Let's assume, for the purpose of my missive here, that if you are reading this, you are a WASP--white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant. In other words, the assumed "norm" for Americans. Let's also assume that you were born in the United States and take for granted the rights and privileges that go with that. You probably are older than 30, and have formed lots of opinions about society, politics, mankind, religion, relationships, etc., all based on your experiences in life and the American culture in which you were raised. You have established your fears and biases, also based on those, and are surrounded by people who believe as you do because THEY are American, too.
Now, suppose for a moment that, by accident of birth, you weren't born in the U.S. of white parents. Or that, by accident of birth, you were born with a physical/mental handicap. Or that, by accident of birth, you were born to drug-addicted parents. Or your family fell on hard times and you were homeless. Or you were born gay. Or...or...or... How would your reality change? And what could you do about any of that? The answer is: nothing. You certainly didn't choose those circumstances.
I had a 4th grade student once whose mother and one brother were killed in a car accident. He was the cutest thing, but he was lost. His father was in prison somewhere in Florida. When Mom died, no one had custody of him. Stepdad tried to help, but had no legal rights. Sometimes, he didn't know what bus to get on at the end of the school day. Was he supposed to go to his aunt's? His grandmother's? Who knew? At recess one day, he came to me to complain that someone had treated him badly. Whatever the issue was, the other kid had said, "Well, at least I have a mother!" Words cannot express the anger I felt toward the other child. He had broken no playground rules by which I could punish him, but all of the love and hugs I could give to James would not change the hurt he had experienced with those words. It certainly wasn't his choice that his mother was dead.
I had another student in 8th grade who was autistic and stuttered. He was very bright--in fact had the highest grade in that class one term--but the other kids taunted him mercilessly because he was different. I provided preferential seating to keep him away from his tormentors but had to keep a watch on him at all times because, when he reached the end of his tolerance, his eyes would get wild, and he would explode. Most of the time, it was easier to work with just him than it was to deal with the tormentors, which just wasn't fair. One day, I took Sean to the hall to try to calm him down because the other kids had driven him to distraction. I tried to explain to him that people who put him down were just insecure about their own reality, and that the problem was with them and not him. His response floored me. He said, "If they are insecure and unhappy, then they must know how it feels to be me". It broke my heart. I wept in front of the child. Sean didn't choose to be born afflicted. HE couldn't change how he was, and I couldn't change how he was. I sent him to safer surroundings that day, then lit into the class about their treatment of him. Did it make a difference? I don't think so.
I wish I could attribute these things to immature minds. Kids. Yeah, kids. Unfortunately, it isn't so. I've seen worse from adults. Adults who are so egocentric that they don't get it.
Don't like black people? Better be grateful that you weren't born black. That means don't go to the tanning beds to make your skin darker and don't get collagen injections to pump up your lips, or butt implants to give you a booty.
Don't like immigrants? Don't look too far back into your own history. Unless you are a Native American, you are the product of immigrants.
Hate gays? Why? How many do you know well? What have they done to you? Do you think it will rub off on you? Do you honestly think that people would choose to be someone that society shuns? And what business is it of yours??
We can't choose how we were born or what happens to us in life. We should NOT judge others by conditions not of their choosing. God didn't bless me with a lot of hair. I didn't choose it. I can't change it. If you judge me by what's on my head...or the color of my skin...or my sexual preference...it's YOUR problem, not mine.
If, by accident of birth, you were lucky enough to be born in a sanitary hospital somewhere in the U.S. instead of in a dirt-floor hut in the Congo, you are blessed, indeed. But you need to understand that we are ALL children of God, in need of care and concern. Before you judge others for whatever they do that counters all of your beliefs, make sure you understand the culture. Because--guess what? Being American does not excuse you from being a world citizen.
Even if your birth was an "accident", you are special. The accident of your birth has changed the world.
Sunday, October 30, 2016
Monday, October 24, 2016
Profanity
As a classroom teacher once upon a time, I began each school year with my lecture about what my class rules were. One of them was that I would not accept profanity in my class, nor would I accept less-than-profane-but-almost-equally-unacceptable use of crass vocabulary. (For example, if I student came to me and said, "I have to go pee," I wouldn't give permission to leave the room until the request was made more socially acceptable.) My usual comment was, if you wouldn't say it to your minister or your grandmother, don't say it to me. (Of course, that was usually followed with, "You don't know my grandma!")
Without fail, during the course of that class, one or more students would ask, "Who decides what is a bad word and what isn't? They are just words, so what's the big deal?" I was ready for that. I pointed out that "bad words" are divided into two classes--curses and profanity. Curses are more religiously oriented--hell and damn--with which a person wishes ill on someone else by condemning them to eternal damnation in Hell. Profanity, however, refers to body parts, bodily functions, and sexual acts--all of which polite society used to consider as private. If it's okay to use those terms in public, why is it NOT okay to DO those things in public? Why do we have gender-separate bathrooms? Why not just drop your trousers and defecate in public? No? Why? Or...perhaps you'd rather just talk about it in graphic, profane words. What's the difference?
One reason to refrain from using profanity is to keep a civil society. If we all give in to profane/crass language, where do we go from there? If you call someone a motherf'er, what's left? What's beyond that? And if one uses that kind of language in a minor situation, what will be available in a worse one? When I was active in dramatic productions, I was always coached not to go to the ultimate in volume or drama because there would be nothing left for other situations. I took that to heart.
We all--every stinkin' one of us--knows the words. Choosing to use them or not is what makes the difference. Over the last couple of months, I've done battle with a dear relative over her choice of language. She wasn't raised the way she comes across, but she thinks that she should be accepted for whatever comes out of her mouth, no matter how much disrespect it creates. I'm sorry. I love her too much to accept it. Disrespect? Using those words means she has no other resources. Profanity means there is nowhere else to go to express oneself. It spells disrespect for the recipient and disrespect for the self. Some of us--although the number is dwindling--would like to keep respect as part of our family heritage.
I will not dishonor my parents' and grandparents' memory by giving in to the "gift" of unleashed profanity. When my generation dies out, polite society may also. I don't know. I'm no prude, but I DO understand that a curse word here or there is a whole lot more effective when used sparingly. I refuse to give in to today's so-called standards. So I'm a dinosaur!
Without fail, during the course of that class, one or more students would ask, "Who decides what is a bad word and what isn't? They are just words, so what's the big deal?" I was ready for that. I pointed out that "bad words" are divided into two classes--curses and profanity. Curses are more religiously oriented--hell and damn--with which a person wishes ill on someone else by condemning them to eternal damnation in Hell. Profanity, however, refers to body parts, bodily functions, and sexual acts--all of which polite society used to consider as private. If it's okay to use those terms in public, why is it NOT okay to DO those things in public? Why do we have gender-separate bathrooms? Why not just drop your trousers and defecate in public? No? Why? Or...perhaps you'd rather just talk about it in graphic, profane words. What's the difference?
One reason to refrain from using profanity is to keep a civil society. If we all give in to profane/crass language, where do we go from there? If you call someone a motherf'er, what's left? What's beyond that? And if one uses that kind of language in a minor situation, what will be available in a worse one? When I was active in dramatic productions, I was always coached not to go to the ultimate in volume or drama because there would be nothing left for other situations. I took that to heart.
We all--every stinkin' one of us--knows the words. Choosing to use them or not is what makes the difference. Over the last couple of months, I've done battle with a dear relative over her choice of language. She wasn't raised the way she comes across, but she thinks that she should be accepted for whatever comes out of her mouth, no matter how much disrespect it creates. I'm sorry. I love her too much to accept it. Disrespect? Using those words means she has no other resources. Profanity means there is nowhere else to go to express oneself. It spells disrespect for the recipient and disrespect for the self. Some of us--although the number is dwindling--would like to keep respect as part of our family heritage.
I will not dishonor my parents' and grandparents' memory by giving in to the "gift" of unleashed profanity. When my generation dies out, polite society may also. I don't know. I'm no prude, but I DO understand that a curse word here or there is a whole lot more effective when used sparingly. I refuse to give in to today's so-called standards. So I'm a dinosaur!
The Strong Woman
Heroes are made, not born. So are strong women.
As a gender, females are petted and pampered as children. Some of us never make it past the Entitled Princess role. Others of us transcend the make-believe world into reality fairly early in life. Nature or nurture? Who knows? Why should it matter? To quote an overused saying, it is what it is. Nothing can change that.
I've just returned home from nearly a month at my sister's in Illinois to attend and assist with the funeral and funeral aftermath of her husband of 55 years. My brother-in-law had Fronto-Temporal Degeneration. Dementia. He was first diagnosed in 2011, although the signs were creeping in several years before that. Shari endured untold years of disrupt and tantrums and a mind that was slowly, slowly slipping away, made worse by the fact that he knew it and fought with it every step of the way. He was "[raging] at the dying of the light"...and she had to figure out how to get them both through every day of that. She kept him home and took care of him, in spite of the increasing isolation, until health issues took him to the hospital, perhaps one month before he passed.
Understand that she and I were always in daily contact by email or phone. All I could do was sit back and provide words from 200 miles away. I visited when I could--the last time in August just before his first trip to the hospital. I was worried about her; worried from the standpoint of wondering how much more she could take. During his entire 3-week hospital stay--one week the first time, and two weeks just a week after that--she spent almost every night in the hospital with him, just to help keep him calm. He really didn't want her out of his sight. No one else mattered to him, as it should be. Then, when the doctors said they could do nothing more for him, she was faced with The Decision because of the prognosis of the quality of his life then. There was no going back. I think she was scared and feeling vulnerable and alone. She did the right thing by putting him in hospice care, then started the vigil of being there every day as he declined into the inevitable oblivion. Strong? Yes. What other choice did she have? There was nothing else she could do that would honor her husband's life and allow him to pass peacefully.
Over the last five years or so, I have seen/heard each of her two daughters and a grandchild or two tell her that she is a "strong woman" and that they get that from her. Ha! They don't have a clue how to be strong like she is! Throughout it all, only one of them hasn't asked for/taken money to help them out of financial situations, not all of which are legit. Daddy/Grandpa was dying, but oh well!
So, how did my sister become a Strong Woman? She, like me, was born with it and lived it. Our grandmother was the matriarch of the family. She was born in a Poor House in Savannah, IL, of a crippled mother and no known father. Orphaned by age 12, she was raised by an aunt and had to find her way in the world. She became a teacher, traveling around to find a place to be. She ended up as a school teacher on the frontier of South Dakota where my grandfather from Illinois gathered her up to marry her and bring her home to the farm in IL. She was too proud to admit her humble beginnings, so she over-achieved. She raised three really respectable kids during the Great Depression when they weren't always sure if they could keep the farm. The livestock and garden provided food when there was otherwise no money.
Years later, my dad went off to war with the Navy, and my mother and two sisters lived at the farmhouse with the grandparents. (I wasn't born yet.) One fine April day, the house caught fire and burned to the ground when my mother was in town. When she returned to see the house mere smoldering ruins, she began to cry, and our grandmother who met her at the car said, "Don't you start! I have been through this whole day without crying, and you will, too!" And that, my friends, tells the whole story of where my sister's strength comes from. A scant few months later, the youngest of the sisters, a mere toddler, strangled to death from a blinds cord hanging too close to her crib at the grandparents' new home in a garage. That sealed the fate of the women's strength. Get through it. Get over it. Move on. What other choice is there?? Or, as my friend Phyllis would say, "Don't fold up. You'll just have to unfold again."
I think my sister's children are all expecting her to fall apart in grief. I know better. She will have her moments, which she is entitled to have. Will she feel all alone? Yes. Will she be scared? Of course. Will she fall apart? Not on your life! She started grieving the loss of her husband long before he died. She carried herself well all during his ceremonies--better than some of those who had no real reason to behave as they did. She has taken control. Why? Because she has to. Who will do it if not she? She's pretty awesome, in my estimation.
In the midst of all of the comments from family about how strong she is, there is no commentary about how old she is. She puts up a strong front...but the fact is that my sister will turn 75 on Pearl Harbor Day in December. She doesn't look 75. She doesn't act 75. Yet it stands to reason that the family should no longer expect her to finance their family meals or holidays, or keep the swimming pool open for their pleasure unless they are willing to come and do the work. Ultimately, it is up to her. In the meantime, she is my hero.
Shari Andrew wasn't born with her hand out. She and her husband worked their buns off through thick and thin to have what they have. Now half of that income is gone. I hope the rest of the troops are ready because my sister, the strong woman, is about the become a whole lot stronger to shut them all down and take care of herself, first.
Are you listening, Shari??
As a gender, females are petted and pampered as children. Some of us never make it past the Entitled Princess role. Others of us transcend the make-believe world into reality fairly early in life. Nature or nurture? Who knows? Why should it matter? To quote an overused saying, it is what it is. Nothing can change that.
I've just returned home from nearly a month at my sister's in Illinois to attend and assist with the funeral and funeral aftermath of her husband of 55 years. My brother-in-law had Fronto-Temporal Degeneration. Dementia. He was first diagnosed in 2011, although the signs were creeping in several years before that. Shari endured untold years of disrupt and tantrums and a mind that was slowly, slowly slipping away, made worse by the fact that he knew it and fought with it every step of the way. He was "[raging] at the dying of the light"...and she had to figure out how to get them both through every day of that. She kept him home and took care of him, in spite of the increasing isolation, until health issues took him to the hospital, perhaps one month before he passed.
Understand that she and I were always in daily contact by email or phone. All I could do was sit back and provide words from 200 miles away. I visited when I could--the last time in August just before his first trip to the hospital. I was worried about her; worried from the standpoint of wondering how much more she could take. During his entire 3-week hospital stay--one week the first time, and two weeks just a week after that--she spent almost every night in the hospital with him, just to help keep him calm. He really didn't want her out of his sight. No one else mattered to him, as it should be. Then, when the doctors said they could do nothing more for him, she was faced with The Decision because of the prognosis of the quality of his life then. There was no going back. I think she was scared and feeling vulnerable and alone. She did the right thing by putting him in hospice care, then started the vigil of being there every day as he declined into the inevitable oblivion. Strong? Yes. What other choice did she have? There was nothing else she could do that would honor her husband's life and allow him to pass peacefully.
Over the last five years or so, I have seen/heard each of her two daughters and a grandchild or two tell her that she is a "strong woman" and that they get that from her. Ha! They don't have a clue how to be strong like she is! Throughout it all, only one of them hasn't asked for/taken money to help them out of financial situations, not all of which are legit. Daddy/Grandpa was dying, but oh well!
So, how did my sister become a Strong Woman? She, like me, was born with it and lived it. Our grandmother was the matriarch of the family. She was born in a Poor House in Savannah, IL, of a crippled mother and no known father. Orphaned by age 12, she was raised by an aunt and had to find her way in the world. She became a teacher, traveling around to find a place to be. She ended up as a school teacher on the frontier of South Dakota where my grandfather from Illinois gathered her up to marry her and bring her home to the farm in IL. She was too proud to admit her humble beginnings, so she over-achieved. She raised three really respectable kids during the Great Depression when they weren't always sure if they could keep the farm. The livestock and garden provided food when there was otherwise no money.
Years later, my dad went off to war with the Navy, and my mother and two sisters lived at the farmhouse with the grandparents. (I wasn't born yet.) One fine April day, the house caught fire and burned to the ground when my mother was in town. When she returned to see the house mere smoldering ruins, she began to cry, and our grandmother who met her at the car said, "Don't you start! I have been through this whole day without crying, and you will, too!" And that, my friends, tells the whole story of where my sister's strength comes from. A scant few months later, the youngest of the sisters, a mere toddler, strangled to death from a blinds cord hanging too close to her crib at the grandparents' new home in a garage. That sealed the fate of the women's strength. Get through it. Get over it. Move on. What other choice is there?? Or, as my friend Phyllis would say, "Don't fold up. You'll just have to unfold again."
I think my sister's children are all expecting her to fall apart in grief. I know better. She will have her moments, which she is entitled to have. Will she feel all alone? Yes. Will she be scared? Of course. Will she fall apart? Not on your life! She started grieving the loss of her husband long before he died. She carried herself well all during his ceremonies--better than some of those who had no real reason to behave as they did. She has taken control. Why? Because she has to. Who will do it if not she? She's pretty awesome, in my estimation.
In the midst of all of the comments from family about how strong she is, there is no commentary about how old she is. She puts up a strong front...but the fact is that my sister will turn 75 on Pearl Harbor Day in December. She doesn't look 75. She doesn't act 75. Yet it stands to reason that the family should no longer expect her to finance their family meals or holidays, or keep the swimming pool open for their pleasure unless they are willing to come and do the work. Ultimately, it is up to her. In the meantime, she is my hero.
Shari Andrew wasn't born with her hand out. She and her husband worked their buns off through thick and thin to have what they have. Now half of that income is gone. I hope the rest of the troops are ready because my sister, the strong woman, is about the become a whole lot stronger to shut them all down and take care of herself, first.
Are you listening, Shari??
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