacy changed when my own son started middle school and began to rebel. I told him flat out that it was MY house and that he could expect ZERO privacy. I told him I would be searching his room regularly, that I would read every word that I found and that I would confiscate anything and everything I found in the house that I decided he should not have. I have absolutely no qualms about this approach and highly recommend it as a parenting technique. After all, you need to know whether your child has plans to run off to California with a swami. This will allow you time to register him for band camp in order to circumvent his plans. A trumpet is an excellent diversion from California swamis and other potential distractions for teenagers. You can trust me on this.
My Mom was distracted, to put it mildly, when I reached my pre-teen years. She was newly divorced and was, no doubt, reeling from huge changes in her life. We had been a family of six, but in the course of a 12 month period, my oldest brother went off to college, my father moved out of the house and the next fall my oldest sister left for college as well. Then, Mom relocated me (age 9), my sister (age 10) and herself from Massachusetts to Georgia.
And there we were - all trying to recover from the shock of the multiple changes in our lives. My sister's reaction was mostly internal. But I managed to find a group of hoodlums to hang out with and at around the age of 12 began a multi-year effort to put myself in the most dangerous possible positions. This included associating with members of the Hell's Angels, going to late night parties after I was supposedly in bed, hitch-hiking all across the country and some experimentation with drugs. Today, I consider it a miracle that I made it through that portion of my life without having been raped or murdered.
But this post is not about those years. (Maybe later.)
Just prior to starting the 10th grade, Mom relocated us again, this time to rural North Carolina. And once again, I had to find a new group of friends. Although I had put my most dangerous behavior behind me at this point, I still hung out with "hippies". I played guitar and sang in a local rock band, I still smoked pot and I was still fearless, which at 15 should read DUMB. And, like most teenage girls, I kept a diary, in which I recorded my most secret thoughts, which included excruciating details of the moods and dialogue of whatever boy I was admiring at the moment. I kept that diary in a box, under some shirts, in the bottom drawer of my dresser.
I frequently played hookey from high school, sometimes to hang out with friends, sometimes just to hang out by myself at home. To say that I did not fit in at my rural high school was putting it mildly. At that point I was pretty worldly, having seen and done far more than your average 15 year old. Add to that the ingrained racial segregation at the high school and it made for some unpleasant social experiences. I truly did not want to be there on any day.
One day, I stayed home from school and was sitting in my room playing guitar and singing. I heard a car in the driveway, hopped up to peek out the window and was shocked to see my Mom walking up the sidewalk towards the front door. I panicked and quickly made a decision to hide in my bedroom closet. I got the folding, louvered doors shut just in time. I was squatting in the most uncomfortable position you can imagine. I could just see out through the louvers. To my absolute horror, Mom walked straight to my room, opened the bottom drawer of my dresser, pushed the clothes back, opened the box and removed my diary.
She sat on my bed, flipped through some pages and began to read. It occurred to me that the turning of the pages was to pass the parts that she had already read. She had done this many times, I realized. I sat in furious silence as she read my most private thoughts. My brain whirled. What had I written? What was she now reading? I honestly could not remember. Eventually, Mom closed the diary, returned it to the box, rearranged the clothes on top of the box and closed the dresser drawer. And, as quickly as she had arrived, she left, her heels briskly clip-clopping back down the walkway to her car. I painfully removed myself from that closet and snatched my diary out of its hiding place to read the whole thing from beginning to end. As I read certain passages, I felt psychic pain at the thought that Mom had read what I had written. I actually gasped and groaned as I read.
For days after this event, I wrote nothing in that diary - not one word. On Sunday, as fate would have it, the Dear Abby column featured a young girl asking Abby whether it was right for her mother to read her diary, as she had caught her doing. Abby responded that parents should respect the privacy of their children and that her mother was very wrong to violate her privacy by reading her diary. I actually read the whole thing aloud to Mom at breakfast, then looked straight into her eyes and said, "I'm so glad that I have a mother who would NEVER do that to me." Mom did not even blink. That made me even madder!
So I began my campaign of revenge. Into that diary, I began to spin the wildest of tales. I wrote of possibly joining the carnival after meeting "Tim", a carny. I wrote of an opportunity to move to California to study with a swami. I detailed entire conversations that never took place. I described events that had never happened, usually involving jumping off of bridges or balancing on things that could lead to death if I fell. I wrote about shooting guns and learning to fight with a knife. I wrote about males that I had met who clearly wanted to do things to me and with me. These descriptions I would leave open, with a "should I?" ending.
This was the beginning of my creative writing. I wrote for the sole purpose of freaking my Mom out. I remember sitting and thinking, trying to come up with something suitably outrageous. And I would design my words for maximum shock value. It gave me great pleasure to come up with something really good. I would grin and laugh as I scribbled away. And that is the writing process, in a nutshell - trying to think of something really creative and writing it for reader response. The excitement of reading something you've written - and knowing you got it right - is really why we do what we do.
I have no idea if she ever read a word of it. Maybe I showed my hand with the Dear Abby column and she never did it again. Or, maybe she was smart enough to add the two things together and figure out that I was embellishing. Who knows? But it got me writing, which I have continued to do my entire life.
Interestingly enough, my views on the right to privacy changed when my own son started middle school and began to rebel. I told him flat out that it was MY house and that he could expect ZERO privacy. I told him I would be searching his room regularly, that I would read every word that I found and that I would confiscate anything and everything I found in the house that I decided he should not have. I have absolutely no qualms about this approach and highly recommend it as a parenting technique. After all, you need to know whether your child has plans to run off to California with a swami. This will allow you time to register him for band camp in order to circumvent his plans. A trumpet is an excellent diversion from California swamis and other potential distractions for teenagers. You can trust me on this.
Thursday, September 6, 2012
the politics of hate
When I try to describe what my parents and extended family taught me about how to live my life, I think I can cover it in just a few sentences:
1. Treat other people the way you want to be treated.
2. Reach out your hand to help people in need.
3. Think for yourself. Be wary of people who try to control your thoughts and behavior.
4. Be a credit to your family.
5. Always be aware that other people's experience is different than your own. Don't assume that people will (or should) be just like you.
My parents were Methodist missionaries in Japan. I was born at Duke University hospital while the family was home on furlough. We then returned to Japan and I spent the earliest part of my life immersed in Japanese culture. I'm sure this shaped who I am today, but I can't always articulate how it is so.
Prior to their service in Japan, my parents were early members of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. Mother still talks about riding in the Jim Crow train cars so she could travel with her African American colleagues. Clearly, the example and teachings of my parents shaped who I am today.
The main message that resonated through my early life was one of LOVE for your fellow man.
I've spent the last two or three years AMAZED at the vitriol that is constantly spewed in the direction of President Barack Obama. I've collected some of the most insane rantings that I came across. Here are a few examples:
"Obama is an affirmative action mistake who has no clue what role government should play for wealth to be created. He has no American values. None. He will go down historically as the worst president in the history of the United States"
"I don't know what you read...There is a list of all the money this creep gave to the muslims...I guess you don't know he wants you to die. He can lie his ass off to the infidel and thats what he thinks about all Christians. All the money that help put him where he is was muslim money. No the liberal press want report it it. I will pray that he never wins again and if you would go and find the truth or new the truth you would be praying too. Thats all I am going to say about it......He has charmed the people like the serpent he is. God said that the true Isreal would turn there face from God..He knew you would. He will smite you just as he said."
I've seen pictures of Michelle Obama as a monster from outer space. I've seen Obama's famous campaign poster redrawn to show him with a noose around his neck. I've read that he is a Muslim, that he is planning to turn our country over to foreign Islamic leaders, that he isn't an American, that he is the devil incarnate, that he got into Harvard because he is a minority, that his school records would show that he didn't really earn his law degree, etc.
There is only one reason why a political party would welcome hateful, nasty, ignorant and racist people into the fold. They know they need them in order to win.
If the rest of us allow that to happen - if we let the party that welcomes the WORST of us with open arms win this election, then we need to prepare ourselves for an ever expanding spiral of horror as more and more people voice their most violent and nasty thoughts. When this is not just tolerated, but encouraged, there can be no doubt that the leadership of that group needs to be shut down and driven out of the political process.
As a progressive Christian, I am appalled and offended by the Republican party's willingness to embrace hate. The only Republican I have ever heard rebuke this kind of thinking is when John McCain testified on the House floor in support of Huma Abedin, the long-time aide to Secretary of State Hillary Clinton. Mr. McCain never mentioned Michele Bachmann by name, but he made it clear that he believed that the kind of blind hatred that Ms. Bachmann was spewing needed to stop. This is EXACTLY what the leaders of the Republican party must do. They must root out and censure the most radical, divisive and hateful members of their parties.
AND - the Democrats must do the same when they hear any nasty, hate-filled rhetoric coming from their followers.
Voters must step up and support those leaders who believe in equality, fairness and in helping their fellow citizens. It is our only hope for a better America.
1. Treat other people the way you want to be treated.
2. Reach out your hand to help people in need.
3. Think for yourself. Be wary of people who try to control your thoughts and behavior.
4. Be a credit to your family.
5. Always be aware that other people's experience is different than your own. Don't assume that people will (or should) be just like you.
My parents were Methodist missionaries in Japan. I was born at Duke University hospital while the family was home on furlough. We then returned to Japan and I spent the earliest part of my life immersed in Japanese culture. I'm sure this shaped who I am today, but I can't always articulate how it is so.
Prior to their service in Japan, my parents were early members of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference. Mother still talks about riding in the Jim Crow train cars so she could travel with her African American colleagues. Clearly, the example and teachings of my parents shaped who I am today.
The main message that resonated through my early life was one of LOVE for your fellow man.
I've spent the last two or three years AMAZED at the vitriol that is constantly spewed in the direction of President Barack Obama. I've collected some of the most insane rantings that I came across. Here are a few examples:
"Obama is an affirmative action mistake who has no clue what role government should play for wealth to be created. He has no American values. None. He will go down historically as the worst president in the history of the United States"
"I don't know what you read...There is a list of all the money this creep gave to the muslims...I guess you don't know he wants you to die. He can lie his ass off to the infidel and thats what he thinks about all Christians. All the money that help put him where he is was muslim money. No the liberal press want report it it. I will pray that he never wins again and if you would go and find the truth or new the truth you would be praying too. Thats all I am going to say about it......He has charmed the people like the serpent he is. God said that the true Isreal would turn there face from God..He knew you would. He will smite you just as he said."
I've seen pictures of Michelle Obama as a monster from outer space. I've seen Obama's famous campaign poster redrawn to show him with a noose around his neck. I've read that he is a Muslim, that he is planning to turn our country over to foreign Islamic leaders, that he isn't an American, that he is the devil incarnate, that he got into Harvard because he is a minority, that his school records would show that he didn't really earn his law degree, etc.
There is only one reason why a political party would welcome hateful, nasty, ignorant and racist people into the fold. They know they need them in order to win.
If the rest of us allow that to happen - if we let the party that welcomes the WORST of us with open arms win this election, then we need to prepare ourselves for an ever expanding spiral of horror as more and more people voice their most violent and nasty thoughts. When this is not just tolerated, but encouraged, there can be no doubt that the leadership of that group needs to be shut down and driven out of the political process.
As a progressive Christian, I am appalled and offended by the Republican party's willingness to embrace hate. The only Republican I have ever heard rebuke this kind of thinking is when John McCain testified on the House floor in support of Huma Abedin, the long-time aide to Secretary of State Hillary Clinton. Mr. McCain never mentioned Michele Bachmann by name, but he made it clear that he believed that the kind of blind hatred that Ms. Bachmann was spewing needed to stop. This is EXACTLY what the leaders of the Republican party must do. They must root out and censure the most radical, divisive and hateful members of their parties.
AND - the Democrats must do the same when they hear any nasty, hate-filled rhetoric coming from their followers.
Voters must step up and support those leaders who believe in equality, fairness and in helping their fellow citizens. It is our only hope for a better America.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Papa's Spiritual Journey
It is a comfort to read that Papa has experienced some of the same struggles that I have. I feel closer to him, which I did not think was possible.
I am so blessed to have been born into my family and to know this man as my father!
Monday, May 28, 2012
crochet
In previous generations, I suppose girls learned to crochet from their mothers and grandmothers, who were then present in the room while the girls worked on their first project. Had that happened with me, I'm sure I would have received advice about counting stitches. Or more likely, I would have been advised to start with granny squares. (In retrospect, I think my Mother did tell me to try granny squares first. But by the time I got around to looking at yarn, I had forgotten that.)
I still have that purple afghan, by the way. It is still beautiful, cushy, warm & very purple. And now it has lots of ends sticking out, because I had no clue how to properly handle ends. It really is wonderfully funny.
I didn't make anything else for several years. Then, when I was getting ready to move from Pennsylvania back to Georgia, I decided to make a lap throw for my wonderful Daddy. Poor Daddy. He was my guinea pig for my first granny square project. The squares were fine (other than still not knowing how to properly handle the ends), but when it came to joining them I made several errors, the greatest of which was to use the same variegated yarn that I had used to make the squares. The end result wasn't ugly. But it wasn't wonderful either.
Daddy, of course, says that he loves it. He even wrote a haiku about it.
Dozing ‘neath my throw,
My heart filled with gratitude,
I’m thinking of you.
Well, I suppose that does count for something! But when I heard my stepmother casually mention throwing it in the washing machine, I actually shuddered. I am so worried about it falling apart! That should tell you everything you need to know about my first effort at a granny square project.
My sister told me she really liked Daddy's throw. I asked her if she wanted me to make one for her. She said YES!!! This time, I actually went online and did a little research about granny squares. I found a different pattern than the one I used for Daddy's throw. About a third of the way through it, I discovered multiple videos on YouTube showing crochet techniques including - voila! - how to deal with the ends. A needle, you say? Brilliant!!!
Here is my sister's throw:
I did a better edging, which I also learned from a YouTube video:
My Mother was with me while I was making this one and the next trip to JoAnn's found her picking out yarn for HER throw. I used the same pattern that I used for my sister's and learned another valuable lesson. NEVER do the same project twice in a row with no breaks. It was SO BORING! While my sister's project felt like a labor of love, my Mother's project just felt like labor. I honestly felt like I would never finish!!! But I did:
Here is a close-up, with a signature that I added:
Friday, May 11, 2012
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)