You've heard it before: teaching is a noble profession, underrated, underpaid. Teachers touch lives, move mountains, and form the future of America. Both of my parents are teachers, as am I. I've always been proud of them and what they do and people generally nod approvingly whenever I tell them that my parents are educators.
That's why I have to hand it to Maury Gusta, a fourth grade teacher from Gauthier, Mississippi who was recently featured on The Today Show with Kathie Lee Gifford and Hoda Kotb for starting a National Elementary Honor Society to encourage and reward students for reaching high academic honors. I applaud his efforts; working with fourth graders is no small feat, certainly.
What I take issue with is the bullshit that followed, courtesy of Kathie Lee Gifford, head of emotional smarminess at the Today Show, in the form of the song "When Somebody Cares About You" which she co-wrote for Mr. Gusta and his students (but I'm sure it was partially so she could pimp out her showtunes). I was listening as I ate my morning cereal and nearly choked on some of the lines: "when somebody cares about somebody else/ A miracle takes place, you can see it in their face." Wow. Deep. Oh, wait, this one's even better: "If we're all god's special children why don't we understand/ That we can be his angels here by reaching out our hand/ Then all things being equal/ We'll come to realize/ The greatest gift is what we see in someone's grateful eyes." At this point, I almost rolled off the couch from the cloying, overly emotional (and delusional) crap being paraded about. It didn't seem as though I was alone, either. Most of the kids looked bored but happy to be on TV at least and were probably wondering when they'd get their tour of the Statue of Liberty and get to visit the FAO Schwartz. The camera panned to Mrs. Gifford who was swaying to the music and looking overly pleased with herself as she grabbed for the Kleenex.
ENOUGH! I say. Enough of this deluded view of the teaching profession as some ethereal carnival ride where each student sits obediently in their desk as the knowledge peddled by the teacher washes over them and suddenly, a ray of light shines down from god, the lightbulb clicks on, and they say "Yes! I understand! It's a miracle!" Then the whole class comes together in song around the campfire.
That's not how it happens. Believe me.
I would like to see Kathie Lee try teaching for the day. Let's see if all god's angels are on her side or if she has my typical day when students don't listen, go on Facebook while you lecture, become verbally combative when you correct their essay or talk to them about why they are failing the course, and they don't complete the assignments on time.
Mrs. Gifford is welcome to make a "miracle" out of those situations, and I wish her luck.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Let's get out of this country
It's been a while. Of course, everyone says that, and I could say that I completely understand how time gets away from you with everything that has to be done. And yet the problem is that I really don't have anything to do. At least, not in the typical "job and school" sense; that typicality stopped abruptly in June, and so now I'm one of the unremarkable masses who are unemployed. I thought unemployment was going to be an exciting respite to the usual routine, and then suddenly, I would get a great job offer and I would be gone around July (and I had begun my search in February). Bitterness set in around the end of June; I kept thinking, "What the fuck is a Masters degrees supposed to get me now?" I have a good deal of debt that I have to pay off, but it was all under the pretense that I would get a wonderfully important job at the end of it all. I admit that it was kind of a bad idea for me to decide to enter the world of work in the middle of a recession, but at the moment, it's the only thing that even remotely makes sense. A job is the only thing I can agree on at this point.
Really, I put my nose to the grindstone on the job search and have pumped out a little over eighty applications in sixth months. I'd say that's pretty decent. I've had a few callbacks, two interviews and now--the first even remote possibility that I've had in a very long time. The telephone interview went well. The thank-you note I sent went over even better; the interviewer sent a thank-you note a half hour later saying that it had been wonderful to speak to me as well.
I worry I might be putting all my eggs in one basket; I went shopping for an interview outfit (it was at Target, but still) and I don't even know if I've been selected to come down to Chicago. And then I start to think about actually being in the workforce: getting up early, looking professional, having to do actual work (gah!) and I wonder if I'm ready for it. Ridiculous, I know.
Either way, I will be ready for work because it has to happen. It simply has to. One cannot stay unemployed forever; on one hand, I will plow through my savings account very, very quickly, and on the other hand, I do not have enough things to occupy me for most of the day. For example, today I had the intention of going to sell some of my books, however the bookseller was not in at the store, so I instead went to Goodwill to look for appropriate work clothes for a job that I don't have. Again, ridiculous. Oh, and I went for a run and ate cheese fries. Together, accounting for about four hours of my day.
I need a job. Eggs in one basket be damned. (And I'll be sure to keep this post for when, some day, I have a job and then I start to complain about it.)
Really, I put my nose to the grindstone on the job search and have pumped out a little over eighty applications in sixth months. I'd say that's pretty decent. I've had a few callbacks, two interviews and now--the first even remote possibility that I've had in a very long time. The telephone interview went well. The thank-you note I sent went over even better; the interviewer sent a thank-you note a half hour later saying that it had been wonderful to speak to me as well.
I worry I might be putting all my eggs in one basket; I went shopping for an interview outfit (it was at Target, but still) and I don't even know if I've been selected to come down to Chicago. And then I start to think about actually being in the workforce: getting up early, looking professional, having to do actual work (gah!) and I wonder if I'm ready for it. Ridiculous, I know.
Either way, I will be ready for work because it has to happen. It simply has to. One cannot stay unemployed forever; on one hand, I will plow through my savings account very, very quickly, and on the other hand, I do not have enough things to occupy me for most of the day. For example, today I had the intention of going to sell some of my books, however the bookseller was not in at the store, so I instead went to Goodwill to look for appropriate work clothes for a job that I don't have. Again, ridiculous. Oh, and I went for a run and ate cheese fries. Together, accounting for about four hours of my day.
I need a job. Eggs in one basket be damned. (And I'll be sure to keep this post for when, some day, I have a job and then I start to complain about it.)
Friday, July 3, 2009
Sally is thinking
Sally is thinking; she’s thinking about her life so far, and what she had for breakfast way back on Monday when she still felt like eating. She’s thinking about what she sees in the trees as they are flipping past the windows, and why the neighbors just exploded something on the sidewalk. She thinks about exploding things all the time: the loud cars and trucks that run past her window, and how they’re so obnoxious, she wishes they would just blow up in front of her and be done with it. She thinks about the man whistling as he shuts the car door, and how he yells epithets at his girlfriend for no reason other than he can and he wants to. She thinks about a nap and feeling better some day, about what may happen when she closes her eyes and dreams; if she will be back on the streets of Brooklyn, the day her hips began to hurt for no reason at all. Or maybe she’ll dream of a field—a nice field somewhere quiet, away from the cars and car doors and strange men yelling on street corners. Somewhere with beautiful sun, a kind breeze, and a long stretch of soft wheat so she can run, run, run.
Sally is thinking.
Sally is thinking.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Hot town, summer in the city
It stays pretty quiet on the East Side. Okay, fine, there are a few idiots, such as my neighbors who are currently playing lite rock crap music just a little too loud for their stupid party which is annoying. But for the most part, each neighborhood exists peacefully, holding its semi-regular hippie block parties and everyone is happy.
Until the final week in June, when our peaceful lives are turned upside down and the East Side, downtown, and Third Ward neighborhoods are thrown into disarray. It's Summerfest time, and while the various government and business folk boast that it's the largest outdoor music festival in the country, they don't have to live with the crowds that flock into the city. Everyone's a culprit in this case: the suburbanites, who never come within the city line because there are reportedly black people who live there, and all black people carry guns and shoot them at cars; the rurals who come from towns over; the truly out-of-towners who come from out of state just to attend; and then the rest of the mix.
I don't think it's a coincidence, really, that on the day that Summerfest opened, I was almost run over twice in the span of eight hours while on my bike. That's really never happened before; one guy had no clue whatsoever that I was even there, and then a Dodge Neon full of trashy teenagers thinking they were bad-asses nearly rolled through a stop sign, only to cuss me out and call me a "bitch" because I deigned to be on the rode on a bike in the bike lane. Brady Street is backed up with traffic; even on a busy summer Saturday night, it's never that busy. People were looking for parking on the already cramped streets in order to take the bar shuttles down to the fairgrounds in order to drink our local beer, become belligerent, trash the area, and drive home.
Why am I so down on Summerfest? It's not so much that I'm down on the festival itself or think it should only allow Milwaukee residents in (because, let's face it: the likelihood that Milwaukeeans, let alone the East Siders, would pay $12 to go and hear a random smattering of bands only to have to pay $8 for beer is unlikely). The fact is, the outsiders come in, think they have fair run of the city since they're paying an exorbitant price to get wasted and listen to bands, and think they have a run of the place. They trash it, fill up the streets, and disrespect the locals, only to leave in a week and go back to their various dark caves. They don't have anything invested in being respectful, clean, and orderly; even if they act like a bunch of knuckle draggers, Summerfest will be on next year and they will be allowed to come back.
Ultimately, I don't like feeling as though I can't safely go out my door each day and bike safely around my city (yes, I called it "my city"). I don't care if you're an out-of-towner; it's when you start acting like an asshole that I put my foot down and say "Get the hell out, and stay out."
Let that be a warning to you outside agitators.
Until the final week in June, when our peaceful lives are turned upside down and the East Side, downtown, and Third Ward neighborhoods are thrown into disarray. It's Summerfest time, and while the various government and business folk boast that it's the largest outdoor music festival in the country, they don't have to live with the crowds that flock into the city. Everyone's a culprit in this case: the suburbanites, who never come within the city line because there are reportedly black people who live there, and all black people carry guns and shoot them at cars; the rurals who come from towns over; the truly out-of-towners who come from out of state just to attend; and then the rest of the mix.
I don't think it's a coincidence, really, that on the day that Summerfest opened, I was almost run over twice in the span of eight hours while on my bike. That's really never happened before; one guy had no clue whatsoever that I was even there, and then a Dodge Neon full of trashy teenagers thinking they were bad-asses nearly rolled through a stop sign, only to cuss me out and call me a "bitch" because I deigned to be on the rode on a bike in the bike lane. Brady Street is backed up with traffic; even on a busy summer Saturday night, it's never that busy. People were looking for parking on the already cramped streets in order to take the bar shuttles down to the fairgrounds in order to drink our local beer, become belligerent, trash the area, and drive home.
Why am I so down on Summerfest? It's not so much that I'm down on the festival itself or think it should only allow Milwaukee residents in (because, let's face it: the likelihood that Milwaukeeans, let alone the East Siders, would pay $12 to go and hear a random smattering of bands only to have to pay $8 for beer is unlikely). The fact is, the outsiders come in, think they have fair run of the city since they're paying an exorbitant price to get wasted and listen to bands, and think they have a run of the place. They trash it, fill up the streets, and disrespect the locals, only to leave in a week and go back to their various dark caves. They don't have anything invested in being respectful, clean, and orderly; even if they act like a bunch of knuckle draggers, Summerfest will be on next year and they will be allowed to come back.
Ultimately, I don't like feeling as though I can't safely go out my door each day and bike safely around my city (yes, I called it "my city"). I don't care if you're an out-of-towner; it's when you start acting like an asshole that I put my foot down and say "Get the hell out, and stay out."
Let that be a warning to you outside agitators.
Friday, June 19, 2009
I dream of Dan Savage
I had a dream where I was rebuked by a woman on the bus for piping a Savage Love podcast about anal sex over the speakers of the bus. She told me it was "blasphemous" to speak of such activities and that I shouldn't listen to such filth. I told her she shouldn't be so uptight, and maybe if she listened to Savage Love and got a good boning herself, she would relax. She told me I was going to burn in hell, I told her I looked forward to it, and then she got off the bus.
So, what's up with that? Today, I was on the bus listening to my Savage Love podcast, and there's always a suspicion that they can hear what I'm listening to; they're learning about polyamory and butt plugs and anal sex just like I am. Most people might freak out if they heard the things discussed. Perhaps that's too strong of a generalization; maybe there's a higher number of kinky people out there than I give them credit for.
But there's, unfortunately, the problem of abstinence-only education, and the general lack of proper sexual education overall. People don't really have any clue what their genitals really do, or what's going on inside them. For example, there was a caller on the podcast who referenced a college girlfriend who would not perform oral sex on him because she honestly believed oral sex would get her pregnant. I had to shake my head, but Dan said it best: "People really are that stupid."
So how do you figure out what is really going on? Well, Savage Love, number one, and number two, you discover by doing. Ah but here's the problem (at least for all those sex-starved puritans out there): you go to hell for having pre-marital sex! And you're a slut if you have more than one partner. Or if you enjoy sex. Or if you masturbate. Or or or or or. The list is a mile long.
It's unfortunate. Whatever happened to embracing one's sexuality? Did it ever happen? One could argue the sexual revolution during the 60's and 70's ushered in a more free-thinking approach, but where are we now?
Not that my dream necessarily has some sort of mind-expanding insight into sexuality today. There are crazy prudish zealots that still run rampant today, trying to clamp down on sexual activity any way they can: restricting access to birth control, abortions, gay marriage, etc. But Savage Love is important and refreshing; it's kind of a revelation to learn about gay crushes on a high school swim team as I'm hurtling through the city on the bus surrounded by people who are totally oblivious to what I'm learning about. Yet there is also solace in the fact that, on thousands of other city buses, trains, and cars across the world, there are other people listening and learning the same thing, opening up their minds and their sexual possibilities. Now that is something to broadcast on the bus speakers.
So, what's up with that? Today, I was on the bus listening to my Savage Love podcast, and there's always a suspicion that they can hear what I'm listening to; they're learning about polyamory and butt plugs and anal sex just like I am. Most people might freak out if they heard the things discussed. Perhaps that's too strong of a generalization; maybe there's a higher number of kinky people out there than I give them credit for.
But there's, unfortunately, the problem of abstinence-only education, and the general lack of proper sexual education overall. People don't really have any clue what their genitals really do, or what's going on inside them. For example, there was a caller on the podcast who referenced a college girlfriend who would not perform oral sex on him because she honestly believed oral sex would get her pregnant. I had to shake my head, but Dan said it best: "People really are that stupid."
So how do you figure out what is really going on? Well, Savage Love, number one, and number two, you discover by doing. Ah but here's the problem (at least for all those sex-starved puritans out there): you go to hell for having pre-marital sex! And you're a slut if you have more than one partner. Or if you enjoy sex. Or if you masturbate. Or or or or or. The list is a mile long.
It's unfortunate. Whatever happened to embracing one's sexuality? Did it ever happen? One could argue the sexual revolution during the 60's and 70's ushered in a more free-thinking approach, but where are we now?
Not that my dream necessarily has some sort of mind-expanding insight into sexuality today. There are crazy prudish zealots that still run rampant today, trying to clamp down on sexual activity any way they can: restricting access to birth control, abortions, gay marriage, etc. But Savage Love is important and refreshing; it's kind of a revelation to learn about gay crushes on a high school swim team as I'm hurtling through the city on the bus surrounded by people who are totally oblivious to what I'm learning about. Yet there is also solace in the fact that, on thousands of other city buses, trains, and cars across the world, there are other people listening and learning the same thing, opening up their minds and their sexual possibilities. Now that is something to broadcast on the bus speakers.
a squeak
my father will not tell you that he has a weak eye
so he turns to the TV
to watch from his right side
and there is a piece of apple stuck between his teeth
so he pulls in the air and the spit
to make that high pitched squeaking sound
it is something absent-minded,
and I join in
a chorus of tooth-sucking family members
squeaking in the glow of the television
so he turns to the TV
to watch from his right side
and there is a piece of apple stuck between his teeth
so he pulls in the air and the spit
to make that high pitched squeaking sound
it is something absent-minded,
and I join in
a chorus of tooth-sucking family members
squeaking in the glow of the television
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
The Exes
I dated a guy once who threatened to kill himself via a blog post.
He had disappeared for weeks on end; no one knew where he was. He had deserted his apartment, left his roommate with no clue what was happening. I lived in a different city, so I was only aware of what was going on through emails.
When I finally managed to reach him, he was (supposedly) in Portland, Oregon and had no idea how he had got there. His car was nowhere to be found and he thought he had taken the train. I managed to persuade him to call his parents, to go home to them, to find help. He finally went back home to Indiana; whether he got the mental help he needed--well, that's another story.
He would call me up to complain about how awful his parents were, how cloying and unempathetic they were. When I asked whether he had gone to see a psychiatrist, he got quiet, and then brought up a list of excuses: how will he pay for it, there are no good doctors around, etc etc. It became frustrating to talk to him. I started avoiding his calls. On one hand, I thought he needed me, but on the other hand, he had to get there himself.
He's much better now; he takes medication for migraines and he seems to think he's beyond the point of needing mental health counseling despite his compulsive lying and strange way of making himself into the victim.
After the break-ups of both of our relationships, he came to visit. We messed around, it was weird, I came down with the flu, and he left early. He kept talking about coming to visit, and I kept stalling for one reason or another. Although I never told him, I came to realize that it was becoming a cycle; now, he was complaining about living with his parents, being trapped in Indiana, and wanting to move somewhere else but always managing to think up a litany of excuses for why he couldn't. He was very adept at forming plenty of obstacles in his path that would keep him from ever doing anything. We would chat online and talk about Harry Potter, and it was all very boring and mundane.
And then he dropped the news that he was seeing someone. Some girl in Grand Rapids that he knew from a bar or his brother or something ridiculous and a combination of the two. When he said it, I was immediately irritated and affronted, even though there was no way that I wanted to be his girlfriend again. It wasn't jealousy; I certainly didn't want him. So what made me end the phone call so abruptly? Part of it is his ridiculous personality, this idea that he can so easily flit from one person to another, to focus his time on driving to see a girl but he can't drive out of Indiana to start a new life. The willingness to drop it into a conversation as though it's no big deal, whilst complaining about how awful his life is except for her. Maybe it's because he referred to her as his "lady-friend" (which I find so vomit-inducing). Maybe I'm partially jealous of the fact that someone who is mentally unhinged can easily find someone to date. Either way, it doesn't make sense to waste my time on this. It never makes sense to sit and stew over ex-boyfriends. While I'm on friendly terms with most of them, there are a few that, whatever stupid shit they say or do, will always make me grit my teeth. As G. says, "They're exes for a reason."
He had disappeared for weeks on end; no one knew where he was. He had deserted his apartment, left his roommate with no clue what was happening. I lived in a different city, so I was only aware of what was going on through emails.
When I finally managed to reach him, he was (supposedly) in Portland, Oregon and had no idea how he had got there. His car was nowhere to be found and he thought he had taken the train. I managed to persuade him to call his parents, to go home to them, to find help. He finally went back home to Indiana; whether he got the mental help he needed--well, that's another story.
He would call me up to complain about how awful his parents were, how cloying and unempathetic they were. When I asked whether he had gone to see a psychiatrist, he got quiet, and then brought up a list of excuses: how will he pay for it, there are no good doctors around, etc etc. It became frustrating to talk to him. I started avoiding his calls. On one hand, I thought he needed me, but on the other hand, he had to get there himself.
He's much better now; he takes medication for migraines and he seems to think he's beyond the point of needing mental health counseling despite his compulsive lying and strange way of making himself into the victim.
After the break-ups of both of our relationships, he came to visit. We messed around, it was weird, I came down with the flu, and he left early. He kept talking about coming to visit, and I kept stalling for one reason or another. Although I never told him, I came to realize that it was becoming a cycle; now, he was complaining about living with his parents, being trapped in Indiana, and wanting to move somewhere else but always managing to think up a litany of excuses for why he couldn't. He was very adept at forming plenty of obstacles in his path that would keep him from ever doing anything. We would chat online and talk about Harry Potter, and it was all very boring and mundane.
And then he dropped the news that he was seeing someone. Some girl in Grand Rapids that he knew from a bar or his brother or something ridiculous and a combination of the two. When he said it, I was immediately irritated and affronted, even though there was no way that I wanted to be his girlfriend again. It wasn't jealousy; I certainly didn't want him. So what made me end the phone call so abruptly? Part of it is his ridiculous personality, this idea that he can so easily flit from one person to another, to focus his time on driving to see a girl but he can't drive out of Indiana to start a new life. The willingness to drop it into a conversation as though it's no big deal, whilst complaining about how awful his life is except for her. Maybe it's because he referred to her as his "lady-friend" (which I find so vomit-inducing). Maybe I'm partially jealous of the fact that someone who is mentally unhinged can easily find someone to date. Either way, it doesn't make sense to waste my time on this. It never makes sense to sit and stew over ex-boyfriends. While I'm on friendly terms with most of them, there are a few that, whatever stupid shit they say or do, will always make me grit my teeth. As G. says, "They're exes for a reason."
pollen
we're exploding
over the street
surprised at being pulled from branches, sent over the river
so we swarm in groups:
large
light
against the sun
that will try to drown us out
over the street
surprised at being pulled from branches, sent over the river
so we swarm in groups:
large
light
against the sun
that will try to drown us out
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
"I love humanity, but hate people." Edna St. Vincent Millay
I was in sixth grade when a friend told me I was going to go to hell because I wasn't baptized. Thus began my long-standing distrust of organized religion.
I like to tell this story a lot because one, I'm still friends with that friend even though religion is a major divisive factor in our relationship, and two, I think it highlights the typical "us vs. them" mentality of many religious organizations: a person is bad because they are different. And the differences abound: sexual orientation, race, culture, political stance, you name it, someone probably hates it and is preaching against it in a pulpit somewhere.
Case in point: Dr. Tiller, a Kansas doctor, was killed a few days ago as he was entering his church, most likely shot because of the fact that he performed abortions. Apparently, he had been shot at several times before this. When I read this, I wanted to cry and grit my teeth at the same time. Okay, perhaps we're going out on a limb to say that the gunman was most likely a "pro-life" advocate who did not approve of the doctor's stance on abortion. But nonetheless, there have been plenty of instances of abortion clinics being bombed and other doctors killed because of how they sided on the issue of choice. And so we come to the other side of the coin, the "pro-lifers" who want so badly to protect the supposed lives of innocent fetuses that they will kill to do so. I don't have to point out the derailment of logic in this equation, but I feel compelled to ask how the Christians manage to rationalize this. If the supposed tenet of Christianity, or one of them at least, is "love thy neighbor" (oh, and how killing is a sin, too, supposedly) that they can stand by someone who goes to take their gun out of their chest, walk over to a house of worship (which is supposed to be sacred as well, right?), and then proceed to murder an innocent man.
Perhaps here's the hang-up: they don't view him as innocent. To them, he's a killer of innocent people since there is a belief in certain religious sects that life begins at conception so fetuses are human beings, not just blobs of chromosomes beginning to form. And so, somehow, they can justify murder because "an eye for an eye" is absolutely in the Bible!
I don't know if that is discussed in the Bible. I'm sure that if someone wanted to, they could find a passage to support whatever they want to do. It's a subjective analysis.
Whenever I began to rail on religion as a whole, my mother often counters with something along the lines of "Well, not all religion everywhere does awful things." Usually I scoff and go into something about the Crusades and genocides waged in the name of religion and the Pope telling the world not to use condoms because it "won't stop the spread of HIV." But maybe she's correct, and it's more of a matter of a few bad apples spoiling the whole bunch. It's like the Millay quote that I love and think of often: "I love humanity but hate people." People are the ones who are jerks and mess everything up.
Really, though, one needs the whole in order to get anything done. It's the whole that brings together like-minded individuals with similar ideas about killing people who deviate from their moral compass which they believe is the only correct compass in the world. And they will keep believing it, even when this little thing called the legal system comes a-calling.
Never fear though, because they were only doing J.C.'s work so they'll get into heaven anyways. Meanwhile, my unbaptized self will be toiling away in the underworld with the rest of the deviants. Considering all of the intellectuals, atheists, homosexuals, and others that will be joining me, it's sure to be one hell of a party.
I like to tell this story a lot because one, I'm still friends with that friend even though religion is a major divisive factor in our relationship, and two, I think it highlights the typical "us vs. them" mentality of many religious organizations: a person is bad because they are different. And the differences abound: sexual orientation, race, culture, political stance, you name it, someone probably hates it and is preaching against it in a pulpit somewhere.
Case in point: Dr. Tiller, a Kansas doctor, was killed a few days ago as he was entering his church, most likely shot because of the fact that he performed abortions. Apparently, he had been shot at several times before this. When I read this, I wanted to cry and grit my teeth at the same time. Okay, perhaps we're going out on a limb to say that the gunman was most likely a "pro-life" advocate who did not approve of the doctor's stance on abortion. But nonetheless, there have been plenty of instances of abortion clinics being bombed and other doctors killed because of how they sided on the issue of choice. And so we come to the other side of the coin, the "pro-lifers" who want so badly to protect the supposed lives of innocent fetuses that they will kill to do so. I don't have to point out the derailment of logic in this equation, but I feel compelled to ask how the Christians manage to rationalize this. If the supposed tenet of Christianity, or one of them at least, is "love thy neighbor" (oh, and how killing is a sin, too, supposedly) that they can stand by someone who goes to take their gun out of their chest, walk over to a house of worship (which is supposed to be sacred as well, right?), and then proceed to murder an innocent man.
Perhaps here's the hang-up: they don't view him as innocent. To them, he's a killer of innocent people since there is a belief in certain religious sects that life begins at conception so fetuses are human beings, not just blobs of chromosomes beginning to form. And so, somehow, they can justify murder because "an eye for an eye" is absolutely in the Bible!
I don't know if that is discussed in the Bible. I'm sure that if someone wanted to, they could find a passage to support whatever they want to do. It's a subjective analysis.
Whenever I began to rail on religion as a whole, my mother often counters with something along the lines of "Well, not all religion everywhere does awful things." Usually I scoff and go into something about the Crusades and genocides waged in the name of religion and the Pope telling the world not to use condoms because it "won't stop the spread of HIV." But maybe she's correct, and it's more of a matter of a few bad apples spoiling the whole bunch. It's like the Millay quote that I love and think of often: "I love humanity but hate people." People are the ones who are jerks and mess everything up.
Really, though, one needs the whole in order to get anything done. It's the whole that brings together like-minded individuals with similar ideas about killing people who deviate from their moral compass which they believe is the only correct compass in the world. And they will keep believing it, even when this little thing called the legal system comes a-calling.
Never fear though, because they were only doing J.C.'s work so they'll get into heaven anyways. Meanwhile, my unbaptized self will be toiling away in the underworld with the rest of the deviants. Considering all of the intellectuals, atheists, homosexuals, and others that will be joining me, it's sure to be one hell of a party.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Priorities
I was talking with my good friend the other day ( a pseudonym is still forthcoming for her, so I'll just refer to her as G) and we were on the subject of her pseudo-boyfriend. He had recently given her the line, "I don't feel like I'm the number one priority in your life" since she doesn't drop whatever she's doing the moment he calls.
I rolled my eyes. Where do guys come up with this stuff? That's not fair, I suppose--it's something that's been tossed around in relationships for ages from all sides. Priorities, priorities: holding this person above all others, above all other responsibilities that you have. They call, you pick up by the second ring. You have a mountain of work to do, but they want to watch "Lost" instead. The list goes on, but eventually you reach The Discussion, where they look at you with slightly downcast eyes, maybe a pout, so you ask what's wrong and they answer: "I don't feel I'm the number one priority in your life."
Now, don't get me wrong--I know what it's like to feel as though you're not the major priority to someone who you're close to. For many of my formative dating years, I was the one who would call and ask if he wanted to come over and hang out but nah, he felt like staying in. Okay, I'll come to you, then, despite having to get up at 7 a.m. for work! This may seem like a trivial example but essentially I was like an over-eager spaniel, waiting for them to say "when" and throw the ball.
I realize now I probably should have scaled it back and played it cool but I wasn't seasoned enough for it at that point. It took all those examples to wear me down and teach me that taking a step back and not always making them my number one priority was a good way to keep my sanity intact. So I come to my most recent relationship.
We were both finishing up grad school, I was starting to look for jobs, so my head was in a million places. We liked each other, certainly, even dropped the L bomb and made tentative plans for moving in together. He didn't want to move out of the current city; I was ready to run as fast as I could away from the Midwest. And so we get to the fated day where he drops the line.
I can't remember if I rolled my eyes at him or not; I think I probably tried not to, and I was also trying not to laugh at him. It's such an awful response and I don't know why my first instinct was to laugh, but it really did seem ridiculous to me. I rarely if ever chose TV over him. I listened to his endless roommate troubles. I thought I deserved a Gold A+ Girlfriend Medal--except for the fact that I was thinking about my future. I was thinking about a job. I didn't want to stay where he wanted to stay. I was--gag--thinking of independence. And there's the problem--the codependent and the independent trying to hash out a plan for the future. He sees me trying to change things and he blanches. Maybe it was mostly on my own terms, but his uncertain plans for the future didn't seem to be fully formed yet so I took the reigns. I had finally rid myself of my spaniel qualities, and we broke up.
Perhaps it's time we readjust the priority hierarchy in relationships. Instead of having it be something along the lines of:
1. Significant Other!!!!
2-1000. Everything else
Perhaps it can be more of a spectrum: my cat, significant other, job, friends, family, "Survivor."
In my mind, taking away the numbering system takes away the hierarchical importance; everything is now on an even playing field, time devoted to each can be divided up however one chooses. It's more mathematical than I planned, but I feel that it's a good start. So the next time you're fed the "I'm not the number one priority in your life anymore" line, you can feed them the linear spectrum line and say, "See? We're all equal, here."
Or you can roll your eyes, say, "Pretty much" and show them the door.
I rolled my eyes. Where do guys come up with this stuff? That's not fair, I suppose--it's something that's been tossed around in relationships for ages from all sides. Priorities, priorities: holding this person above all others, above all other responsibilities that you have. They call, you pick up by the second ring. You have a mountain of work to do, but they want to watch "Lost" instead. The list goes on, but eventually you reach The Discussion, where they look at you with slightly downcast eyes, maybe a pout, so you ask what's wrong and they answer: "I don't feel I'm the number one priority in your life."
Now, don't get me wrong--I know what it's like to feel as though you're not the major priority to someone who you're close to. For many of my formative dating years, I was the one who would call and ask if he wanted to come over and hang out but nah, he felt like staying in. Okay, I'll come to you, then, despite having to get up at 7 a.m. for work! This may seem like a trivial example but essentially I was like an over-eager spaniel, waiting for them to say "when" and throw the ball.
I realize now I probably should have scaled it back and played it cool but I wasn't seasoned enough for it at that point. It took all those examples to wear me down and teach me that taking a step back and not always making them my number one priority was a good way to keep my sanity intact. So I come to my most recent relationship.
We were both finishing up grad school, I was starting to look for jobs, so my head was in a million places. We liked each other, certainly, even dropped the L bomb and made tentative plans for moving in together. He didn't want to move out of the current city; I was ready to run as fast as I could away from the Midwest. And so we get to the fated day where he drops the line.
I can't remember if I rolled my eyes at him or not; I think I probably tried not to, and I was also trying not to laugh at him. It's such an awful response and I don't know why my first instinct was to laugh, but it really did seem ridiculous to me. I rarely if ever chose TV over him. I listened to his endless roommate troubles. I thought I deserved a Gold A+ Girlfriend Medal--except for the fact that I was thinking about my future. I was thinking about a job. I didn't want to stay where he wanted to stay. I was--gag--thinking of independence. And there's the problem--the codependent and the independent trying to hash out a plan for the future. He sees me trying to change things and he blanches. Maybe it was mostly on my own terms, but his uncertain plans for the future didn't seem to be fully formed yet so I took the reigns. I had finally rid myself of my spaniel qualities, and we broke up.
Perhaps it's time we readjust the priority hierarchy in relationships. Instead of having it be something along the lines of:
1. Significant Other!!!!
2-1000. Everything else
Perhaps it can be more of a spectrum: my cat, significant other, job, friends, family, "Survivor."
In my mind, taking away the numbering system takes away the hierarchical importance; everything is now on an even playing field, time devoted to each can be divided up however one chooses. It's more mathematical than I planned, but I feel that it's a good start. So the next time you're fed the "I'm not the number one priority in your life anymore" line, you can feed them the linear spectrum line and say, "See? We're all equal, here."
Or you can roll your eyes, say, "Pretty much" and show them the door.
For those who do what I cannot
I remember the first time I considered breaking my legs.
My mother was telling me a story about how she had been in her dorm room on December 1st, 1969, the day of the Vietnam Draft, and everyone had their radios on. The guys who lived down the hall were listening, waiting for their birthdays to be called. As each new date was announced, she could hear audible cries and moans from people who had hoped it wouldn't be them. It was one of the worst things she ever had to listen to, and when I heard her retell the story, my heart sank into my stomach because I thought of my father and his friends, sitting around, biting their nails, maybe smoking a joint to help ease the tension.
He never went to Vietnam. His birthday, November 5th, was never called, and after that, he received an educational deferment because he went to graduate school. He was lucky; I asked him what he would have done if he had been called up: throw himself off a train to break his legs, maintain he was too crazy to be drafted into the service, or go to Canada. He shrugged and said he wasn't sure what he would have done.
Going to Canada would have upset his father who had fought in the South Pacific in World War II. My grandfather enlisted in the service after the United States entered into the war. Like many other men of that time, he came back home to start a family, work his job, and never spoke of what happened during the war. My father told me that once or twice, Grandpa had opened up and told him about a time that he and another man had been sent out to patrol an area of jungle before the rest of the group would advance. So my grandfather went and was on the lookout; it seemed quiet, but just as he got up to leave and report back, he found a Japanese soldier curled up, sleeping on the other side of a log. My grandfather took up his rifle and shot him. He had told my father it was the only way, otherwise they would come back and shoot you just the same.
I was a sophomore in college in 2004 when there was a small discussion in the Bush Administration about a possible reinstatement of the draft, this time for all eligible men and women. My heart stopped; it wasn't just that the draft may return, but that I could be sent off too. Basic Training, heaving a gun around, shooting someone: my friends and I laughed at how ridiculous we would look in fatigues, but secretly, I was petrified. I began to think about Canada and breaking my legs, just about anything that would keep me from having to do something I knew I physically, mentally, and emotionally could not do. If I couldn't convince them I was crazy, certainly being in the military would make me insane.
I'm sure some would consider this cowardly and unpatriotic, but I don't particularly care. I know that I'm not made of the same mettle as my grandfather, who marched off into the face of a dangerous unknown, and then returned to deal with everyday life with such conviction and resolve; nor the millions of other men and women who have gone off to war, and either die doing so, or return to the U.S., only to be forgotten by their government with poor or non-existent medical and psychiatric care.
I may not support many of these wars, but that doesn't mean that when I ran by Veterans Park the other day and saw the wreaths put up for the fathers, brothers, and sons who had lost their lives in battle (many from the Vietnam War), I didn't feel crushed by the sense of loss. It was a beautiful day, families out with bikes and strollers, meandering around and I wondered if they knew it was Memorial Day, or if they cared.
I turned from the wreaths and the monument and thought of my grandfather, alone in a jungle in Asia except for his rifle.
My mother was telling me a story about how she had been in her dorm room on December 1st, 1969, the day of the Vietnam Draft, and everyone had their radios on. The guys who lived down the hall were listening, waiting for their birthdays to be called. As each new date was announced, she could hear audible cries and moans from people who had hoped it wouldn't be them. It was one of the worst things she ever had to listen to, and when I heard her retell the story, my heart sank into my stomach because I thought of my father and his friends, sitting around, biting their nails, maybe smoking a joint to help ease the tension.
He never went to Vietnam. His birthday, November 5th, was never called, and after that, he received an educational deferment because he went to graduate school. He was lucky; I asked him what he would have done if he had been called up: throw himself off a train to break his legs, maintain he was too crazy to be drafted into the service, or go to Canada. He shrugged and said he wasn't sure what he would have done.
Going to Canada would have upset his father who had fought in the South Pacific in World War II. My grandfather enlisted in the service after the United States entered into the war. Like many other men of that time, he came back home to start a family, work his job, and never spoke of what happened during the war. My father told me that once or twice, Grandpa had opened up and told him about a time that he and another man had been sent out to patrol an area of jungle before the rest of the group would advance. So my grandfather went and was on the lookout; it seemed quiet, but just as he got up to leave and report back, he found a Japanese soldier curled up, sleeping on the other side of a log. My grandfather took up his rifle and shot him. He had told my father it was the only way, otherwise they would come back and shoot you just the same.
I was a sophomore in college in 2004 when there was a small discussion in the Bush Administration about a possible reinstatement of the draft, this time for all eligible men and women. My heart stopped; it wasn't just that the draft may return, but that I could be sent off too. Basic Training, heaving a gun around, shooting someone: my friends and I laughed at how ridiculous we would look in fatigues, but secretly, I was petrified. I began to think about Canada and breaking my legs, just about anything that would keep me from having to do something I knew I physically, mentally, and emotionally could not do. If I couldn't convince them I was crazy, certainly being in the military would make me insane.
I'm sure some would consider this cowardly and unpatriotic, but I don't particularly care. I know that I'm not made of the same mettle as my grandfather, who marched off into the face of a dangerous unknown, and then returned to deal with everyday life with such conviction and resolve; nor the millions of other men and women who have gone off to war, and either die doing so, or return to the U.S., only to be forgotten by their government with poor or non-existent medical and psychiatric care.
I may not support many of these wars, but that doesn't mean that when I ran by Veterans Park the other day and saw the wreaths put up for the fathers, brothers, and sons who had lost their lives in battle (many from the Vietnam War), I didn't feel crushed by the sense of loss. It was a beautiful day, families out with bikes and strollers, meandering around and I wondered if they knew it was Memorial Day, or if they cared.
I turned from the wreaths and the monument and thought of my grandfather, alone in a jungle in Asia except for his rifle.
Sally
Sally is my cat. She's a three-year old tortoise shell who hails from Brooklyn and she entertains me to no end. Everyday, I come home and before I'm even at the door, she can hear my keys and is meowing on the other side, ready to zip out into the hallway. This is her daily excursion.
Usually, I will go and find her when I hear a neighbor come out of their apartment. Some are amused that she likes to explore the halls so much. Usually I grab my laptop, make room for her on the loveseat and we go through our days.
For a while, she was one of the only friends I had in Milwaukee, so we'd spend a great deal of time together. I tried to teach her how to use her pink halter, but she just slunk around and looked forlorn. We might try that again this summer, since it's all about new projects this time around.
There are a lot of people out there who have either never had pets or simply can't comprehend talking to animals or making up voices for them to talk back with. My brother is one of them; we grew up in the same household with the same anthropomorphizing mother, but he grew up to be a zoologist who is leery of movies like "Finding Nemo" with talking fish (while in secret he lets his dog up on the furniture if his girlfriend isn't around).
Sally is also fluent in several languages:
She's also been to the Sorbonne, but dropped out after a very problematic and secretive row with a higher up in the French government. She burned her beret after that, and gave up cigarettes.
In Brooklyn she hung around the lofts and bemoaned the gentrification until one evening, she was found by my brother who, in a strange fit, decided to fly her back to Madison, WI with him and put her up in his apartment that he shared with his allergic roommate. She was passed around to several other people before my brother ended up moving in with his allergic girlfriend, and Sally was brought to live with me.
I was ecstatic; I kitty-proofed the windows with reinforced screens so she could sit and watch the birds without rolling out. I found extra toys for her, and brought in an air conditioner for the hot days.
Sure there are the days when I wake up to step in cat puke or a turd on the rug after a relatively restless night of her trying to chew on my hair and zipping around on the bed and I curse her and tell her I can't look at her at that exact moment due to overwhelming irritation.
But she's my dear friend; she's seen me through plenty of relationships during our tenure and will probably see me through plenty more and I will keep scrubbing the carpets to get the puke stains out and shaking the treat jar to get her excited.
Usually, I will go and find her when I hear a neighbor come out of their apartment. Some are amused that she likes to explore the halls so much. Usually I grab my laptop, make room for her on the loveseat and we go through our days.
For a while, she was one of the only friends I had in Milwaukee, so we'd spend a great deal of time together. I tried to teach her how to use her pink halter, but she just slunk around and looked forlorn. We might try that again this summer, since it's all about new projects this time around.
There are a lot of people out there who have either never had pets or simply can't comprehend talking to animals or making up voices for them to talk back with. My brother is one of them; we grew up in the same household with the same anthropomorphizing mother, but he grew up to be a zoologist who is leery of movies like "Finding Nemo" with talking fish (while in secret he lets his dog up on the furniture if his girlfriend isn't around).
Sally is also fluent in several languages:
She's also been to the Sorbonne, but dropped out after a very problematic and secretive row with a higher up in the French government. She burned her beret after that, and gave up cigarettes.
In Brooklyn she hung around the lofts and bemoaned the gentrification until one evening, she was found by my brother who, in a strange fit, decided to fly her back to Madison, WI with him and put her up in his apartment that he shared with his allergic roommate. She was passed around to several other people before my brother ended up moving in with his allergic girlfriend, and Sally was brought to live with me.
I was ecstatic; I kitty-proofed the windows with reinforced screens so she could sit and watch the birds without rolling out. I found extra toys for her, and brought in an air conditioner for the hot days.
Sure there are the days when I wake up to step in cat puke or a turd on the rug after a relatively restless night of her trying to chew on my hair and zipping around on the bed and I curse her and tell her I can't look at her at that exact moment due to overwhelming irritation.
But she's my dear friend; she's seen me through plenty of relationships during our tenure and will probably see me through plenty more and I will keep scrubbing the carpets to get the puke stains out and shaking the treat jar to get her excited.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
For those who do what I cannot
I remember the first time I considered breaking my legs.
My mother was telling me a story about how she had been in her dorm room on December 1st, 1969, the day of the Vietnam Draft, and everyone had their radios on. The guys who lived down the hall were listening, waiting for their birthdays to be called. As each new date was announced, she could hear audible cries and moans from people who had hoped it wouldn't be them. It was one of the worst things she ever had to listen to, and when I heard her retell the story, my heart sank into my stomach because I thought of my father and his friends, sitting around, biting their nails, maybe smoking a joint to help ease the tension.
He never went to Vietnam. His birthday, November 5th, was never called, and after that, he received an educational deferment because he went to graduate school. He was lucky; I asked him what he would have done if he had been called up: throw himself off a train to break his legs, maintain he was too crazy to be drafted into the service, or go to Canada. He shrugged and said he wasn't sure what he would have done.
Going to Canada would have upset his father who had fought in the South Pacific in World War II. My grandfather enlisted in the service after the United States entered into the war. Like many other men of that time, he came back home to start a family, work his job, and never spoke of what happened during the war. My father told me that once or twice, Grandpa had opened up and told him about a time that he and another man had been sent out to patrol an area of jungle before the rest of the group would advance. So my grandfather went and was on the lookout; it seemed quiet, but just as he got up to leave and report back, he found a Japanese soldier curled up, sleeping on the other side of a log. My grandfather took up his rifle and shot him. He had told my father it was the only way, otherwise they would come back and shoot you just the same.
I was a sophomore in college in 2004 when there was a small discussion in the Bush Administration about a possible reinstatement of the draft, this time for all eligible men and women. My heart stopped; it wasn't just that the draft may return, but that I could be sent off too. Basic Training, heaving a gun around, shooting someone: my friends and I laughed at how ridiculous we would look in fatigues, but secretly, I was petrified. I began to think about Canada and breaking my legs, just about anything that would keep me from having to do something I knew I physically, mentally, and emotionally could not do. If I couldn't convince them I was crazy, certainly being in the military would make me insane.
I'm sure some would consider this cowardly and unpatriotic, but I don't particularly care. I know that I'm not made of the same mettle as my grandfather, who marched off into the face of a dangerous unknown, and then returned to deal with everyday life with such conviction and resolve; nor the millions of other men and women who have gone off to war, and either die doing so, or return to the U.S., only to be forgotten by their government with poor or non-existent medical and psychiatric care.
I may not support many of these wars, but that doesn't mean that when I ran by Veterans Park the other day and saw the wreaths put up for the fathers, brothers, and sons who had lost their lives in battle (many from the Vietnam War), I didn't feel crushed by the sense of loss. It was a beautiful day, families out with bikes and strollers, meandering around and I wondered if they knew it was Memorial Day, or if they cared.
I turned from the wreaths and the monument and thought of my grandfather, alone in a jungle in Asia except for his rifle.
My mother was telling me a story about how she had been in her dorm room on December 1st, 1969, the day of the Vietnam Draft, and everyone had their radios on. The guys who lived down the hall were listening, waiting for their birthdays to be called. As each new date was announced, she could hear audible cries and moans from people who had hoped it wouldn't be them. It was one of the worst things she ever had to listen to, and when I heard her retell the story, my heart sank into my stomach because I thought of my father and his friends, sitting around, biting their nails, maybe smoking a joint to help ease the tension.
He never went to Vietnam. His birthday, November 5th, was never called, and after that, he received an educational deferment because he went to graduate school. He was lucky; I asked him what he would have done if he had been called up: throw himself off a train to break his legs, maintain he was too crazy to be drafted into the service, or go to Canada. He shrugged and said he wasn't sure what he would have done.
Going to Canada would have upset his father who had fought in the South Pacific in World War II. My grandfather enlisted in the service after the United States entered into the war. Like many other men of that time, he came back home to start a family, work his job, and never spoke of what happened during the war. My father told me that once or twice, Grandpa had opened up and told him about a time that he and another man had been sent out to patrol an area of jungle before the rest of the group would advance. So my grandfather went and was on the lookout; it seemed quiet, but just as he got up to leave and report back, he found a Japanese soldier curled up, sleeping on the other side of a log. My grandfather took up his rifle and shot him. He had told my father it was the only way, otherwise they would come back and shoot you just the same.
I was a sophomore in college in 2004 when there was a small discussion in the Bush Administration about a possible reinstatement of the draft, this time for all eligible men and women. My heart stopped; it wasn't just that the draft may return, but that I could be sent off too. Basic Training, heaving a gun around, shooting someone: my friends and I laughed at how ridiculous we would look in fatigues, but secretly, I was petrified. I began to think about Canada and breaking my legs, just about anything that would keep me from having to do something I knew I physically, mentally, and emotionally could not do. If I couldn't convince them I was crazy, certainly being in the military would make me insane.
I'm sure some would consider this cowardly and unpatriotic, but I don't particularly care. I know that I'm not made of the same mettle as my grandfather, who marched off into the face of a dangerous unknown, and then returned to deal with everyday life with such conviction and resolve; nor the millions of other men and women who have gone off to war, and either die doing so, or return to the U.S., only to be forgotten by their government with poor or non-existent medical and psychiatric care.
I may not support many of these wars, but that doesn't mean that when I ran by Veterans Park the other day and saw the wreaths put up for the fathers, brothers, and sons who had lost their lives in battle (many from the Vietnam War), I didn't feel crushed by the sense of loss. It was a beautiful day, families out with bikes and strollers, meandering around and I wondered if they knew it was Memorial Day, or if they cared.
I turned from the wreaths and the monument and thought of my grandfather, alone in a jungle in Asia except for his rifle.
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