Category: Inside Lane

Explaining the Strange Behavior, Family, Inside Lane, music, Thor

Colorful Muzak

the outside lane

Thor and I were on the way to meet Granddaddy for lunch today, and a song came on NPR that I remembered from my childhood Friday afternoons spent in the breakroom of Mom’s bank branch.  See, she worked until 7pm on Fridays, and I was far too young (and stupid–major candidate for the Darwin Awards, this one) to be at home alone from 3 until 7, so the bus driver would drop me off at her bank on Fridays.  I would check in with her, walk down the strip mall to the Pancake House, have a bowl of chicken noodle soup and more crackers than are healthy for a person, and stare at a print of God making shame fingers out of a cloud at a small boy whose kite had become tangled in a tree.  From there, it was back to the bank and straight into the breakroom, where I would entertain myself with homework, the funny papers, comics, and cleaning up the supply room until it was time to go home.

As you can imagine, I heard a lot of Muzak.  Hours and hours of Muzak styled in the 70s, based on the Top 40 of the 50s and 60s, with some Disco thrown in for good measure.  Mom would tell me the names of songs, when she’d come back to check on me, and tell me how popular they were.

I want you to know, I felt SO SORRY for her!  None of her songs had any words, and they all sounded almost exactly alike.  It was years before I discovered that Georgie Girl had lyrics other than the ones made up for the Kissing Barbie, Barbie Doll (whose lips you would color with a stamper, and whose in-back button you would push to make her head tilt into a kiss, leaving a perfectly shaped Barbie lip stain on whatever her rosy mouth met.  “Hey there, Barbie Girl, wearing cherry lipstick…”)

That made me remember sitting in our house in Colorado (so, somewhere between ages 2 and 4) and wondering when my mother had turned into color, since she was black and white in her own childhood.

Weren't all of the 40s black and white?

 

I wonder what Thor will misconstrue?

What he has not misunderstood is which is the better:  In or Out of school.

Yesterday, Aunt Jamie asked him if he was excited to go back into school tomorrow.  He said yes, then followed up with the caveat, “But I’m more excited to get out.”

Counting Blessings, Economics, Explaining the Strange Behavior, Family, Friends of Mine, Howling Sea Lane, Inside Lane, OWS, Politics

Let Them Eat Cake

the outside lane

I really do think about how fortunate I am frequently.  My grandparents grew up with so little it is mind boggling.  They grew up in rural Alabama and Florida at the height of the Great Depression, in areas untouched by Restoration, having to give up educations in order to make livings.  My Granddaddy never learned to read.  How those men and women managed to carve out lives for themselves that included being home and car amazes me.

My parents grew up with a little more than their parents had, but my mother can remember wearing clothes made out of feed sacks, and they grew or hunted for much of what went on the table.  The children in her family also worked very hard before and after school to add to the minimal income of a soldier’s salary.  I don’t think there was anything my grandparents were prouder of, than my uncle’s achievements at the Citadel.  His education was (rightly) a crowning glory to them.

I grew up with exponentially more than either of my parents had.  We were decidedly middle class, but since I was an Only and had grandparents who were generous with me, there was enough of a disposable income that I had things in my childhood that many other kids my age didn’t see until they were teens.  During our leaner years, I never knew there was any lack.  We used layaway, which I just thought was exciting.  My mom made a game of finding the least expensive items possible, and when I was old enough to care about labels and designers, we would go on a veritable safari through the Fashion district warehouses to find either what I wanted, or something so close to it it didn’t matter, and we NEVER paid anything close to retail.

But, we also never had to make a choice between milk and a winter coat.

I do a lot of my shopping for Thor at Ross and WalMart (shh, Lisha, you didn’t read that) where I can keep him pretty well set for 3-4 months at a time for under $75, including shoes.  Now and then, we’ll shop Target, whose prices are higher.  Shorts at WalMart?  $3–$5 a pair.  Shorts at Target?  $7–$12.  Same goes for the clothes of the adults in our family.  I find the best I can, for the least amount of money.  And no one has ever accused any of us of looking cheap.  I defy you to tell me Thor ever looks anything other than well put together.  Point of maternal pride there.

We had a space of time when it was to our financial benefit to buy Brand X products at the grocery store, but I have never had to make a choice between milk and a winter coat for my child.

I was walking home from Thor’s school today, shivering in my layers, and passed a little boy of about eight, wearing nylon track pants that were two years too short, a tshirt and a light hoodie.  There was a good three inches of space between the hem of the pants and the top of his ankle socks.  He was huddled into himself, eyes on the ground.

I’ll be honest, my first thought was, “How did his mother let him out of the house like that?! Those pants come nowhere near fitting!”  My second thought was, “Shame on you.  He might not have a mother, and that might be the best he has.”  My third thought was, “Or his mother got tired of waging the clothing war every morning and told him to just dress himself-wear whatever he wanted-freeze to death if that would finally make him happy.”  I hope it was the latter.

I’m glad I carried it through, though, because it tells me I am not completely out of touch.  It tells me that I remember that there are parents out there, who after paying the rent and the utilities, have to sit down and look at what is left over and make HARD decisions about whether to buy food or diapers.  I remember that there are people working three jobs just to be able to buy both.  I remember that there are people whose children will never be quite warm enough, quite full enough, or have quite enough of their parents’ attention, because those parents are working so hard to provide the minimum.

There is a disconnect between the unspoken caste system in this country, and it sounds something like this:  They have no bread?  Let them eat cake.

In the modern vernacular it would sound like this:  They can’t afford disposable diapers?  Let them use cloth.

And it sounds good, doesn’t it?  Cloth is an ecologically sound choice–doing something great for the baby’s bottom, the earth, and your purse all at the same time?  Awesome!  But you know those parents who are having a hard time affording diapers?  I’m betting they don’t have washing machines, or the money to plunk down on diaper services, and have you ever tried to find a daycare center that would allow you to pack cloth nappies for your baby?  Good luck, Marie.  Ain’t happening at LaVerne’s Kids ‘n Play, which is probably about what these parents can afford.

The truth is that some people will work all their lives, and work hard, and because of circumstances beyond their control (national economy, industry booms and busts, slight shifts in policy, misconduct in high places) will never do better than watering down the milk to make it last longer.

The truth is that there are some mothers whose husbands have been laid off, who are now expressing breast milk for the whole family because that’s all there is–I knew that mother.  Well, the one I knew was married to a guy who got laid off and never went back.  She fed me pancakes made with breast milk before telling me the truth of their situation, and then I cried all the way home.  My tears did her a fat lot of good, but I didn’t have anything else to give her.  Except diapers–and when I gave her the diapers, she told me how she had been making those last longer.  And that was another drive home in tears.

She was able to find benefits, though, and she has worked her keister off to get an education while working from home, caring for three kids as a single mother.  And she has carved out a life like my grandparents did.  She is a vital part of the American Dream.

We have to remember that for every lazybones trying to grift and bilk, there is an honest citizen just trying to get by.  And those people are too busy to get in front of the cameras and tell you the problem.  They don’t have time to complain.  Think about that:  A life so hard that complaint is a luxury.

To me, the OWS movement has been about remembering those people.  And I am thankful to everything holy that our family has the means to do a little something now and then, and that I am married to a man who always says yes when I want to give, and that I have a little boy who is already thinking about sharing with those who have less.

And that I never have to think about it when I need to go buy some milk.  Which I need to do today.

Howling Sea Lane, Inside Lane, Lancient History, Women Worth Knowing

Why WWK Is Supporting the Rape Crisis Center

the outside lane

I’ve made no secret about the fact that I was date raped when I was 21. That’s actually how I lost my virginity. You want to talk about awful first time experiences…sheesh.

To this day I have a lot of confusion about what happened and what to call the events that transpired. My own intellectual knowledge that “no means no,” and “NOOOOO means NOOOO,” gets muddied with the common response to the call of rape: What was she wearing? Had she been drinking? Where was she? What time of night was it? Did she struggle? Was she a tease?

I was wearing a black velvet catsuit and a gold smoking jacket with black velvet lapels and some really, super cute shoes. I’d had a glass of wine. I was in the boy’s bedroom. It was close to 2am. Once I realized it was going to happen no matter what I said, or how loudly I said it, I think I must have quit struggling–I don’t know. I’ve blacked that out. I do know Information Society was playing on the radio–maybe that’s why I blocked it out. I never liked that band.

Was I a tease? No. I’d been very frank about what I would and would not do. I was perfectly happy to do anything that could not result in pregnancy, and was precise about what acts that might include. The boy seemed quite pleased with the deal.

I didn’t tell my mother because I was afraid she would kill the boy, and then I’d have a mother in jail. I did not go to the police because of the above. I didn’t figure anyone would believe me. I am exactly the kind of girl This Cop was talking about. Maybe I wasn’t dressed like a “slut” but we can all be realistic about how I would be viewed based on dress, drinking, and willingness to do some if not “it”.

My Great-Aunt is a different story. And her story is much more to the point.

Aunt N was in her 80s when a man broke into her house to beat and rape her. He accomplished his goal.

I have no idea what she was wearing at the time, but I’m pretty sure it involved Granny Panties, not a visible thong. I highly doubt she’d been drinking. She was in her own home, in bed, in the middle of the night–right where she belonged. And she fought as much as an octogenarian can. Given her nature, I can assure you that she was not a tease.

Rape has nothing to do with what you wear, your state of mind, where you are, what time it is, whether you fight, or whether you’ve ever had sexual relations with your attacker.

Rape has nothing to do with YOU.

Rape has to do with the Rapist.

Rape isn’t something you bring on yourself.

Rape isn’t something that you do to yourself.

Anyone who has been raped will tell you how unpleasant it is–it isn’t something anyone would court.

Rape isn’t flattering.

Rape isn’t a compliment.

Rape isn’t a judgment.

Rape is an attack, a violation, and a crime–it is nothing positive, and it is nothing you can force anyone to do to you. You cannot MAKE someone RAPE.

Rape is not a reaction.

Rape is only an individually driven action. It is a purpose driven action.

I support, and have put the WWK project’s support behind the Dallas Area Rape Crisis Center because I’ve been there and I know. And because women and men, girls and boys who are hurt need help. They need to know there is a safe place to go, where people will believe them, and help them. Help them understand that the problem isn’t THEM.

The problem is, and only ever will be the Rapist.

Raise your kids to respect themselves enough that they would think it beneath them to take something not freely given. Raise your kids to respect other people enough that they wouldn’t dream of taking what wasn’t clearly offered. That’s how you deal with rape.

etiquette, Explaining the Strange Behavior, Inside Lane, Philosophy, relationships

Art Appreciation

the outside lane

I don’t really worry about whether or not people like me. A long time ago, I learned that no one is everyone’s cup of tea, and that’s all right. I’ve said before that I think I have a strong personality, and I realize not everyone is going to want to be sitting in the booth with me. That’s okay. I respect that because I don’t want to sit in the booth with everyone either.

Many years ago I hit upon the idea that personalities and people were like art in a museum. I could appreciate the effort it took to bring them to their current installation, and I could (and should) respect them for what they were, but I didn’t have to want them hanging in my living room. My liking or disliking the art does not make it any less worthy of installation–it only affects where I give it space in my own life. The reciprocal applies. I wouldn’t match everyone’s decor, so I can’t expect every patron of the arts to want me as the focal point of their great room. If you don’t like me, that doesn’t make me any less worthy of someone else’s love–it only affects where you give me space in your life.

All that said, while I have very little trouble with the idea that someone might find my personality a bad fit for their world, I am horrified to think that anyone might find me annoying, ill-mannered, offensive, rude, or cruel. Those aren’t personality issues. Those are character flaws.

I do actually lose sleep at night when I think I have hurt someone, been rude to someone, or been offensive. Even in situations where I know I am in the right, I can’t stand thinking I’ve behaved badly. I want to be judicious in anger, and gracious in pain. I always have the thought in the back of my head, “One day, it might be you on the flip side of this coin. How hard do you want to have to beg for mercy?”

So, I am paranoid about being accidentally offensive. Even the slightest change in the tone of a conversation sends me scanning everything I’ve said or done, trying to figure what of my puppy-like idiocy might have caused the change. I come up with some doozies, too.

I find that really amusing about me. I don’t mind if you don’t like me, but I am gutted if I think I’ve done something wicked to deserve your dislike.

Blogging::Cheap Therapy