I really miss my mother. Tomorrow I'm going to the farmer's market to buy stuff to make supper for Sunday evening. I haven't had supper but three or four times since I've been here. Sure I've eaten dinner, and lunched, and supped, but I haven't had supper. Supper is what we eat at home; in the good ol' South where I was raised and where I'll die. [If I have anything to say about it of couse.]
As I was writtin' the email to the Global Domination Club settin' the official date and time of our Penultimate Battle of the Universe for Sunday Evenin' at 7:00 pm. See, we have a group of us here who sort of play what we call "Personal Engagement Risk". {I think I've mentioned this before.) And see, I've decided I was going to cook supper for everyone involved. Mostly because when I cook, it reminds me of home.
Home just isn't McAllen where my parents are, but also Abilene - the last place I called home. I remember all the fun times I had with my friends and crew there. I cooked many a meal for them. Perhaps I should take the advice of a dear friend: "Make this your home, while you're here." I could try.
But as I get ready to go to bed [actually I have another couple hours to go] I decided to make my list for tomorrow. I realized how much I miss my mama. I miss antique stores, and home-made ice cream, and HGTV. I miss learning to make dolls, and needlepoint, and doiles. I miss porkchops with apple sause and bread pudding and fried chicken and potatoes. I miss music at the crack of dawn in Elementary School to wake me up and I miss watching Rachel Ashwell.
I'll never be as good at running a house and workin' as my mama, or as good at being a mom, but I'll sure try. Clean house, good food from scratch, crisp clothes, good table setting, and a big smile. And of course, a good prayer before the good eatin'.
This Sunday supper is for you mama - just like you taught me.
Friday, October 14, 2005
I Miss Mayberry
Pie is the answer to all things wrong with life.
This morning I went down the market. While I was driving through the parking lot, I put my car to a stop to allow an elderly gentlemen to cross the parking lot over to the area where the cars were parked. After he had crossed where my car was, he fell down. Face first ladies and gentlemen, he fell into an island of grass and rocks and flowers. He had to be at least 85, and alone.
No one cared.
Everyone kept on walking, kept on driving.
Everyone.
Everyone except me. After I saw him fall, I stopped my car to help him. Everyone was honking and someone almost hit me trying to go around. So fine, I parked my car and went to find him to see if I could help. None, I repeat none of the people rushing by him in the busy busy town of Malibu, felt the need to help him. I could already see that he had a newly developed hobble and a bruise. As I assisted him to his car, he said he didn't need anything. As I watched him drive away, I cried a little inside. I cried for California - for people who don't have "home" even in a place they have lived in all of their lives. I cried tears of joy for Texas, where everyone would stop for him, and a tear of seperation from my home. All of these tears were only on the inside of course, but as I searched for a gallon of 2% milk for supper tomorrow, they nearly surfaced.
Oh well, I need apples for pie. Ah, pie!! There's the rub!
A dear young man here I have had the opportunity to make friendswith once told me that if I ever got to busy to hang out, he'd just make me a pie. He said because I am who I am, he would never assume at my failure to answer his phone calls that I was ignoring him or otherwise being rude. He would know that I was simply too busy, or maybe ill. If I were ill, he told me, he'd bring me soup. If I were busy he said he'd make me a pie - from scratch. A pie from scratch - that reminds me of Abilene, where we'd make each other pies and cookies and the like. What he said is true, pie makes the busy slow down, it makes the cranky smile, and it makes the lonely belong.
Perhaps that's the key. Perhaps everyone in California is so cranky, and rude, and un-friendly because they don't have pie here.
I hope I have enough flour.
This morning I went down the market. While I was driving through the parking lot, I put my car to a stop to allow an elderly gentlemen to cross the parking lot over to the area where the cars were parked. After he had crossed where my car was, he fell down. Face first ladies and gentlemen, he fell into an island of grass and rocks and flowers. He had to be at least 85, and alone.
No one cared.
Everyone kept on walking, kept on driving.
Everyone.
Everyone except me. After I saw him fall, I stopped my car to help him. Everyone was honking and someone almost hit me trying to go around. So fine, I parked my car and went to find him to see if I could help. None, I repeat none of the people rushing by him in the busy busy town of Malibu, felt the need to help him. I could already see that he had a newly developed hobble and a bruise. As I assisted him to his car, he said he didn't need anything. As I watched him drive away, I cried a little inside. I cried for California - for people who don't have "home" even in a place they have lived in all of their lives. I cried tears of joy for Texas, where everyone would stop for him, and a tear of seperation from my home. All of these tears were only on the inside of course, but as I searched for a gallon of 2% milk for supper tomorrow, they nearly surfaced.
Oh well, I need apples for pie. Ah, pie!! There's the rub!
A dear young man here I have had the opportunity to make friendswith once told me that if I ever got to busy to hang out, he'd just make me a pie. He said because I am who I am, he would never assume at my failure to answer his phone calls that I was ignoring him or otherwise being rude. He would know that I was simply too busy, or maybe ill. If I were ill, he told me, he'd bring me soup. If I were busy he said he'd make me a pie - from scratch. A pie from scratch - that reminds me of Abilene, where we'd make each other pies and cookies and the like. What he said is true, pie makes the busy slow down, it makes the cranky smile, and it makes the lonely belong.
Perhaps that's the key. Perhaps everyone in California is so cranky, and rude, and un-friendly because they don't have pie here.
I hope I have enough flour.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
What To Do About Oneself Vol. II
When I guess I must admit that I was wrong, I mean to say I never really knew what it was I wanted. That's not true either I suppose. I suspect that what I really mean to say is that I didn't actually know the full ramifications of what I prayed for.
I believe that I can be fairly certian of the accuracy of the following statement: most people do not automaticallly assume the relevence of a debate about the linear quality of Human Rights along a progressive spectrum to a conversation about their friends only trying to obtain a girlfriend.
Fundamentally, the problem is not that I cannot judge on a sliding scale, or that my friends aren't allowed to make mistakes, or even that I cannot hold them accountable. The real issue is how or why did I notice? Perhaps I am learning the difficult lesson of Christianity [or at least one of many]: that the Christian lifestyle can be silently radical and peacefully radical; but radical none the less. As I grow and slowly obtain the memory of God for oppressed, and seek to see things through his eyes, ever once in a while: I DO. I see things as no other around me does. This means that the general level of discomfort I have is steadily increasing everyday not just about things I see around me, but perhaps even things I say.
I was wrong: discomfort has inherent value. It means I don't belong here.
I believe that I can be fairly certian of the accuracy of the following statement: most people do not automaticallly assume the relevence of a debate about the linear quality of Human Rights along a progressive spectrum to a conversation about their friends only trying to obtain a girlfriend.
Fundamentally, the problem is not that I cannot judge on a sliding scale, or that my friends aren't allowed to make mistakes, or even that I cannot hold them accountable. The real issue is how or why did I notice? Perhaps I am learning the difficult lesson of Christianity [or at least one of many]: that the Christian lifestyle can be silently radical and peacefully radical; but radical none the less. As I grow and slowly obtain the memory of God for oppressed, and seek to see things through his eyes, ever once in a while: I DO. I see things as no other around me does. This means that the general level of discomfort I have is steadily increasing everyday not just about things I see around me, but perhaps even things I say.
I was wrong: discomfort has inherent value. It means I don't belong here.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
What To Do About Oneself
Have you ever stoped to thinka bout what makes yourself tick? I often do, think about inner self that is. Perhaps so much so, that it is what makes me tick. Maybe I am an entity that operates entirely on the products and energy from introspection.
My mind is always racing at a pace of 100 miles an hour, and I wonder sometimes if I'll ever be able to stop. I was always taught that introspection is healthy, so I spend time each day thinking carefully about what I have said and done that day, what I think and why. Why did I have that argument with that person? Why did I feel naseaus at that thought or comment, but not at that one? Why did I say that word or those words? Why did I cry? Why do I weep?
Let's talk about an example. So tonight, Tommy showed me a website that he says he makes use of sometimes when he is boerd. I mean, it's harmless enough. It's just sort of a community switchboard website, so you can get information about garage sales, community events etc. There is of course, also the requisite dating for singles category. He told me that sometimes he goes to the dating for singles, searches for women aged 20-25 and then, and after he gets results, begins to read some of the profiles. Ok, so fine. But here's where something that was said really bothered me: he says that he clicks on the one's with photos, looks at their photos, and if he likes it, he'll read their profile.
That really bothered me. Why?
Let's talk about linear theory here for a second. So, we begin at point "A" where no woman anywhere is objectified. The ending point, point "Z" is where women are enslaved in a world of complete mysoginy. Now, as theory would predict, every point of increasing objectification moves us farther along the linear progression toward complete opression in the woman-hating world. So, what is it that makes point "B" different from point "Z" or even point "M"?
What's the difference between joking about the "Old Ball and Chain", oogling women at a bar, using their pictures to make decisions about their worthiness, and chosing girls from a catalog in Thialand? What's the difference between paying women less for their labor by 75% than men, and making them wear burqas? The simple answer? Everything. The difficult truth: nothing.
Because mysogeny and the opression of women is a linear progression there truly isn't a difference. Each one of the abuses is worth an extra point as we move towards the end of the alphabet because we are farther along in linear progression. But, each indiviudal abuse is only worth one point, one movment along the line: one unit of injustice. This is incredibly difficult for us to comprehend becuase we don't wish to excpet that severe oppression is linked to the jokes we tell at the water cooler. But if it is true that freedom and equality are both subjectively and objectively valued, then we must accept what Martin Luther King Jr. truly meant when he uttered that "and injustice committed anywhere is an an injustice against everyone"
Something as little as saying "I will only read their profiles if they are cute" may not immediately create the same scale of maifested oppression as the Taliban in Afghanistan created for its women citizens, but it is on the same scale of injustice in that it is on the same linear scale of hatred towards women.
That's true, ok. So why does it cause me to be so conflicted? So this allows me to say that Tommy is the same as a sex trafficker or patron of a child brothel? That doesn't sit well with me. But the truth of the matter is that the exact same phrase with the same mindset uttered elsewhere has HUGE ramifcations. Uttered in a room while going through a catalog of Russian mail-order bride prospects in the Ukraine, those same words sicken us because their context gives us enough of a sense of disgust that we would feel the same whether or not they had said a single word.
But then I guess I have to admit that I was wrong.
My mind is always racing at a pace of 100 miles an hour, and I wonder sometimes if I'll ever be able to stop. I was always taught that introspection is healthy, so I spend time each day thinking carefully about what I have said and done that day, what I think and why. Why did I have that argument with that person? Why did I feel naseaus at that thought or comment, but not at that one? Why did I say that word or those words? Why did I cry? Why do I weep?
Let's talk about an example. So tonight, Tommy showed me a website that he says he makes use of sometimes when he is boerd. I mean, it's harmless enough. It's just sort of a community switchboard website, so you can get information about garage sales, community events etc. There is of course, also the requisite dating for singles category. He told me that sometimes he goes to the dating for singles, searches for women aged 20-25 and then, and after he gets results, begins to read some of the profiles. Ok, so fine. But here's where something that was said really bothered me: he says that he clicks on the one's with photos, looks at their photos, and if he likes it, he'll read their profile.
That really bothered me. Why?
Let's talk about linear theory here for a second. So, we begin at point "A" where no woman anywhere is objectified. The ending point, point "Z" is where women are enslaved in a world of complete mysoginy. Now, as theory would predict, every point of increasing objectification moves us farther along the linear progression toward complete opression in the woman-hating world. So, what is it that makes point "B" different from point "Z" or even point "M"?
What's the difference between joking about the "Old Ball and Chain", oogling women at a bar, using their pictures to make decisions about their worthiness, and chosing girls from a catalog in Thialand? What's the difference between paying women less for their labor by 75% than men, and making them wear burqas? The simple answer? Everything. The difficult truth: nothing.
Because mysogeny and the opression of women is a linear progression there truly isn't a difference. Each one of the abuses is worth an extra point as we move towards the end of the alphabet because we are farther along in linear progression. But, each indiviudal abuse is only worth one point, one movment along the line: one unit of injustice. This is incredibly difficult for us to comprehend becuase we don't wish to excpet that severe oppression is linked to the jokes we tell at the water cooler. But if it is true that freedom and equality are both subjectively and objectively valued, then we must accept what Martin Luther King Jr. truly meant when he uttered that "and injustice committed anywhere is an an injustice against everyone"
Something as little as saying "I will only read their profiles if they are cute" may not immediately create the same scale of maifested oppression as the Taliban in Afghanistan created for its women citizens, but it is on the same scale of injustice in that it is on the same linear scale of hatred towards women.
That's true, ok. So why does it cause me to be so conflicted? So this allows me to say that Tommy is the same as a sex trafficker or patron of a child brothel? That doesn't sit well with me. But the truth of the matter is that the exact same phrase with the same mindset uttered elsewhere has HUGE ramifcations. Uttered in a room while going through a catalog of Russian mail-order bride prospects in the Ukraine, those same words sicken us because their context gives us enough of a sense of disgust that we would feel the same whether or not they had said a single word.
But then I guess I have to admit that I was wrong.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)