“He doesn’t look like your other kids,” said the dimwitted waitress who was looking at my four-year-old son as she put the glasses of iced tea on the table.
I’ll take care of this.
“That’s because he probably isn’t my husband's. Too much tequila and too much reggae music on a boring and lonely night. Husband out of town. Kids at their grandparents. A cute neighbor with a sexy Australian accent. What can I say? We haven’t had a DNA test, and we aren’t planning on it. Now please bring us two straws and an extra plate for the baby,” I say in a matter of fact tone and with tinge of annoyance all inside my head.
Too harsh. Instead I consider: “He doesn’t look my husband because he is my dead sister’s son. We are raising him as our own. He resembles me and his cousins.” Don’t say that either.
Adoption, kidnapping, artificial insemination, a child from a previous marriage or relationship, my love child, my husband’s love child, so many possible explanations for why our third child doesn’t look like us. In this situation, we don’t explain. We almost never do. Curiosity is good for the mind.
Instead my husband and I laughed. He says, “We get told that a lot” while he continues to cut spaghetti and hand out dinner rolls to the kids.This kind of uncomfortable moment happens quite frequently and takes different forms. Sometimes we are told he doesn’t look like his siblings. A nurse once told me that my son looks nothing like me and must bear a strong resemblance to his father. No, he looks nothing like his father. And, it is not just strangers who make this observation.
“Your son looks nothing like my son,” says my mother-in-law, laughing to foreshadow the upcoming punchline: “And, we know why that is?”
“Why is that? Are you calling me a slut?”, I think, but decide to smile instead. I am not sure if it's more insulting when she implies I'm a cheater or calls me a Yankee; they are probably synonyms in her mind.
Anyway, here’s the truth. There is a chance that he is not my husband's child. But then, he's not mine either. I am pretty sure that our third child is the baby who was beside our biological offspring in the hospital nursery—the baby boy with a hyphenated name who was born about seven minutes before my son. The hyphen in the baby’s name wasn’t the uptown, yuppie kind that says “I am an independent career woman with success equal to my husband's, so he will carry both of our surnames.” Instead, the appellation connecting punctuation conveys “I live in the inner city, on the dole, and am not married to the baby’s daddy."
Yes, we got the gorgeous welfare baby with dark curly hair, olive skin, sparkling white teeth, long black eyelashes and a single dimple on his right cheek. He always looks like he is ready for a Baby Gap photo shoot. Sometimes we just stare at him in amazement.
While we fawn over our child, somewhere out there, a confused single mom in the Dallas area tries to love a chubby preschooler with big ears, a speech impediment and curled toes. She hugs who she believes is her biological offspring every morning while thinking “damn, he is ugly and dumb.” At least when she is told that her child doesn’t look anything like her boyfriend who is helping to raise him, she can say with conviction: “I don’t know who his father is.”
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
I am in Love with a Dead Woman
Our friendship will be based on our love for Oscar Wilde and contempt for the same people. I will introduce her to the books of Mitch Albom, the broadcasts of Katie Couric, the country-pop of Taylor Swift, the paintings of Thomas Kinkade and Dr. Laura’s radio program. She will hate them all as much she hated A.A. Milne in her lifetime. We will laugh. I will ask her if she knew that “Men seldom make passes/At girls who wear glasses.” would stick. She will say: “Hell yeah, doll.” We will be buy hats together (even if Walmart is the only option in the middle of the night for an insomniac and her ghost friend). I will tell her that I love A Telephone Call. I will probably develop a crush on her. She will pretend not to notice. I will take up drinking and probably become an alcoholic. I will ask her if Hemingway was good in bed. She will say something like, “All those guns and no bang.” I will laugh and ask: “Are you serious?” She will smile and never answer me. We will drink some more scotch. I will ask if she met Gertrude Stein when she visited Hemingway in Paris. She will say something offensive. I will be dejected. She will apologize. We will drink more scotch and try on hats until dawn.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Bully Interrupted
Word got out quickly and the email was brief: "G.W. was killed in a motorcycle accident."
Reply: "I feel sorry for his mother's loss." Send.
That should have been the end of it. A polite condolence for the passing of my former classmate. We were not friends. I knew nothing about his family life. We did not talk about our hopes and fears. He never told me if he won or lost his wrestling matches. We never chatted about applying for college, going to prom, or if Julia Roberts made a convincing prostitute.
But the end has not come. Intermittent bouts of grief have continued for five years as I reflect upon a relationship far more complex than friendship and far more important than a romance. His words are still present with me: "You’re a virgin because no one wants to touch you. Not because you’re good," his goading continued, "I bet you have never been kissed." Staring at the fainted pencil doodles on the desk (mostly penned by me) and twisting my frizzy, Sun In and Aqua Net infused hair, I thought “fuck off,” but said nothing.
The intensity of my hair twisting increased with my level of embarrassment. I wrapped my hair six or seven times around my left index finger and jerked it repeatedly over my left eye. “You’re an ugly freak,” he said. “Maybe so, but I will get out of this shithole. You, however, will die here,” I never had the courage to say that to him. Instead, I stayed mute and escaped into my dreams of heading to New York to take over the astrology and supernatural beat at the Natural Inquirer after a four-year stint at a quaint private liberal arts college in central Pennsylvania.
G.W.’s taunts went on for years. Given the uninspired alphabetical seating chart used in homeroom, G.W. always sat in front of me. After the Pledge of Allegiance but typically before roll call, he would turn about 60 degrees left and glare at me with his hazel eyes protected by long, curly eyelashes—not suited for a bully. He slightly tilted his chin upward, showing his jawline that curved like the Appalachian Mountains, the landscape of our childhood. He then placed his right hand onto my left arm twisting my skin until his fingers were imprinted on me like a pink and white x-ray under tacky florescent lighting. This was just one of the ways that he let me know he was there, thinking about me. G.W. took pride in his role as a bully and picked on many kids – boy, girl, fat, skinny, tall, short, smart, dumb, shy, or obnoxious— but among all his targets, I was his favorite.
A large sinister laugh with a touch of naiveté always followed his taunting. Even at his most cruel, a playful innocence underpinned his voice letting me know that he picked on me because I could handle it, and I always suspected that he would never harass the truly weak or helpless. I liked having his sole attention when he was pinching my arm, bending my fingers, or calling me an “ugly bitch.” We needed each other. Picking on me made him look cool and funny. He was a boy who talked me. I think I even had a crush on him for a day or two, a few months before graduation, perhaps in April or May of 1991. I later concluded he was an asshole and moved on.
Certainly not an innovative bully, G.W. acted more menacing than violent. His attacks were no different than those implemented by any other bully in any other school. I never told; our teachers rarely noticed; and, classmates watched in amusement -- wishing they could be like him while giving thanks that were not me. This was long before the days of no tolerance policies and immediate expulsions for minor bullying infractions. Statistics show that targets of bullies often have low self-esteem and perform poorly in school; the teasing was just part of my high school experience and didn’t have much impact on my daily activities.
If you have ever listened to any John Cougar Mellencamp cassette twice, you know our story. We lived in a small town where everyone (with the exception of a few adopted kids) was white and everybody’s parents made about the same amount of money (with the exception of a few business owners). The only thing that separated G.W. and me were our class choices. I was college-bound, and he was not. So, we were from two different academic worlds, which meant after about 10 minutes of abuse in homeroom, we would separate and did not see each other again until the next morning.
Our limited contact makes our story pretty uneventful. There are no twists and turns. This is not a modern retelling of David and Goliath. This isn’t one of those sappy afterschool specials where the beaten-down but yet spunky and resourceful victim outwits the bully, showing him the error of his ways while simultaneously winning respect from classmates and the heart of the high school quarterback who always secretly loved her but wasn’t brave enough to battle peer pressure.
Nor is this a tale of high school revolution that results in equality for all geeks, weirdoes, and freaks, thus ending all tyranny for future generations of misfits. Yes, I wanted to be the Norma Rae or Ronald Reagan of the high school experience, but this was high school not a factory in the South or a Communist country. Sure, I wanted to be that individualist that stood on the tables and shouted, “Ugly people have feelings too. Ugly people have feelings too.” But the institutions of popularity and beauty can never be penetrated, and venerated bullies wield far more power than abusive factory bosses or Communist leaders. If you have survived the high school experience, you know (you just repressed it along with bad teenage sexual encounters and frightening bouts of underage alcohol poisoning).
Nor is our story a tale of unexpected romance. We never hooked up as teenagers, and didn’t get married as adults. We graduated and never again were in the same alphabetical line-up.
I only saw G.W. one time after graduation. I was working for a small local newspaper during my sophomore year of college. It wasn’t the supernatural beat for the National Inquirer, but on that day, I was covering something just as preposterous – high school football. I was in need of football player quotes, so I went to the place where any well-respected, small town reporter would go to chase a story – the local mini-mart on Main Street. The coach of our high school football team was going for his 100th win, and it would be coincidentally against the school’s biggest rival. The coach was far too modest to give me any real quotes worth printing. He said something about those records being silly and not keeping track of his wins (but oddly, he knew exactly why I was calling before the phrase “100th win” came out of my mouth).
While he hung out with a few high school kids right outside the storefront, G.W. spotted me in the parking lot and yelled: “Why are you dressed up? What are doing you?”
“Writing a story about Coach H.,” I said as I approached him.
“You a reporter,” he said.
“Yeah,” said I.
I then turned to a close friend’s little brother who was on the football team and asked for his thoughts on the coach’s upcoming milestone. Peter wouldn’t give me a quote. He said, Coach H. would make him run miles and sit him out if he talked to a reporter. That’s when G.W. showed that he still had school spirit at the age of 20, and as former football player, he gave me a few printable lines. Ignoring journalistic ethics, I changed his quotes slightly to make him appear articulate and knowledgeable about Blue Devil football. I think I used the phrase “striving for excellence” somewhere in the story.
Other than getting my quotes, I don’t remember much of our actual exchange. It was quite unremarkable. Most of my encounters with G.W. were unremarkable, so I hesitate to recall too many incidents because I don’t want to confuse his actions with those of other bullies that I encountered, stories I have read, or Molly Ringwald movies that I have seen.
Really the story is that the story ended too soon for G.W. – before he became a parent. Before he had to answer the question: “Dad, what were you like in school?” That is the moment when you have to face who you were, what you are now, and what you aspire your children to be. It’s in the next generation when bullying issues surface. Parents must bully proof their children, making sure they are not bullied and that they do not bully others. How you answer your child’s question means everything.
After my son, who was in second grade at the time, got grounded from his computer for intentionally ignoring a classmate at the school’s pancake breakfast. He said, “I don’t like that kid. Weren’t there kids in school that you didn’t like?”
I kneeled down to be eye-level to him and said, “Yes, there were many people I didn’t like. But, many people treated me like you just treated that little boy. They ignored me and pretended like I didn’t exist. And when they didn’t ignore me, they made fun of me, sometimes behind my back but mostly to my face while others watched and laughed. You will not do that. You will be nice to everyone. If you are not, there will be consequences.” That was my answer.
I don’t know how G.W. would have answered. Statistics show that most high school bullies go on to be adult bullies at work and at home. Many bullies abuse their spouses and children. Some end up in prison, and a good portion raise their kids to be bullies. I’ll never know what G.W.’s story could have been. If I wrote the ending, G.W. would have been loving father who raised his kids to be kind to others. And of course, my kid kicks his kid’s ass – in a game of chess.
Reply: "I feel sorry for his mother's loss." Send.
That should have been the end of it. A polite condolence for the passing of my former classmate. We were not friends. I knew nothing about his family life. We did not talk about our hopes and fears. He never told me if he won or lost his wrestling matches. We never chatted about applying for college, going to prom, or if Julia Roberts made a convincing prostitute.
But the end has not come. Intermittent bouts of grief have continued for five years as I reflect upon a relationship far more complex than friendship and far more important than a romance. His words are still present with me: "You’re a virgin because no one wants to touch you. Not because you’re good," his goading continued, "I bet you have never been kissed." Staring at the fainted pencil doodles on the desk (mostly penned by me) and twisting my frizzy, Sun In and Aqua Net infused hair, I thought “fuck off,” but said nothing.
The intensity of my hair twisting increased with my level of embarrassment. I wrapped my hair six or seven times around my left index finger and jerked it repeatedly over my left eye. “You’re an ugly freak,” he said. “Maybe so, but I will get out of this shithole. You, however, will die here,” I never had the courage to say that to him. Instead, I stayed mute and escaped into my dreams of heading to New York to take over the astrology and supernatural beat at the Natural Inquirer after a four-year stint at a quaint private liberal arts college in central Pennsylvania.
G.W.’s taunts went on for years. Given the uninspired alphabetical seating chart used in homeroom, G.W. always sat in front of me. After the Pledge of Allegiance but typically before roll call, he would turn about 60 degrees left and glare at me with his hazel eyes protected by long, curly eyelashes—not suited for a bully. He slightly tilted his chin upward, showing his jawline that curved like the Appalachian Mountains, the landscape of our childhood. He then placed his right hand onto my left arm twisting my skin until his fingers were imprinted on me like a pink and white x-ray under tacky florescent lighting. This was just one of the ways that he let me know he was there, thinking about me. G.W. took pride in his role as a bully and picked on many kids – boy, girl, fat, skinny, tall, short, smart, dumb, shy, or obnoxious— but among all his targets, I was his favorite.
A large sinister laugh with a touch of naiveté always followed his taunting. Even at his most cruel, a playful innocence underpinned his voice letting me know that he picked on me because I could handle it, and I always suspected that he would never harass the truly weak or helpless. I liked having his sole attention when he was pinching my arm, bending my fingers, or calling me an “ugly bitch.” We needed each other. Picking on me made him look cool and funny. He was a boy who talked me. I think I even had a crush on him for a day or two, a few months before graduation, perhaps in April or May of 1991. I later concluded he was an asshole and moved on.
Certainly not an innovative bully, G.W. acted more menacing than violent. His attacks were no different than those implemented by any other bully in any other school. I never told; our teachers rarely noticed; and, classmates watched in amusement -- wishing they could be like him while giving thanks that were not me. This was long before the days of no tolerance policies and immediate expulsions for minor bullying infractions. Statistics show that targets of bullies often have low self-esteem and perform poorly in school; the teasing was just part of my high school experience and didn’t have much impact on my daily activities.
If you have ever listened to any John Cougar Mellencamp cassette twice, you know our story. We lived in a small town where everyone (with the exception of a few adopted kids) was white and everybody’s parents made about the same amount of money (with the exception of a few business owners). The only thing that separated G.W. and me were our class choices. I was college-bound, and he was not. So, we were from two different academic worlds, which meant after about 10 minutes of abuse in homeroom, we would separate and did not see each other again until the next morning.
Our limited contact makes our story pretty uneventful. There are no twists and turns. This is not a modern retelling of David and Goliath. This isn’t one of those sappy afterschool specials where the beaten-down but yet spunky and resourceful victim outwits the bully, showing him the error of his ways while simultaneously winning respect from classmates and the heart of the high school quarterback who always secretly loved her but wasn’t brave enough to battle peer pressure.
Nor is this a tale of high school revolution that results in equality for all geeks, weirdoes, and freaks, thus ending all tyranny for future generations of misfits. Yes, I wanted to be the Norma Rae or Ronald Reagan of the high school experience, but this was high school not a factory in the South or a Communist country. Sure, I wanted to be that individualist that stood on the tables and shouted, “Ugly people have feelings too. Ugly people have feelings too.” But the institutions of popularity and beauty can never be penetrated, and venerated bullies wield far more power than abusive factory bosses or Communist leaders. If you have survived the high school experience, you know (you just repressed it along with bad teenage sexual encounters and frightening bouts of underage alcohol poisoning).
Nor is our story a tale of unexpected romance. We never hooked up as teenagers, and didn’t get married as adults. We graduated and never again were in the same alphabetical line-up.
I only saw G.W. one time after graduation. I was working for a small local newspaper during my sophomore year of college. It wasn’t the supernatural beat for the National Inquirer, but on that day, I was covering something just as preposterous – high school football. I was in need of football player quotes, so I went to the place where any well-respected, small town reporter would go to chase a story – the local mini-mart on Main Street. The coach of our high school football team was going for his 100th win, and it would be coincidentally against the school’s biggest rival. The coach was far too modest to give me any real quotes worth printing. He said something about those records being silly and not keeping track of his wins (but oddly, he knew exactly why I was calling before the phrase “100th win” came out of my mouth).
While he hung out with a few high school kids right outside the storefront, G.W. spotted me in the parking lot and yelled: “Why are you dressed up? What are doing you?”
“Writing a story about Coach H.,” I said as I approached him.
“You a reporter,” he said.
“Yeah,” said I.
I then turned to a close friend’s little brother who was on the football team and asked for his thoughts on the coach’s upcoming milestone. Peter wouldn’t give me a quote. He said, Coach H. would make him run miles and sit him out if he talked to a reporter. That’s when G.W. showed that he still had school spirit at the age of 20, and as former football player, he gave me a few printable lines. Ignoring journalistic ethics, I changed his quotes slightly to make him appear articulate and knowledgeable about Blue Devil football. I think I used the phrase “striving for excellence” somewhere in the story.
Other than getting my quotes, I don’t remember much of our actual exchange. It was quite unremarkable. Most of my encounters with G.W. were unremarkable, so I hesitate to recall too many incidents because I don’t want to confuse his actions with those of other bullies that I encountered, stories I have read, or Molly Ringwald movies that I have seen.
Really the story is that the story ended too soon for G.W. – before he became a parent. Before he had to answer the question: “Dad, what were you like in school?” That is the moment when you have to face who you were, what you are now, and what you aspire your children to be. It’s in the next generation when bullying issues surface. Parents must bully proof their children, making sure they are not bullied and that they do not bully others. How you answer your child’s question means everything.
After my son, who was in second grade at the time, got grounded from his computer for intentionally ignoring a classmate at the school’s pancake breakfast. He said, “I don’t like that kid. Weren’t there kids in school that you didn’t like?”
I kneeled down to be eye-level to him and said, “Yes, there were many people I didn’t like. But, many people treated me like you just treated that little boy. They ignored me and pretended like I didn’t exist. And when they didn’t ignore me, they made fun of me, sometimes behind my back but mostly to my face while others watched and laughed. You will not do that. You will be nice to everyone. If you are not, there will be consequences.” That was my answer.
I don’t know how G.W. would have answered. Statistics show that most high school bullies go on to be adult bullies at work and at home. Many bullies abuse their spouses and children. Some end up in prison, and a good portion raise their kids to be bullies. I’ll never know what G.W.’s story could have been. If I wrote the ending, G.W. would have been loving father who raised his kids to be kind to others. And of course, my kid kicks his kid’s ass – in a game of chess.
Friday, June 26, 2009
The Chart
Author’s Note: I will probably never write a teen novel, but I would love to see an updated version of this true and ridiculous scene from my pre-teen years in a young adult book. Also, all the names in this chart have been generated randomly from the phonebook and are not coded to reflect the names of real people in some furtive way. This is one of my favorite embarrassing stories from childhood to share. Since I can't remember enough to develop a complete essay, I offer a moment in time instead.
One such evening, my friend decided it would be fun to rate all the girls in our class, including ourselves. I was happy to oblige and had no problem giving them all number ratings on their looks, personality, fashion sense and intelligence. We giggled and giggled, later on talked about some boys, and then said good-night.
When I arrived at school the next morning, everyone was standing at a group of desks hovering around something, maybe a book, a map, or piece a paper. Yes, it was a piece of paper. Their voices were low, but I could make out a few words. “A four.” “A negative seventeen!” “What a loser.” “Yeah, what’d she give her herself.”
This situation was a test of my character.
I failed. I came down with a headache and went home early from school that day. For a few weeks, I just didn’t make eye contact. Most of the girls didn’t talk to me until the next school year.
Although it is unconventional for an essayist to address herself within in her work, this episode was so ridiculous and so preventable that I must scold my stupid pre-teen self.
You are a dumbass and a coward. You could have gone two different ways with this one.
Deny. Deny. Deny. It was her word against yours. Your handwriting was not anywhere on that piece of paper and the phone call was not recorded. (Thank God, you did not have a blog in those days).
The other option was: Own it, Own it, and Own it. You could have stood by your ratings and called out those girls. You could have been the Gossip Girl of your generation.
But that is okay. You were only 12. You went on to say and write much more imprudent things that you could later not deny, which I have documented in “Advice for the Young: Don’t Write Stupid Shit in Your High School Yearbook.”
Advice for the Young: Don’t Write Stupid Shit in Your High School Yearbook
Author’s Note: I have changed some of the names and the details that wrote in my yearbook because I don’t want rehash all the trouble I caused in 1991.
“Hey, what are tangible men?”, asked my husband as he came up the stairs.
“What kind of non sequitur crap is that? What the hell are you talking about?”
“You wrote that you like tangible men,” he said.
“Oh, dear God. They found my high school yearbook,” I said to myself.
I responded, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Bring up her yearbook,” my husband yelled to my oldest son.
Oh the horror. The big hair. The dark make-up. Tons of jewelry. Silly candid photos of me twirling my baton. The picture that immortalizes me as the Most Gullible girl. A sappy dedication from my mother, and my dreadful entry in the section called Senior Directories: Information Concerning the 1991 graduates.
The concept behind the section is a good one: Give graduates a spot to provide contact information (no email in those days, just physical addresses); list school activities; and reflect on their likes and dislikes. If done correctly, this section could accurately reflect a moment in time. Show what was important to students and what trends were occurring? The well-written entries could reveal how you, your values, and what you value have changed or remained the same after graduation.
Or, you could do what I did and fill your space with a lot of inside jokes that were either so obscure no one knew what you were talking about at the time or so unimportant you can't remember the sentiment behind the words 18 years later.
Now that I got you curious. I'll take a huge leap of faith that embarrassment won’t kill me and share the entire cringe-worthy list with you:
Likes:
· family and friends (Wrote that because everyone else did.)
· “IN” (Not a preposition, but the boy that I had a crush on at the time.)
· 7-4-89 (The date of my first kiss with "IN." Sentimental Crap. Get a life!)
· Destiny in the rain (Also connected to the first kiss. So, pathetic.)
· Maryland construction workers (Guess it meant something to me at the time.)
· M.R.’s and lollipops (Exceptionally obscure inside joke that still makes me laugh.)
· Tangible men (Your guess is as good as mine.)
Dislikes:
· Jugglers (Huge mistake. IN’s girlfriend. This comment made all hell break loose.)
· Mashed potatoes (Truly astonishing that I did go on to earn a few degrees.)
· Highway breakdowns (Reasonable.)
· Intangible men (Other side of the indiscernible coin.)
· Calculus confusion (Captures the challenges of 12th grade math, not bad.)
The inclusion of my likes are not worthy of analysis but two of my omissions bother me: Prince and writing. If I would have included them, these would have reflected the things that I have held onto since my childhood. I can attribute the Prince omission to his release of Graffiti Bridge in 1991, which was the start of his commercial decline. So, my affection may have waned for a year and two. But, no excuse exists for not listing writing. Because I was trying to be so clever in the writing of my likes and dislikes, I simply forgot to mention it.
So after 18 years, my dislike for mashed potatoes and highway breakdowns still rings true.
Mashed potatoes. That is what I picked to emphasize. From what I remember and from what people tell me, I was a smart girl in my teens. I could have wrote that I disliked world hunger, war (Gulf War started in 1991), child abusers; skin-heads, censorship and people who don’t respect the First Amendment. Anything that would have indicated to my children almost twenty-years later that I had a brain then and I used it.
But between my clueless facial expressions and dumb comments, there is no evidence of the existence of my brain in high school. So when I look at the cover of the yearbook and it asks: Remember When?
I respond, “No, thank you. I rather not.”
“Hey, what are tangible men?”, asked my husband as he came up the stairs.
“What kind of non sequitur crap is that? What the hell are you talking about?”
“You wrote that you like tangible men,” he said.
“Oh, dear God. They found my high school yearbook,” I said to myself.
I responded, “I have no idea what you are talking about.”
“Bring up her yearbook,” my husband yelled to my oldest son.
Oh the horror. The big hair. The dark make-up. Tons of jewelry. Silly candid photos of me twirling my baton. The picture that immortalizes me as the Most Gullible girl. A sappy dedication from my mother, and my dreadful entry in the section called Senior Directories: Information Concerning the 1991 graduates.
The concept behind the section is a good one: Give graduates a spot to provide contact information (no email in those days, just physical addresses); list school activities; and reflect on their likes and dislikes. If done correctly, this section could accurately reflect a moment in time. Show what was important to students and what trends were occurring? The well-written entries could reveal how you, your values, and what you value have changed or remained the same after graduation.
Or, you could do what I did and fill your space with a lot of inside jokes that were either so obscure no one knew what you were talking about at the time or so unimportant you can't remember the sentiment behind the words 18 years later.
Now that I got you curious. I'll take a huge leap of faith that embarrassment won’t kill me and share the entire cringe-worthy list with you:
Likes:
· family and friends (Wrote that because everyone else did.)
· “IN” (Not a preposition, but the boy that I had a crush on at the time.)
· 7-4-89 (The date of my first kiss with "IN." Sentimental Crap. Get a life!)
· Destiny in the rain (Also connected to the first kiss. So, pathetic.)
· Maryland construction workers (Guess it meant something to me at the time.)
· M.R.’s and lollipops (Exceptionally obscure inside joke that still makes me laugh.)
· Tangible men (Your guess is as good as mine.)
Dislikes:
· Jugglers (Huge mistake. IN’s girlfriend. This comment made all hell break loose.)
· Mashed potatoes (Truly astonishing that I did go on to earn a few degrees.)
· Highway breakdowns (Reasonable.)
· Intangible men (Other side of the indiscernible coin.)
· Calculus confusion (Captures the challenges of 12th grade math, not bad.)
The inclusion of my likes are not worthy of analysis but two of my omissions bother me: Prince and writing. If I would have included them, these would have reflected the things that I have held onto since my childhood. I can attribute the Prince omission to his release of Graffiti Bridge in 1991, which was the start of his commercial decline. So, my affection may have waned for a year and two. But, no excuse exists for not listing writing. Because I was trying to be so clever in the writing of my likes and dislikes, I simply forgot to mention it.
So after 18 years, my dislike for mashed potatoes and highway breakdowns still rings true.
Mashed potatoes. That is what I picked to emphasize. From what I remember and from what people tell me, I was a smart girl in my teens. I could have wrote that I disliked world hunger, war (Gulf War started in 1991), child abusers; skin-heads, censorship and people who don’t respect the First Amendment. Anything that would have indicated to my children almost twenty-years later that I had a brain then and I used it.
But between my clueless facial expressions and dumb comments, there is no evidence of the existence of my brain in high school. So when I look at the cover of the yearbook and it asks: Remember When?
I respond, “No, thank you. I rather not.”
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Grieving on a Fallen Star, or Not
Michael Jackson died today.
I want to be sad, maybe even shed tear or two. To stimulate my grief, I listen to Thriller. Nothing. I stare at the original Thriller cover for awhile, which I had as a wall-size poster back in 1982 when I was nine. I look at it a long time. So that is what he looked like before all the surgeries and the loss of pigmentation, I guess I have forgotten. Still feeling nothing.
I remember staying up late to see the premier of Beat it on Friday Night Videos on NBC because I was only a part of the MTV generation in theory. I suddenly get the urge to email my friend Tracey who stayed over that night to watch it with me. But still nothing.
Although I should I have stopped, I guess I couldn’t get enough. So, I forced myself to try to remember if Thriller or 1999 was my first cassette. Prince’s breakthrough album came out only one month before Thriller. I can’t remember which I got first. Feeling the urge to turn off Thriller and switch to 1999. I still feel nothing for MJ.
I can’t make myself feel sad. Indifference keeps surfacing.
I mourned the loss of Jackson in 2005 when he faced accusations of child molestation for the second time. I stopped listening to him entirely. When his songs came on the radio, I turned the dial immediately, no matter how catchy the chorus or funky the beat.
He was acquitted of all charges against him, but that just means reasonable doubt existed. Innocent and not guilty are not the same. Michael Jackson had three things going for him during that trial: he had some of the best lawyers on the planet; his star power; and, the mother of the allegedly abused child was a money-seeking, star-obsessed, fame-hungry compulsive liar who was enough to cast an enormous shadow of reasonable doubt despite other witness testimony. So, Jackson walked out of the court room and withdrew from society.
Great performers don’t have to be flawless. But at the same time, having exceedingly amazing ability and talent doesn’t excuse inappropriate and harmful behavior. Jackson admitted to allowing young boys to sleep in his bed, and more than one child claimed to be abused.
Something was wrong at Neverland Ranch. Something was wrong within Michael Jackson. This is why I can’t grieve, perhaps.
I want to be sad, maybe even shed tear or two. To stimulate my grief, I listen to Thriller. Nothing. I stare at the original Thriller cover for awhile, which I had as a wall-size poster back in 1982 when I was nine. I look at it a long time. So that is what he looked like before all the surgeries and the loss of pigmentation, I guess I have forgotten. Still feeling nothing.
I remember staying up late to see the premier of Beat it on Friday Night Videos on NBC because I was only a part of the MTV generation in theory. I suddenly get the urge to email my friend Tracey who stayed over that night to watch it with me. But still nothing.
Although I should I have stopped, I guess I couldn’t get enough. So, I forced myself to try to remember if Thriller or 1999 was my first cassette. Prince’s breakthrough album came out only one month before Thriller. I can’t remember which I got first. Feeling the urge to turn off Thriller and switch to 1999. I still feel nothing for MJ.
I can’t make myself feel sad. Indifference keeps surfacing.
I mourned the loss of Jackson in 2005 when he faced accusations of child molestation for the second time. I stopped listening to him entirely. When his songs came on the radio, I turned the dial immediately, no matter how catchy the chorus or funky the beat.
He was acquitted of all charges against him, but that just means reasonable doubt existed. Innocent and not guilty are not the same. Michael Jackson had three things going for him during that trial: he had some of the best lawyers on the planet; his star power; and, the mother of the allegedly abused child was a money-seeking, star-obsessed, fame-hungry compulsive liar who was enough to cast an enormous shadow of reasonable doubt despite other witness testimony. So, Jackson walked out of the court room and withdrew from society.
Great performers don’t have to be flawless. But at the same time, having exceedingly amazing ability and talent doesn’t excuse inappropriate and harmful behavior. Jackson admitted to allowing young boys to sleep in his bed, and more than one child claimed to be abused.
Something was wrong at Neverland Ranch. Something was wrong within Michael Jackson. This is why I can’t grieve, perhaps.
A Message to Michael Jackson Fans from a Prince Fan
Dear Michael Jackson Fans:
Please accept my sincere condolences. I am sorry for your loss.
Truthfully, I am not feeling much grief for the King of Pop. It could be because he was an accused child molester. Or maybe I am just irritated that his two sons are both named Prince; he had the nerve to die on the 25th anniversary of Purple Rain; and, now all the Wacko Jacko crazies will flood the Prince boards.
Please don’t take this personally, but we don’t want you. We have enough of our own nutballs, so go check out the Madonna boards.
I bid you good luck in your search to find a new freak to idolize.
Sincerely,
A Prince Fan
Please accept my sincere condolences. I am sorry for your loss.
Truthfully, I am not feeling much grief for the King of Pop. It could be because he was an accused child molester. Or maybe I am just irritated that his two sons are both named Prince; he had the nerve to die on the 25th anniversary of Purple Rain; and, now all the Wacko Jacko crazies will flood the Prince boards.
Please don’t take this personally, but we don’t want you. We have enough of our own nutballs, so go check out the Madonna boards.
I bid you good luck in your search to find a new freak to idolize.
Sincerely,
A Prince Fan
Monday, June 22, 2009
The Food Chain Cafeteria Style
Anyone who says the United States of America does not have a caste system has never stepped foot in a high school cafeteria.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Garbage Man’s Daughter V. Little League Baseball Commission
Author’s Note: This is essay is mostly true. Names have been changed to conceal identities of the baseball league and the psychopathic coach who is still teaching baseball to young people today.
Dear Madam:
You are being summoned to appear in front of Little League Baseball Commission on Monday, June 7 at 7:00 p.m. You will have the opportunity to address a formal written complaint that has been issued against you for the official removal of you and your daughter from the Little League.
Best Regards,
Little League Baseball Commissioner
What did I do that was so awful that my daughter and I will be banned from Little League? It’s not like I was hocking steroids to five-year-old prodigy baseball players; or, paying off seven-year-olds to throw a game or two. My crime came out of concern for my three-year-old daughter, who was playing on a t-ball team for the first time. I asked her coach to consider not giving a game ball trophy for the “best performing player” after the end of each game.
He didn’t take my request too well and filed a petition for formal sanctions against me.
Here is how it all started:
Email 1 (Coach to Entire Team)
The Blue Birds have a $10 team fee. This is used to purchase game ball trophies for the players. Players will receive a game ball trophy to hold the game after a game of exceptional play. EVERY PLAYER WILL RECEIVE ONE BEFORE THE SEASON IS OVER. (The coach’s capitalization).
At this age, there is a little whining and wanking [sic] at times when everybody doesn't get one after the game. This is normal and not a big deal. In order for the players to have a sense of pride and achievement, using the rewards system, they must be earned.
DO NOT TELL YOUR CHILD, OR ANNOUNCE IN FRONT OF THE TEAM, "EVERYONE WILL EVENTUALLY GET ONE." (The coach’s capitalization)
I promise your child will not be scarred for life. The little ones who get a little upset when they don't receive the award are the ones - speaking in terms of personal growth - that 'puff up' the most and carry the achievement and pride with them that will affect every other part of their existence.
All players will receive a participation trophy from the league at the end of the season.
Regards,
Coach
Email 2 (Me to the Coach)
Dear Coach:
I am not sure that I will be taking my daughter to practice tonight because I am completely opposed to the game ball trophy idea. I hope that you would reconsider your plan, or at very least, have parents vote on it.
The concept of rewarding individual three-year-old players for "exceptional play" goes against the philosophy and mission of the t-ball league. In our kids' division, the league does not keep score, record stats, or have play-offs. The concept is to remove the competitive elements of the game that can be distracting and perhaps discouraging to young players who are just learning the game. At this age, the emphasis should be learning the basics of the game, learning to how follow directions, and being a part of team. Recognizing the best player of the game introduces a concept that three-year-olds don't need to know right now. They will eventually learn those lessons about winning and losing and that not all players are equally gifted.
The larger concept of "pride and achievement" is something that can be accomplished simply by being part of a team. At this age, getting the kids to stay on the field, go roughly where they should be, and keeping their eye on the ball so they don't get hit in the face are enormous accomplishments. All attention should be placed on the team effort. Knowing how to be a team player is a skill that they will carry with them forever.
I considered posting this to the Yahoo group, but thought it would be best to let you know our feelings on this issue first. I am trying to get my daughter on another team, but most of them seem to be full. I would like for her to play this season. In all fairness, please have the parents vote. If the majority wants the game ball trophy, we will go along with it.
Sincerely,
GMD
Email 3 (Coach to Me)
GMD,
I've been over and over this email and I can't even get in the same ballpark with your views. Although you did go to great ends to include many 'red flag' words, you have truthfully still only prostituted sentence fragments and phrases from the league and even shoehorned in a quote or two from me, in an attempt to arrive closer to your own personal agenda. Your logic and conclusions are flawed by the very presentation of their design and, very early on, are complete departures from the concept of team.
What you have created is a crusade/cause. By definition, the purpose of which is to garner support for the few, in order to meet a special need. Do you have a special need? I feel confident that any coach in the jr. t-ball program would not hesitate to accommodate any child, should a specific need be addressed (in the context of the individual/child, specifically, rather than attacking a team and its coaches, having no real information on either.) Should you choose to continue to search for a team that will meet your needs of personal control and mediocrity, be prepared for a long journey, as they don't exist within our organization?
Your judgment of this team, my family, and subsequent threats to stir up the team if your needs are not met are unconscionable and not well-received. I've forwarded your original email, this response and some additional comments to the league for them to action.
Regards,
Coach
Email 4 (Coach to Little League Baseball League)
Attn: League Director:
I ask and require that GMD and her daughter are removed from my team. In consideration of other coaches and families in the league, it's my personal opinion that additional sanctions be applied, requiring them to wait a season or so to play ball.
The damn shame of it is: you guys will cover the league, I'll take care of my team, she'll do whatever she's doing and the only one suffering is her daughter.
After her questioning the coach's ethics and judgments while quoting the league’s mission statement with the threat/ultimatum of mutinying the team to get what she wanted....all this over a really nothing deal, she doesn't really know about.
Regards,
Coach
So that is how I landed in front of the Little League Baseball Commission. Just as I side note, I must confess this not the first time that the phrase “need for personal control” has been used when describing me. I have a hate email somewhere from a classmate in library school who wrote that exact comment in a peer review for a group project on the New York Public Library. In that case, the comment probably fit. The group got an A on the project, but I got a B for not working well with others. Regardless of past tendencies for control, I felt confident that I was seeking domination. My complaint came out of concern for all the children on the team, and more to the point, I was simply right. So, I prepared for the biggest fight the Little Baseball Commission has ever fought.
I was thorough in my preparations:
· I compiled all e-mails to and from the coach.
· I printed out and highlight key points of the league’s mission statement.
· I googled “game ball” and “parent complaints.” Either no one has had the courage to battle this issue publicly, or I simply don’t understand the etiquette of being a sports parent – don’t question the coach.
· I found the video of my daughter scoring seven goals in one soccer game to prove two things. First my child did not have a any special needs (which the coach implied, assuming the I was more concerned about child not earning the game ball trophy opposed to caring about emotional growth). Second, I wanted to show that my daughter was athletically gifted and would have probably been first or second player to get the game ball. But, I didn’t want to appear overbearing or crazy.
· Next I contacted Katie, Laura, and Amy (moms from son’s old baseball team) to see if they could provide character references for me to show that I have been model a sports parent on all of my son’s baseball teams.
· Next I wrote a few brief anecdotes about our past baseball experiences with our oldest child and to show that I wasn’t opposed to practice of giving game balls at the age of eight, he earned his game ball for being hit with a ball twice in one game – an awkward moment because the crowd wasn’t sure if they should clap for the child who was either too physically slow or too mentality dimwitted to move before he got hit.
· I found a few quotes about the benefits of participant trophies. Actually, there hundreds of articles about the opposition to participation trophies, which is a topic for another day. After watching my four-year-old walk around with his first soccer trophy with so sense of pride and accomplishment. I will never be part of the anti-trophy brigade that deprives preschoolers of their sparkling, space consuming, and dust attracting awards.
Finally, the day of my hearing I arrived. I had my documentation and a spiffy suit with a stylish matching pair of pumps picked out. Then, I got the call.
“We have moved your daughter to another team. You do not need to appear tonight,” said the secretary, in a tone of youthful disinterestedness.
“But m’am, I would like to come present about the ills of game ball trophies and the harmful effects on players under the age of six,” said I.
“No thank you. Your duaghter has been placed another team. The commission considers this matter closed,” she said and quickly hung up the phone before I could rebuttal.
So, I sent the commissioner an email that summarized my case against game ball trophies in roughly 2,300 words. Since emails get can be easily deleted. I also mailed a 20 page document called “Game Ball Trophies: Do They Send the Right Message to Our Children?”
I never got a response.
As it turns out about 4 weeks into the season, the coach of my daughter’s new team was removed for calling another parent a fat-ass. The target of her insult then became the coach for the remainder of the very long season.
So during my daughter’s first season of t-ball (which now at the age of seven, she doesn’t remember at all), she was nearly banned from team; had three different head coaches; ate many snacks after games; scored lots of runs; and, during one particular game left third base because she had to pee and couldn’t hold it until she got to home base. Winning isn’t everything when you are three. Sometimes peeing is more important than scoring.
Dear Madam:
You are being summoned to appear in front of Little League Baseball Commission on Monday, June 7 at 7:00 p.m. You will have the opportunity to address a formal written complaint that has been issued against you for the official removal of you and your daughter from the Little League.
Best Regards,
Little League Baseball Commissioner
What did I do that was so awful that my daughter and I will be banned from Little League? It’s not like I was hocking steroids to five-year-old prodigy baseball players; or, paying off seven-year-olds to throw a game or two. My crime came out of concern for my three-year-old daughter, who was playing on a t-ball team for the first time. I asked her coach to consider not giving a game ball trophy for the “best performing player” after the end of each game.
He didn’t take my request too well and filed a petition for formal sanctions against me.
Here is how it all started:
Email 1 (Coach to Entire Team)
The Blue Birds have a $10 team fee. This is used to purchase game ball trophies for the players. Players will receive a game ball trophy to hold the game after a game of exceptional play. EVERY PLAYER WILL RECEIVE ONE BEFORE THE SEASON IS OVER. (The coach’s capitalization).
At this age, there is a little whining and wanking [sic] at times when everybody doesn't get one after the game. This is normal and not a big deal. In order for the players to have a sense of pride and achievement, using the rewards system, they must be earned.
DO NOT TELL YOUR CHILD, OR ANNOUNCE IN FRONT OF THE TEAM, "EVERYONE WILL EVENTUALLY GET ONE." (The coach’s capitalization)
I promise your child will not be scarred for life. The little ones who get a little upset when they don't receive the award are the ones - speaking in terms of personal growth - that 'puff up' the most and carry the achievement and pride with them that will affect every other part of their existence.
All players will receive a participation trophy from the league at the end of the season.
Regards,
Coach
Email 2 (Me to the Coach)
Dear Coach:
I am not sure that I will be taking my daughter to practice tonight because I am completely opposed to the game ball trophy idea. I hope that you would reconsider your plan, or at very least, have parents vote on it.
The concept of rewarding individual three-year-old players for "exceptional play" goes against the philosophy and mission of the t-ball league. In our kids' division, the league does not keep score, record stats, or have play-offs. The concept is to remove the competitive elements of the game that can be distracting and perhaps discouraging to young players who are just learning the game. At this age, the emphasis should be learning the basics of the game, learning to how follow directions, and being a part of team. Recognizing the best player of the game introduces a concept that three-year-olds don't need to know right now. They will eventually learn those lessons about winning and losing and that not all players are equally gifted.
The larger concept of "pride and achievement" is something that can be accomplished simply by being part of a team. At this age, getting the kids to stay on the field, go roughly where they should be, and keeping their eye on the ball so they don't get hit in the face are enormous accomplishments. All attention should be placed on the team effort. Knowing how to be a team player is a skill that they will carry with them forever.
I considered posting this to the Yahoo group, but thought it would be best to let you know our feelings on this issue first. I am trying to get my daughter on another team, but most of them seem to be full. I would like for her to play this season. In all fairness, please have the parents vote. If the majority wants the game ball trophy, we will go along with it.
Sincerely,
GMD
Email 3 (Coach to Me)
GMD,
I've been over and over this email and I can't even get in the same ballpark with your views. Although you did go to great ends to include many 'red flag' words, you have truthfully still only prostituted sentence fragments and phrases from the league and even shoehorned in a quote or two from me, in an attempt to arrive closer to your own personal agenda. Your logic and conclusions are flawed by the very presentation of their design and, very early on, are complete departures from the concept of team.
What you have created is a crusade/cause. By definition, the purpose of which is to garner support for the few, in order to meet a special need. Do you have a special need? I feel confident that any coach in the jr. t-ball program would not hesitate to accommodate any child, should a specific need be addressed (in the context of the individual/child, specifically, rather than attacking a team and its coaches, having no real information on either.) Should you choose to continue to search for a team that will meet your needs of personal control and mediocrity, be prepared for a long journey, as they don't exist within our organization?
Your judgment of this team, my family, and subsequent threats to stir up the team if your needs are not met are unconscionable and not well-received. I've forwarded your original email, this response and some additional comments to the league for them to action.
Regards,
Coach
Email 4 (Coach to Little League Baseball League)
Attn: League Director:
I ask and require that GMD and her daughter are removed from my team. In consideration of other coaches and families in the league, it's my personal opinion that additional sanctions be applied, requiring them to wait a season or so to play ball.
The damn shame of it is: you guys will cover the league, I'll take care of my team, she'll do whatever she's doing and the only one suffering is her daughter.
After her questioning the coach's ethics and judgments while quoting the league’s mission statement with the threat/ultimatum of mutinying the team to get what she wanted....all this over a really nothing deal, she doesn't really know about.
Regards,
Coach
So that is how I landed in front of the Little League Baseball Commission. Just as I side note, I must confess this not the first time that the phrase “need for personal control” has been used when describing me. I have a hate email somewhere from a classmate in library school who wrote that exact comment in a peer review for a group project on the New York Public Library. In that case, the comment probably fit. The group got an A on the project, but I got a B for not working well with others. Regardless of past tendencies for control, I felt confident that I was seeking domination. My complaint came out of concern for all the children on the team, and more to the point, I was simply right. So, I prepared for the biggest fight the Little Baseball Commission has ever fought.
I was thorough in my preparations:
· I compiled all e-mails to and from the coach.
· I printed out and highlight key points of the league’s mission statement.
· I googled “game ball” and “parent complaints.” Either no one has had the courage to battle this issue publicly, or I simply don’t understand the etiquette of being a sports parent – don’t question the coach.
· I found the video of my daughter scoring seven goals in one soccer game to prove two things. First my child did not have a any special needs (which the coach implied, assuming the I was more concerned about child not earning the game ball trophy opposed to caring about emotional growth). Second, I wanted to show that my daughter was athletically gifted and would have probably been first or second player to get the game ball. But, I didn’t want to appear overbearing or crazy.
· Next I contacted Katie, Laura, and Amy (moms from son’s old baseball team) to see if they could provide character references for me to show that I have been model a sports parent on all of my son’s baseball teams.
· Next I wrote a few brief anecdotes about our past baseball experiences with our oldest child and to show that I wasn’t opposed to practice of giving game balls at the age of eight, he earned his game ball for being hit with a ball twice in one game – an awkward moment because the crowd wasn’t sure if they should clap for the child who was either too physically slow or too mentality dimwitted to move before he got hit.
· I found a few quotes about the benefits of participant trophies. Actually, there hundreds of articles about the opposition to participation trophies, which is a topic for another day. After watching my four-year-old walk around with his first soccer trophy with so sense of pride and accomplishment. I will never be part of the anti-trophy brigade that deprives preschoolers of their sparkling, space consuming, and dust attracting awards.
Finally, the day of my hearing I arrived. I had my documentation and a spiffy suit with a stylish matching pair of pumps picked out. Then, I got the call.
“We have moved your daughter to another team. You do not need to appear tonight,” said the secretary, in a tone of youthful disinterestedness.
“But m’am, I would like to come present about the ills of game ball trophies and the harmful effects on players under the age of six,” said I.
“No thank you. Your duaghter has been placed another team. The commission considers this matter closed,” she said and quickly hung up the phone before I could rebuttal.
So, I sent the commissioner an email that summarized my case against game ball trophies in roughly 2,300 words. Since emails get can be easily deleted. I also mailed a 20 page document called “Game Ball Trophies: Do They Send the Right Message to Our Children?”
I never got a response.
As it turns out about 4 weeks into the season, the coach of my daughter’s new team was removed for calling another parent a fat-ass. The target of her insult then became the coach for the remainder of the very long season.
So during my daughter’s first season of t-ball (which now at the age of seven, she doesn’t remember at all), she was nearly banned from team; had three different head coaches; ate many snacks after games; scored lots of runs; and, during one particular game left third base because she had to pee and couldn’t hold it until she got to home base. Winning isn’t everything when you are three. Sometimes peeing is more important than scoring.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Words of Encouragement
“Why was I given this need to write if I wasn’t given the talent to do it?”, I asked my husband.
“You know when I was in college; I wanted to bang really hot chicks. And, I would ask myself ‘why wasn’t I given the looks or personality to get these hot chicks in bed?’ So, what did I do? I started banging mediocre looking, fat chicks and eventually married one.”
“Asshole,” I said. Rolled over and went to sleep. Next morning, I was back at the computer again.
“You know when I was in college; I wanted to bang really hot chicks. And, I would ask myself ‘why wasn’t I given the looks or personality to get these hot chicks in bed?’ So, what did I do? I started banging mediocre looking, fat chicks and eventually married one.”
“Asshole,” I said. Rolled over and went to sleep. Next morning, I was back at the computer again.
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