Orwellian, or Right is Wrong

"When"?  Say rather
"If"…and my word,
What an “if” that would be!
And then, of course,
There’s that whole
"Right place" thing…
Where IS that, anyway?

Obviously, then,
When the wrong turn
Gets you to
The right place,
It was all
A HUGE mistake!
Surely you see that?

If it were truly
A wrong turn,
The end would be dead…
Like those cul-de-sacs
That take you round
In circles, back
To where you came from.

By this logic,
If you end up
In the right place
From that wrong turn,
Then for you,
Right is wrong, like life
In Orwell’s novel.

~ KDB

Copyright 2014

The Ostrich Syndrome

BEFORE YOU READ:  Don't feel you have to comment, particularly if you have nothing constructive to say, or can't take constructive opposition to your views, or get hot under the collar and forget this is not your page!  I'll delete, without notice, any comment which I find to be offensive to me, and that can run the gamut from trying to belittle me or my opinions to doing the same to anyone who chooses to respond here.  Take the chip OFF your shoulder before you begin to read, please, or else give this one a pass!  Thank you!

You know, every now and again, people make my blood really boil, especially when they spout prejudice while pretending to themselves and others that they are being entirely reasonable and objective. My impulse is to argue with them, to pick apart their "reasonableness", but in the final analysis, what's the point?  Some people choose a side and stick to it no matter what, and I've discovered that the older we get, the less tolerant and the more bigoted we become.  We have just learned how to mask it better and pretend better that we are listening to others and entertaining their point of view. It's a sham, believe me.  None of us older ones is really listening to anyone else, and the only ones who are probably even HALF listening are the young people, whose extremism is NEVER hidden, but who swing more easily from one extreme to another.

Maybe it's the human condition to be that way, eh? We begin life as "out of the closet" bigots/extremists, and evolve into closet ones, to further our agendas, whatever they may be.  I find myself as intolerant of these people's views as they are of mine and others'.  I am more than a little bit tired of them and of their negative energy.  They're a drag, man!  Seriously!

This isn't a rant about racism, per se (though what I've said here may be related to it), but this song is as good as any other for exposing an ugly truth about us human beings.  And there's no plausible deniability ... just a terrible fear in some of us to be exposed as bigots.  To quote from the song, "It's a touchy subject! Bigotry has never been exclusively white!"

Big-hearted...that's me!

Can't argue with that!!  

Feisty, Funny, Fabulous...

...and just what the doctor ordered.

Meet Joan...old lady #3!  Were we fated to meet?  Did God have a hand in it?  Whatever the explanation, I guess I needed to hear it from a flesh-and-blood older woman for it to sink in.  I was in the little mall where the CVS pharmacy is this morning, going to make some photocopies at the Minuteman Press store.  As I was waiting to have my copies made, an older lady walked in, and the gentleman working there approached her to discuss the work he had been doing for her.  

Being the (sometimes) gregarious creature I can be, I smiled and said hello, and spoke to her regarding some general comment she had made to him.  This began a conversation between her, the woman serving me, and me, in which Joan (I asked her to give me her name and phone number, and she did!) told me her age -- she's 65, surely not as old as the two I saw yesterday, and certainly in much better shape than they were -- and her physical condition -- a smoker who eats whatever she wants, doesn't exercise, and yet has normal blood pressure and is only, according to her doctor, 15 lbs. overweight.

When she told us that her doctor said she was carrying around an extra fifteen pounds, both the woman behind the counter and I looked Joan up and down and said, in unison, "Where?" She laughed merrily and said, "Ladies, you've made my day!  I'll love you all forever!" We all laughed at that, and Joan went on to give me some advice, when I told her how I had figured out that women of a certain age (retired women) were discarded by society.

"Retirement is not easy," she said, "and you have to be ready for it.  Many retired women start their own businesses (I immediately remembered Kurt's suggestions -- than you, Kurt!). Once you retire, everyone will want you to do things for them.  You'll have to learn to say 'No!' But you must get out there and make new friends.  Your work friends will have moved on six months after you leave, so you'll need to find new people to share your life with.  Volunteer in one place -- don't do more."  

She paused, as she wrote her name and phone number (which she had to think hard to remember, chuckling as she did!), and then added, "Oh, and one more thing. Every week, put an X through one day -- doesn't matter which day.  That's the day that is only for YOU!  Do anything you want to do, or do nothing.  It's YOUR day to just please yourself, and no one else!"

I smiled and thanked her, and she asked me my name again.  "It's Karen," I told her, "but when I call, I'll remind you of who I am by reminding you of the woman you talked with in Minuteman!"

"Good plan!" she answered, smiling, and I took my leave.

Why did this make me feel better, after yesterday's 

meltdown, you ask?  It's a different day...perhaps it's as simple as that.  Or maybe it's because today is my 29th wedding anniversary, and I have other things on my mind, like how I managed to stay married to one person for so long.  Or maybe it's because Joan showed me that there IS life after retirement, and that I might just be okay as I am, and that I will be okay then, too. Whatever the reason, I was enormously cheered by this encounter.  

I think I wanna be like Joan when I grow up!  I said as much to her after she told me how healthy she was, despite her bad health behaviors, like the smoking.  I didn't feel like a loser.   Thank you, Joan!  

Two Old Ladies...

...both white haired, one in a black car, one in a red,
 gave me pause again today.

Mrs. Black Car (sorry, I was too busy watching what all was happening with her to notice make and model!) was leaving CVS (a pharmacy, FYI for non-Americans), wielding her cane like a spiffy third leg.  Mrs. Red Car (same excuse re: make and model) was arriving, unloading her snappy red walker with the handy wheels, on her way into CVS.

Mrs. BC trembled.  Heck, let me be totally frank -- Mrs. BC shook and bobbled from the neck up.  I watched her key open her car door, hands steady as a rock, while her head bobbled furiously.  I watched her get in, start the car, back it out of its spot, and bobble away, her thin, speckled arms steady on the steering wheel.

Mrs. RC did not bobble.  Dressed for the warm weather in a peasant skirt and top, she fetched her walker from the boot of her hatchback, and before pushing her extra legs ahead of her into the store, she drank daintily from a covered bottle of water (I presume -- it'd be a pretty scary thing if she were swigging liquor, don't you think?)

Tears sprang to my eyes.  I wiped them away surreptitiously (Mini Me was in the back seat, and I don't cry for anyone to see), but my fingers were chased by more tears.  I scrabbled for a pen so I could try to give words to all that I was feeling.  Because this non-incident, this little episode out of time, a drop in the bucket of my Sunday, had burst open the floodgates that I had been valiantly holding closed, fingers in the dyke, trying to keep my emotions contained, since Friday morning.

I began to chronicle the moment, and then we left, and I was too busy sniffling quietly, so as not to draw attention to myself, and swallowing the rest of the flood of tears, making sure they did not spill.  By the time I got home, I was under control again.  I emptied the dishwasher, then repacked it with the dirty dishes in the sink, talked to my friend for almost an hour, and tried to keep HER spirits up (she's the one who was not only rated unsatisfactory, but also discontinued).  I had wanted to wait till after her meeting with the union tomorrow to tell her my bad news -- no use in depressing her more, eh? -- but she asked, and I had no choice.

Conversation over, I came upstairs, changed into comfy "yard" clothes (a Jamaican expression for clothes you wear at home), and sat down to transcribe the notes I had begun to make.  Why would the sight of two old ladies make me cry, you ask?  To answer that, you'll need to come back with me to yesterday.  I am on my way to the supermarket to buy breakfast fixings -- eggs, bacon (two kinds) milk, orange juice -- and it occurs to me that in two more years, I will be a "free agent".  

Retirement is supposed to free one to move on to the next task in this new phase of life.  But it brings new questions, such as, how do I live in the manner to which I have become accustomed if no one will hire me because I'm older?  I asked myself that question as I drove out of the supermarket parking lot.  Nobody hires 56-year-old ex-assistant principals (that's how old I'll be when I leave the DOE).  Heck, no one wants to hire me NOW, for crying out loud -- witness Friday morning's cold rejection! Which makes me ask another question -- am I a has-been?  Is menopause NOT, after all, the worst thing that can happen to an older woman?  

I've never had to think about being unemployed before. When I was young, fresh out of university, I knew I would get a job.  And when I left one, another one always opened for me.  I took it all for granted, as my right, almost, for being an upstanding citizen, a dedicated, hard-working person, a valuable contributor to society.  I was strong, I was invincible...I was young.

Being rejected for a position I KNOW I could have handled has made me question myself, and wonder if I am really everything I thought I was.  I wonder why I was rejected, and all the answers make me feel a combination of anger, frustration, and fear. Overwhelming fear.  What if I can't contribute to the family coffers when I leave the DOE?  We will lose the house, and have to move...again.  What ELSE will we lose because of me?  Because I'm older, washed up, useless in a society that only values youth, that sees me and thinks "has been", "over", "past it"?

I cannot get past the vision of me, thirty years from now, head bobbling as I lean on my walker on my way out of the pharmacy.  Will THAT be my claim to fame -- that I can drive myself to the pharmacy and back without killing anyone or myself?  Will that be all my life will be worth?  What can I do to avoid such a pitiful end?  I've spent my public life defining myself in terms of my vocation. Without it, what am I?  Who am I?

I know this sounds like a self-pitying blog, a whining, boo-hooing blog, but that isn't my intention at all.  I'm just scared, for the first time since I was a wet-behind-the-ears BA beginning her first job at Manchester High School in Mandeville, Manchester, Jamaica, West Indies.  Any and all suggestions, advice, whatever, will be more than welcome.  I'm sinking fast into a pit that not even housework is pulling me from completely...

Maybe this Kenny Chesney song will do the trick, eh?

If you read it on Kittigory...

(...give this a pass.  Maybe this isn't a rant, but it sure reads like it!)

In a thoughtful, even melancholy mood, and wondering about a host of things.  For example...

1.  If I die, what is my legacy?

--  Been trying to decide.  Do children count?  If so, I'll be leaving four behind to grace the world with whatever their gifts and talents are.  And if people in general count, then maybe the kids I've taught -- who remember me with fondness, who appreciate what I did when I tried to show them how to love the language and the books, and the power of the word -- maybe they are my legacy, as they share what I have taught them about passion and love with the people they come in contact with.  If my legacy is about my impact on others, then the people here and offline who care about me, who share their lives and love with me -- they are my legacy, if they give love away, as I do.

2.  What is my value to others?

-- I can't speak for others, of course, but I can speak of my perceptions of their (and your) behavior toward me, and how I interpret it.  So, if I were to go by my family and offline friends, I am worth hugs and kisses, homework help, a shoulder to cry on, a listening ear, help with lesson planning and classroom management, a fountain of information, a reliable daughter/sibling.  To my true friends on here, like Tom, Babs, Barb, Tina, and Frank, I am worth your kindness, your concern, your faithfulness, perhaps even your love.  

-- To the people -- well, only men, really -- who judge me by the erotic stories I write, and make assumptions about who I am and what I want, I am a hole or two or three, a mind to fuck (pardon the vulgarity, but it suits this context!), words to jerk off to, a toy to seduce and use for sexual pleasure.  I'm not "worth" much to them, am I?  Good thing I know better...

3.  Whom do I trust?

-- *sigh*  I know you expect me to say I trust my family and those friends I have known forever. Perhaps I do, but trust is very hard for me.  Too many people have thrown my heart back in my face, probably because they don't see my true worth.  So the jury is out on this one, most of the time.  There is always a part of me that stands in reserve, watching over things, assessing and weighing, and ready to pull me back if it feels unsafe.  

4.  Have I done enough?

-- I am 53 years old.  What have I done with my life?  I've only ever had two jobs -- teacher and White Castle slave.  I love to write, but after all these years, and all this writing, nothing is complete.  Nothing is published.  I love to study, but after twelve years, I don't have that Ph. D. I started out trying to get.  I am one oral examination and a dissertation away from a degree I have wanted since I first became an undergraduate student in Jamaica, West Indies.  And I can't seem to find the will, or the time, to figure out how to do it now.  It's been too long -- getting a Ph. D. takes between 7 and 10 years -- and they will likely show me the door if I try to go back to finish it.  And there's a part of me that worries that I can't hack it anymore, that I don't have the academic or mental wherewithal to pull off my dream degree.  That is one scary thought!  

And I am also worried that when I retire from the New York City Department of Education in two more years, I will not be able to do enough to help with the bills, and that I will not find anything else to do that fulfills me, aside from write...and we have already discussed my inability, it seems, to finish anything I begin to write.

And if I take the less selfish thought track, and consider what I have done for others, it seems I haven't done enough there, either.  My sons never finished college, though now they are trying to get back on track.  My older girl is burning the candle at all ends, and doesn't understand that she needs to balance her endeavors so she doesn't burn out before age 25.  My youngest is giving me the kinds of headaches her older siblings never gave me, and making me wonder what sins I have committed for which I am now paying. My hubby is also misbehaving by not taking his health issues as seriously as he should.  I really don't think I have the intestinal fortitude to do what I think needs to be done to whip my family into shape.

5.  Will it always be this way?

--  I know, I ask the hard questions, but when I'm blue, they all come crowding in.  It's overwhelming.  I can't help but wonder if the second half of my life will be as fraught with turmoil as the first, with the expected addition of the ills that attend old age.  I'm not saying I'm old, but I'm no longer young, either.  When am I going to catch a break?  When will I see a dream fulfilled, something that is important to me as an individual, and not just something important to the family?  

Should I just brace myself for more of the same, and leave some strength of mind in reserve for the unexpected "slap in the face" or "punch in the gut"? I've sort of lived my whole life like that, expecting the other shoe to drop...and it usually does, with alarming, depressing, and apparently inevitable regularity.  How do I make the smile with which I greet the world most days a true reflection of the smile currently absent from my heart? 

Don't you just LOVE coming to my blogs to be depressed by my emotionalism?  Sorry, guys!

Questions of Identity

Are those African Americans who are rallying to end Black History Month buying trouble for themselves and the black community? 

Do their arguments that "black people only have a history as slaves in America", that outside of February, blacks have no history, and no significance, that they are even more exploitable now that they have a month that can be commercialized, with huge financial gains for folk other than blacks, hold water? 

Is the idea that since there are no months for Jews and Latinos and Asians (and so on), that there should be none for blacks, a valid idea? 

Does the argument that "Black History is American History" sufficient rationalization for the abolition of Black History Month? 

Is the organization that founded the commemoration right in labeling this "postmodernist identity games"? 

Is an America without Black History Month an America without black history?

Within

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living.

I want to know what you ache for,

and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

 

It doesn’t interest me how old you are,

I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams,

for the adventure of being alive.

 

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon.

I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow,

if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed

from fear of further pain.

 

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own,

without moving to hide or fade it or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own:

if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers

and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic,

or to remember the limitations of being a human.

 

It doesn’t interest me if the story you’re telling me is true.

I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself;

if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.

 

I want to know if you can be faithful and therefore be trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see the beauty even when it is not pretty everyday,

and if you can source your life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge

of a lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes”!

 

It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.

I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair,

weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the children.

 

It doesn’t interest me who you are, or how you came to be here, I want to know if you

Will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

 

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.

I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself

and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

- Oriah Mountain Dreamer

Marked

Welcome to September 11, 2010!

If you're expecting the usual platitudes, recriminations, vituperation, invective...you'd better move on.  

This is not going to be bitterly outraged anger against the infidels who committed such sacrilege against a defenseless and unprepared benevolent nation.  Nor will it be a bitterly impassioned review of the multitudinous and egregious sins of the US against poor and unsuspecting countries.  It will certainly not be a free-ranging condemnation of anything and everything American, or of American xenophobia, or other such excoriations.  And it will definitely not be a maudlin and sentimental memorial to the thousands of undeserving innocents who died at the hands of the rabid and pitiless bastards of an alien and murderous religion.

This is a marker, plain and simple.  

It marks an important date in the history of humanity.  Not just Christian or Muslim humanity.  Not just American or non-American humanity.  ALL humanity.  People who felt their cause was just, and people who felt the weight of that justice. People who embraced violence as a means of protest and retaliation, and people who abhorred violence as a means of solving the problems being protested.  People who loved and hated - each other, and most others.  People who were lost, but thought they had found the answer.  People who were angry, alone, frightened, desperate.

This is a marker, plain and simple.  

What happened nine years ago on this date has marked us all - the lovers and haters of America, the lovers and haters of Iraq.  It has marked all the rest of us, too. Those who try to steer a middle course between rabid nationalism and rabid imperialism, between an irrational fear of the infidels and an irrational hatred of the oppressors.  

What you choose to do with the mark that remains will say a lot about you as an individual. Don't assume that because you weren't there, or weren't touched personally, or have no love for the US, or no love for Iraq, or are a peace-nik, or whatever your reasons for distance may be, that you are unmarked.  Every global event marks us all, because we all participate in the event called being human.  Your anger is a sign of that mark, no matter who you're angry with. So is your sorrow. So is your glee.

How will you "celebrate" your humanity on this date that has marked you?

Welcome to September 11, 2010!