…racing or racist
I’m pretty sure I’m a racist. I’ve tried really hard not to judge others by race—to accept everybody on their own merits. I like to think that because I know people who know people who are a different color, it somehow rubs off on me. But in reality, I still find myself judging by appearance and racing down the easy road.
To:
My four-year-old and I were at the library. I was at the automated checkout, while my son rooted through the shelves randomly reorganizing the books. If they totally automate the librarian, they won’t have any trouble duplicating that cold, robotic look you get when your child does that.[1] More later, T.
I think most everybody is racist to some extent—I do catch a talk-show now and then. We racists come in every color shape and size. You think not? I think thou doth protest too much
To:
I’m back. Anyway, my little naïve four-year-old comes screaming to me yelling, “There’s a monster. There’s a monster.” He drags me back across the room and points up at the one black man in the room. I am instantly changed into a bottom-feeder, slithering around on my belly, out of my element and gasping for air.
…gone again, back soon, T.
It’s hard when kids make rude—albeit valid assessments in the grocery store and call people fat or ugly within their hearing. You realize that it’s a teaching moment and hope fervently that it is a stranger to whom the remarks are directed. Then you can respond with a mother’s wisdom and teach a community lesson. “It’s important for a compassionate and polite society… How would you feel if…” you explain. And then you try to make up and move on, with firm, new resolve to strangle the child when you get home.
To:
This is just like the time when the neighborhood giant drops by with his son, normally sweet, but he’s just entered that obnoxious ten-year old phase. The child shuffles into the entry and stands next to his father.
I didn’t realize my three-year old son was standing behind me gathering his nerve until he dashes out to stand in front of the boy, glares up and declares, “My Mother says you’re a jerk.”
It was another of those seemingly endless one-minute eons. My mind raced. I did think he was a jerk. I had used those very words to soothe my toddler after heart-hurt run-ins with the boy.
My mistake had been to voice my opinion within earshot. So I muttered, “Yes, I did. I do…think you’re a jerk.” And I dwindled the ending down to a slight whisper.
Then in a restorative flash, I spoke loudly, and redirected the conversation ceiling-ward to the subject of their visit and eventually they left.
Then I moved and so it’s all fine now. You know? T.
But the statement at the library? On the scale, this one was huge. It bore all kinds of ramifications. I’m sure the man was thinking, “What kind of a person are you? What do you teach your child? How can he have just noticed a black person? Are you living in a hole, or just a segregated neighborhood from the fifties? I pointed to a child that I hoped was the man’s, “No, honey, he’s a daddy just like your daddy.”
I wanted the man to initiate a conversation with my child, as reinforcement. He could assure my son that he wasn’t a monster, and then he could assure me that he didn’t hate me for secluding my child so this problem even existed.
It must be difficult to go about life thinking that you have to spend all your time educating the idiots of society. But he does, I need him to be that connection, to relate, commensurate with and teach my children.
To: wholefamily@time.out
“Yup, you are racist. Don’t worry, everybody is in some way. Deal with it and move on,”
I’m reassured by my fourteen-year-old Jamaican-Chinese-White neighbor. Her four-year-old twin sisters insist that each is more beautiful than the other because of the difference in the color of their skin. Whew! Terina
Reality Bite: Maybe I’m not racist? A true racist would have assured the four year old that he was right.
[1] My mother and mother-in-law are both librarians. I’m going to catch it for that one.
Wednesday
Amazed
…amazed!
I’m amazed. The word amazed and all the various forms of it, may be the words I overuse the most—the words that a professional impressionist would use, over and over and over again if they were to mimic me.
Amazing—with emphasis on all three syllables, to be used interchangeably with “No kidding”, “You’re joking”, and even “Can’t you pass the peanut butter?”
I use it as an expletive meaning, “I don’t believe it!” and since I don’t believe much of anything anymore, everything is amazing.
I’m amazed at today’s newspaper that used to be an upstanding piece of journalism. My kids could read it—secure in the fact the newspaper edits most of the garbage out, or alludes to it tastefully. We are, after all, living in the country’s navel, right under the Bible’s belt buckle.
That distinction no longer affords any protection. We’re being pierced by indecency even here. The daily paper used the word witch with a “b” and put it in 36 point bold as the show-stopping headline of the lifestyle section (the part that has the comics).
Witch with a “B” is a filthy word with disgusting derogatory connotations. I phrase it that way because I expect my kids will read this sometime—not that my kids don’t know this word. They are aware of my struggle with not using it because it’s not okay! And I’m not going to let it become commonplace.
I’m a prude! I’m so not cool. I’m “square” just like my parents. Because that’s what I am now—a parent! I didn’t realize what that word "parent" entailed when I volunteered for the position, but I’m ready to stop trying to be cool, stop trying to be “cutting edge” and start trying to be a better example.
I understand that it is difficult to conform—to realize that happiness to a child means secure and predictable.
To: piquecritique@wig.out
It’s from watching all that rebellion—all those years of people against the system in the 60’s! I told you it would backfire! Peace and Love, T
I’m not going to pretend any more. I’m appalled at the degradation of society through the media and up until last night, I thought I was stuck with it. Like most of typical America, (I say that, because I am a typical American in every way) I thought if I said, “I’m sick to death of stuff going too far,” I assumed the media response would be, “Then, turn it off.”
Until last night, when I read in my expletive-laden newspaper, about one of the new criminal reality shows. The producers of the show admitted that there was so much gratuitous gore that even the actors were sickened, but, they countered, “Nobody has complained.”
Amazing! It’s an epiphany! I can complain and it makes a difference? My opinion matters! Of the billions of people milling about the world, my opinion matters? Amazing! Who do I call? What is their address? Will it ever get there? Amazing! I don’t believe it, but it’s nice to dream about. My opinion… it matters! With that much power, what could I do… and say? Amazing! Watch out for all that power, it could go to my head.
To: piquecritique@wig.out
I’m doing it! I’m complaining! I’m going to give my children something to complain about now and brag about later. I’m the reason they’ll sob to their therapist, “I had a miserable childhood. I had to be responsible, and grow up with a social conscience.
My parents loved me!” T
I’m complaining. The paper wouldn’t use the “N” word because the world and African Americans would revolt and rightly so. So, don’t use the “B” word, because I’m revolted.
I’m amazed. The word amazed and all the various forms of it, may be the words I overuse the most—the words that a professional impressionist would use, over and over and over again if they were to mimic me.
Amazing—with emphasis on all three syllables, to be used interchangeably with “No kidding”, “You’re joking”, and even “Can’t you pass the peanut butter?”
I use it as an expletive meaning, “I don’t believe it!” and since I don’t believe much of anything anymore, everything is amazing.
I’m amazed at today’s newspaper that used to be an upstanding piece of journalism. My kids could read it—secure in the fact the newspaper edits most of the garbage out, or alludes to it tastefully. We are, after all, living in the country’s navel, right under the Bible’s belt buckle.
That distinction no longer affords any protection. We’re being pierced by indecency even here. The daily paper used the word witch with a “b” and put it in 36 point bold as the show-stopping headline of the lifestyle section (the part that has the comics).
Witch with a “B” is a filthy word with disgusting derogatory connotations. I phrase it that way because I expect my kids will read this sometime—not that my kids don’t know this word. They are aware of my struggle with not using it because it’s not okay! And I’m not going to let it become commonplace.
I’m a prude! I’m so not cool. I’m “square” just like my parents. Because that’s what I am now—a parent! I didn’t realize what that word "parent" entailed when I volunteered for the position, but I’m ready to stop trying to be cool, stop trying to be “cutting edge” and start trying to be a better example.
I understand that it is difficult to conform—to realize that happiness to a child means secure and predictable.
To: piquecritique@wig.out
It’s from watching all that rebellion—all those years of people against the system in the 60’s! I told you it would backfire! Peace and Love, T
I’m not going to pretend any more. I’m appalled at the degradation of society through the media and up until last night, I thought I was stuck with it. Like most of typical America, (I say that, because I am a typical American in every way) I thought if I said, “I’m sick to death of stuff going too far,” I assumed the media response would be, “Then, turn it off.”
Until last night, when I read in my expletive-laden newspaper, about one of the new criminal reality shows. The producers of the show admitted that there was so much gratuitous gore that even the actors were sickened, but, they countered, “Nobody has complained.”
Amazing! It’s an epiphany! I can complain and it makes a difference? My opinion matters! Of the billions of people milling about the world, my opinion matters? Amazing! Who do I call? What is their address? Will it ever get there? Amazing! I don’t believe it, but it’s nice to dream about. My opinion… it matters! With that much power, what could I do… and say? Amazing! Watch out for all that power, it could go to my head.
To: piquecritique@wig.out
I’m doing it! I’m complaining! I’m going to give my children something to complain about now and brag about later. I’m the reason they’ll sob to their therapist, “I had a miserable childhood. I had to be responsible, and grow up with a social conscience.
My parents loved me!” T
I’m complaining. The paper wouldn’t use the “N” word because the world and African Americans would revolt and rightly so. So, don’t use the “B” word, because I’m revolted.
Tuesday
Insurance v Assurance
…insurance vs. assurance
I’m spared the task of figuring out what I’m responsible for because there are lawyers. (Lawyers prefer the word attorney. What word is next after that term is sullied too?)[1]
In this world, abject contrition is not enough. Nobody ever forgives. We want payment! Sue! This is a difficult theory for my children to disabuse. Their immediate response to any wrongdoing is, “Mom, we should sue!”
An attorney will also tell you that it’s also the only way to effectively force changes in the big corporate-run world. Hit them where it hurts, in the pocketbook. I have yet to ever see change effected by suits. That’s why businesses retain corporate lawyers.
Insurance is supposed to cover human fallibility. We make mistakes, have accidents and when we do, sometimes the victim needs help. Insurance grants peace of mind… in times of crisis… in a catastrophe. Had a disaster lately? Statistics say most of us haven’t, and won’t and there wouldn’t be enough insurance money to pay claims if everybody did.
To: thewholefamily@wig.out
I explained car insurance to my driver-to-be and she said, “So, it’s gambling. It banks on luck. You only have to be luckier than everybody else because insurance only works if nobody else uses it.” Isn’t she quick? Just like her momma. T.
If you are even thinking about placing a claim, don’t. Don’t even call to ask! These companies have ESP and a mere call will increase your rates[2]. Is insurance necessary? I’m paying a huge amount of insurance to cover the uninsured. Maybe I should be the uninsured?
To: thewholefamily@wig.out
I have this great idea! Maybe I can pay the insurance money directly into a victim’s (lawyer’s retainer) fund that guarantees I won’t ever get sued for anything, and then I could skip the insurance company all together. [3]
If the doctors paid malpractice money directly into a legal (lawyer’s retainer) fund that pays lawyers an automatic 10% not to sue. That might work too!
The lawyers could set aside a small stipend (real money) for the injured parties and all the problems would be solved!
by Ternia my nom-de-plume
[1]Can I blame that one on Mark Twain?
[2] True story. I saw it on the epitome of truth and honor called television.
[3] My idea is not original? It was started as this thing called insurance?
I’m spared the task of figuring out what I’m responsible for because there are lawyers. (Lawyers prefer the word attorney. What word is next after that term is sullied too?)[1]
In this world, abject contrition is not enough. Nobody ever forgives. We want payment! Sue! This is a difficult theory for my children to disabuse. Their immediate response to any wrongdoing is, “Mom, we should sue!”
An attorney will also tell you that it’s also the only way to effectively force changes in the big corporate-run world. Hit them where it hurts, in the pocketbook. I have yet to ever see change effected by suits. That’s why businesses retain corporate lawyers.
Insurance is supposed to cover human fallibility. We make mistakes, have accidents and when we do, sometimes the victim needs help. Insurance grants peace of mind… in times of crisis… in a catastrophe. Had a disaster lately? Statistics say most of us haven’t, and won’t and there wouldn’t be enough insurance money to pay claims if everybody did.
To: thewholefamily@wig.out
I explained car insurance to my driver-to-be and she said, “So, it’s gambling. It banks on luck. You only have to be luckier than everybody else because insurance only works if nobody else uses it.” Isn’t she quick? Just like her momma. T.
If you are even thinking about placing a claim, don’t. Don’t even call to ask! These companies have ESP and a mere call will increase your rates[2]. Is insurance necessary? I’m paying a huge amount of insurance to cover the uninsured. Maybe I should be the uninsured?
To: thewholefamily@wig.out
I have this great idea! Maybe I can pay the insurance money directly into a victim’s (lawyer’s retainer) fund that guarantees I won’t ever get sued for anything, and then I could skip the insurance company all together. [3]
If the doctors paid malpractice money directly into a legal (lawyer’s retainer) fund that pays lawyers an automatic 10% not to sue. That might work too!
The lawyers could set aside a small stipend (real money) for the injured parties and all the problems would be solved!
by Ternia my nom-de-plume
[1]Can I blame that one on Mark Twain?
[2] True story. I saw it on the epitome of truth and honor called television.
[3] My idea is not original? It was started as this thing called insurance?
Check in the Mail
…check in the mail
If you make a mistake, somebody will sue you. But don’t worry, that’s why we have lawyers and insurance—to make everything all better. (Remind me to put one on retainer after I finish this.)
To: thewholefamily@wig.out
I found myself trying to explain the Trail of Tears to my son, but stopped myself when I called the protagonists, we.
We did not do that. Just because I happen to have European ancestors, doesn’t mean I am automatically responsible for every sin against mankind!
I’ve got to get over the guilt! How can I beg forgiveness for something I didn’t do? How much of what happened before I was born am I still responsible for? Whew! I didn’t enslave anybody: I don’t own a gas chamber. I never riot and I feel really bad about prison camps. I wasn’t here when Columbus came—I’m not even Italian. The pizza man will have to take the blame for that one.
I won’t forget and I’ll do my part to avoid repeating history, but I’m not taking the blame anymore. I had ancestors that were stripped of their livelihoods, their homes ransacked and burned, forced to leave not one, not two, but three different cities. They had every hardship perpetrated by the governing officials, and I’d like reparation. Nope, didn’t think so.
To: thewholefamily@wig.out
“Where are my reparations?” Woops, some political action group beat me to this and the second anything becomes politicized, it’s ruined. Forget that idea. My insults are equal opportunity!
I can’t exact revenge on the dead nor can I apologize for them. It’s even more difficult to pay reparations to them, but I’ll be glad to write a post-dated check and they can come after my progeny to collect.
Reality Bite: Maybe everybody just wants somebody, somewhere to say, “I’m sorry that happened and I’ll try to never let it happen again.” That, I can do, (with prejudice.) (That means in legalize, that it can never be brought up again.)
If you make a mistake, somebody will sue you. But don’t worry, that’s why we have lawyers and insurance—to make everything all better. (Remind me to put one on retainer after I finish this.)
To: thewholefamily@wig.out
I found myself trying to explain the Trail of Tears to my son, but stopped myself when I called the protagonists, we.
We did not do that. Just because I happen to have European ancestors, doesn’t mean I am automatically responsible for every sin against mankind!
I’ve got to get over the guilt! How can I beg forgiveness for something I didn’t do? How much of what happened before I was born am I still responsible for? Whew! I didn’t enslave anybody: I don’t own a gas chamber. I never riot and I feel really bad about prison camps. I wasn’t here when Columbus came—I’m not even Italian. The pizza man will have to take the blame for that one.
I won’t forget and I’ll do my part to avoid repeating history, but I’m not taking the blame anymore. I had ancestors that were stripped of their livelihoods, their homes ransacked and burned, forced to leave not one, not two, but three different cities. They had every hardship perpetrated by the governing officials, and I’d like reparation. Nope, didn’t think so.
To: thewholefamily@wig.out
“Where are my reparations?” Woops, some political action group beat me to this and the second anything becomes politicized, it’s ruined. Forget that idea. My insults are equal opportunity!
I can’t exact revenge on the dead nor can I apologize for them. It’s even more difficult to pay reparations to them, but I’ll be glad to write a post-dated check and they can come after my progeny to collect.
Reality Bite: Maybe everybody just wants somebody, somewhere to say, “I’m sorry that happened and I’ll try to never let it happen again.” That, I can do, (with prejudice.) (That means in legalize, that it can never be brought up again.)
Stop the Buck Right Here
…stop the buck, right here
My preferred learning style is not visual nor auditory but realistic. I learn when knowledge slaps me up-side the head. And even then, I still get it wrong. I am poised and ready at any moment, to beg forgiveness from my children, their teachers or my neighbors for another of my misadventures.
Excuse me, pardon me, I make mistakes! I thought it was part of being human. Accidents happen. I admit it and take responsibility!
To: thewholefamily@wig.out
Don’t worry that you forgot my birthday. I like your bad memory because then you won’t remember my mistakes. Join me in a life full of foul-ups, one after another, on top of each other, piled onto the rest. It’s the simple life! T.
I’m observing a trend in avoiding responsibility. Doctors can’t afford to be human, neither can politicians. At one time, our nation’s president had a sign on his desk, “The buck stops here,” but no more. Instead our new national motto is C.Y.A., cover your assets. It’s the business acronym for assuring that the golden parachute has no frays weakening the chute line to the money. The CEO, the surgeon, and the tax attorney are paid for services only, not to take the blame. That’s extra.
I can admit it. I make mistakes, humans do and that’s what I teach my children, “Accidents happen. Everybody makes mistakes. The key is to tell the truth and admit you did it. Fix your mistake, learn from it and move on.”
To: thewholefamily@wig.out
I attempt to pull into traffic yesterday, in a merging lane, ahead of vehicle one. I signal and drop back to edge in between vehicle one and two. Vehicle two would not allow the merge and honked vehemently. I jerked back and merged behind vehicle two, who then gestured through the back window the universal, “I am King of this road and don’t you ever forget it,” signal.
I continued to follow His Majesty’s car for two more blocks then it moved to the center turn lane and I pulled up beside it.
As I looked over at the driver, a beanie-wearing insurance risk, I caught his eye and he repeated the insulting gesture as I mouthed, “I’m sorry.”
I repeated it three more times while he sat there, glancing over most miserably, until he deigned a nod to the lowly peasant. T
Reality Bite: (and she’s off again onto another rant!) Whew, Tell me how you really feel!
My preferred learning style is not visual nor auditory but realistic. I learn when knowledge slaps me up-side the head. And even then, I still get it wrong. I am poised and ready at any moment, to beg forgiveness from my children, their teachers or my neighbors for another of my misadventures.
Excuse me, pardon me, I make mistakes! I thought it was part of being human. Accidents happen. I admit it and take responsibility!
To: thewholefamily@wig.out
Don’t worry that you forgot my birthday. I like your bad memory because then you won’t remember my mistakes. Join me in a life full of foul-ups, one after another, on top of each other, piled onto the rest. It’s the simple life! T.
I’m observing a trend in avoiding responsibility. Doctors can’t afford to be human, neither can politicians. At one time, our nation’s president had a sign on his desk, “The buck stops here,” but no more. Instead our new national motto is C.Y.A., cover your assets. It’s the business acronym for assuring that the golden parachute has no frays weakening the chute line to the money. The CEO, the surgeon, and the tax attorney are paid for services only, not to take the blame. That’s extra.
I can admit it. I make mistakes, humans do and that’s what I teach my children, “Accidents happen. Everybody makes mistakes. The key is to tell the truth and admit you did it. Fix your mistake, learn from it and move on.”
To: thewholefamily@wig.out
I attempt to pull into traffic yesterday, in a merging lane, ahead of vehicle one. I signal and drop back to edge in between vehicle one and two. Vehicle two would not allow the merge and honked vehemently. I jerked back and merged behind vehicle two, who then gestured through the back window the universal, “I am King of this road and don’t you ever forget it,” signal.
I continued to follow His Majesty’s car for two more blocks then it moved to the center turn lane and I pulled up beside it.
As I looked over at the driver, a beanie-wearing insurance risk, I caught his eye and he repeated the insulting gesture as I mouthed, “I’m sorry.”
I repeated it three more times while he sat there, glancing over most miserably, until he deigned a nod to the lowly peasant. T
Reality Bite: (and she’s off again onto another rant!) Whew, Tell me how you really feel!
Friday
Bus Fuss
The Bus Fuss
I always wondered what was going on in the back seats of the school bus when I was riding home after some of those late night high-school sports games. But that was the cheerleader’s domain. I was a member the lowly drill team who could never quite coordinate our flag drills.
It was dangerous to get too close to us and our flailing objects pointed in every direction. That made us exempt from the backseat, or perhaps it was because we sang at the top of our lungs the whole way home; somehow that put the guys off. (I always wondered why the driver allowed the noise. He must have preferred it to the silence.)
I suspect that a more depraved version of what went on in the dark midnight hours on the back seat is probably what went on today on my high schooler’s bus, in broad daylight after trig and history between two “friends” who aren’t a couple; they weren’t even dating.
Sharing an ipod and plugging the other ear didn’t insulate her from this assault of good taste and propriety. My husband’s assistant said this happened to her in a packed movie theater last week. If this kind of public sexual display shows the degradation of values, will we be stepping around such a display on the sidewalk to get to breakfast in the next few years?
My daughter initially preferred that I forget this. “It happens all the time, Mom.” A prime teaching moment arrived. I love those moments to pontificate for a cause. For evil to triumph all that is necessary is that good people do nothing.
This activity is illegal—it’s public indecency. Those convicted of repeat offences can be classified as sexual offenders. We must report it and we must educate. Movie theater ushers are trained to enforce this. The principal of the primary school insisted that she would want to know of such activity at her school.
We are usually so appalled that we deny that this is happening. We can’t believe that it’s happening in front of us. Well, next time, next time… I’ll have some sort of a plan. I’ll arm my children against this insult to our public integrity. Perhaps my children are more aware of the nastiness than I was, but they must be more ready to stand up, stand out and stand strong.
And I am dusting off and exploring a better use for my drill team flag.
It’s just me thinking again, Terina
I always wondered what was going on in the back seats of the school bus when I was riding home after some of those late night high-school sports games. But that was the cheerleader’s domain. I was a member the lowly drill team who could never quite coordinate our flag drills.
It was dangerous to get too close to us and our flailing objects pointed in every direction. That made us exempt from the backseat, or perhaps it was because we sang at the top of our lungs the whole way home; somehow that put the guys off. (I always wondered why the driver allowed the noise. He must have preferred it to the silence.)
I suspect that a more depraved version of what went on in the dark midnight hours on the back seat is probably what went on today on my high schooler’s bus, in broad daylight after trig and history between two “friends” who aren’t a couple; they weren’t even dating.
Sharing an ipod and plugging the other ear didn’t insulate her from this assault of good taste and propriety. My husband’s assistant said this happened to her in a packed movie theater last week. If this kind of public sexual display shows the degradation of values, will we be stepping around such a display on the sidewalk to get to breakfast in the next few years?
My daughter initially preferred that I forget this. “It happens all the time, Mom.” A prime teaching moment arrived. I love those moments to pontificate for a cause. For evil to triumph all that is necessary is that good people do nothing.
This activity is illegal—it’s public indecency. Those convicted of repeat offences can be classified as sexual offenders. We must report it and we must educate. Movie theater ushers are trained to enforce this. The principal of the primary school insisted that she would want to know of such activity at her school.
We are usually so appalled that we deny that this is happening. We can’t believe that it’s happening in front of us. Well, next time, next time… I’ll have some sort of a plan. I’ll arm my children against this insult to our public integrity. Perhaps my children are more aware of the nastiness than I was, but they must be more ready to stand up, stand out and stand strong.
And I am dusting off and exploring a better use for my drill team flag.
It’s just me thinking again, Terina
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