Dec 11 2005
Okay, The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe ROCKS!!! If you haven’t seen this movie yet, DROP WHAT YOU’RE RIGHT NOW AND GO!
No, really. It’s that good.
:)
Dec 10 2005
Holly Lisle shared the following meme tidbit on her site, so I thought I’d join the fun. I found it tough to stick to only seven of certain items — especially books and the reasons Jon’s attractive to me. :)
Seven Things to Do Before I Die:
Seven Things I Can’t Do:
Seven Things that Attract Me To My Husband (or significant other):
Seven Things I Say Most Often:
Seven Books (or Series) I Love:
Seven Movies I Would Watch Over and Over Again:
Seven People I Want To Join, Too:
Dec 09 2005
Okay, so remember that word “sterile” I used in an earlier post? Let’s examine this whole “Political correctness” thing, shall we? At the end of Spanish class last evening, Sarah recounted a story for us about how she’d been reprimanded by her supervisor for wishing a customer Merry Christmas. It turns out that “Merry Christmas” is no longer acceptable and the politically correct terms are now “Happy Holidays” or “Seasons Greetings”.
Oh, I SO think not.
If the Inuits, Aluets, or Yupiks decide “eskimo” is perjorative and assert that the rest of us should address them by their rightful tribal identities, I agree with them. Same with Native Americans, First Nations, African Americans, Japanese Americans, Hispanics, Latinos or Chicanos. No, I don’t want to jump through hoops, but if it makes them feel heard, I’m willing to work with them towards a better tomorrow. However, if I have to refer to “horsemanship” as “horsepersonship” so as not to offend some rabid, bra-burning, man-hating feminist — it stops right there.
Please don’t get me wrong, I support feminism. No doubt, I’d suffer a number of atrocities, including death, in any third world country where women aren’t allowed to drive, should only be seen if they’re dressed to resemble Cousin It, and are expected to whisper nary a peep. Yet, I just can’t see how equality is determined by whether or not I — as a woman — am referred to as Madam Chairman or Madam Chairperson.
And … I’m really drawing the line at “Merry Christmas.”
It really doesn’t matter what labels you use, folks. Even if you acknowledge a people as Native Americans or African Americans if you continue to treat them as second class citizens, your words mean nothing. Your political sensitivities are meaningless. They’re nothing more than shallow, empty sentiments. Duh.
If you’re worried about offending your customers and losing profits, perhaps you should consider sharing the real spirit of Christmas with them. Take time out of your money grubbing, greedy little schedules to learn about THEIR holiday traditions and the customs important to them. Instead of sending a Christmas card with some sterilized “Happy Holidays” try this:
Dear [your International Customer]:
Here in America we are about to celebrate Christmas, one of our favorite holidays. In the tradition of our season, all of us here would like to wish you and yours a very Merry Christmas. Enclosed is a small token of our gratitude [should you decide to send cookies, peanut brittle, or cheap giveaways plastered with your company logo]. As we are unaware of what your traditions or customs are, we’d like to invite you to share them with us any time. Please know we are thankful for your business.”
Sincerely,
[have everyone sign the card, silly]
It really isn’t so difficult for someone to respond, “And Happy Hanukkah to you!” in reply to a cheerful greeting of, “Merry Christmas!” Go on, I dare you all to give it a try.
Do you celebrate or know of a Christmas-like tradition, custom, or religious holiday linked to mid-December or the winter solstice? If you do, and you’d like to share, please feel free to post a comment here. :)
Dec 08 2005
Where’ve all the good men gone
And where are all the gods?
Where’s the street-wise Hercules
To fight the rising odds?
Isn’t there a white knight upon a fiery steed?
Late at night I toss and turn and dream
of what I need:
I need a hero!
I’m holding out for a hero ’til the end of the night.
He’s gotta be strong,
And he’s gotta be fast,
And he’s gotta be fresh from the fight.
I need a hero!
I’m holding out for a hero ’til the morning light.
He’s gotta be sure,
And it’s gotta be soon,
And he’s gotta be larger than life.
Somewhere after midnight,
In my wildest fantasy
Somewhere just beyond my reach
There’s someone reaching back for me.
Racing on the thunder and rising with the heat
It’s gonna take a Superman to sweep me off my feet.
I need a hero!
I’m holding out for a hero ’til the end of the night.
He’s gotta be strong,
And he’s gotta be fast,
And he’s gotta be fresh from the fight.
I need a hero!
I’m holding out for a hero ’til the morning light.
He’s gotta be sure,
And it’s gotta be soon,
And he’s gotta be larger than life.
Up where the mountains meet the heavens above
Out where the lightning splits the sea
I would swear that there’s someone somewhere
Watching me.
Through the wind end the chill and the rain,
And the storm and the flood
I can feel his approach
Like the fire in my blood.
I need a hero!
I’m holding out for a hero ’til the end of the night.
He’s gotta be strong,
And he’s gotta be fast,
And he’s gotta be fresh from the fight.
I need a hero!
I’m holding out for a hero ’til the morning light.
He’s gotta be sure,
And it’s gotta be soon,
And he’s gotta be larger than life.
Larger than life.
From: Footloose
Performed by: Bonnie Tyler
Dec 07 2005
I spent my 1st – 5th grades in Midland School, an elementary school on Broadway Street in Colorado Springs, Colorado. When I was in second grade I had a classmate, Troy, an epileptic boy who was also severely retarded. I’m not sure exactly how handicapped he was, but he’d been held back a grade or two, and I can recall he always had one of those giddy, vacant smiles that said, “I’m listening but half my mind is way off in some happy place.” I envied him that, really.
Troy was a nice kid with a big heart and a gaping, buck-toothed grin, but his differences also made him an easy target for every bully in school. When the staff and teachers realized he’d found an ally in me, they began showing me how to recognize signs of seizures and to help me better understand his under-developed mental capabilities.
Believe me, though, one can’t miss a grand mal seizure and Troy had at least three that I witnessed during our second grade year — I remember them all too well — two on the playground and one in the lunchroom. I remember … putting our jackets under his head. Turning him on his side. Running for a teacher. Holding his hands whenever he started to flail. Telling him he was all right because we were all terrified and uncertain.
Whenever I finished my class work early — which was often — Troy and I packed off to the library where he read Dick and Jane books aloud to me. Our teacher, Mrs. Wilson, explained how it helped improve his reading, but also his social skills because outside of tutoring him, I didn’t treat Troy especially different. Michelle and Sylvia (a.k.a. “Silvertoes”) often helped, and the red headed Kathleen, she came, too, but the other boys in our second grade class rarely interacted with him. Rudy and Gabriel were probably the most accepting of Troy. At least, I never caught them picking on him or saying mean things.
During the first part of the school year, I walked home from school with Sylvia and Troy. My mother moved us around a lot, but at the time we lived on Wheeler Avenue and Michelle and Bobby lived in the opposite direction, north across the culvert, and down Hagerman Street. I get this semi-odd, familiar feeling that “Hagerman” was also Michele’s last name, but I’m not 100% certain.
I was late getting out of class one afternoon, not because I was in trouble (though I suppose it’s possible), but I can’t seem to recall why. Silvertoes left and went on ahead, but Troy waited on the playground, near the basketball courts. I found him there on the ground with three of our classmates, Billy, Richard, and Bobby kicking the crap out of him — for no other reason than because they could. Troy curled up on the pavement with his arms over his head to protect his face. His nose and his lip were bleeding.
I knew I was about to get my ass kicked, and boy did I ever (damn, those boys hit hard!). They pummeled me gleefully dozens of times but, really, I didn’t care. I didn’t intend to fight with them, after all, they were my friends. I only meant to shield Troy and stop them from hurting him, but Bobby wore hiking boots that day, and the damn fool kicked my tailbone SO hard, I couldn’t catch my breath.
And, then I saw red.
There were advantages to being the freakish little runt who ran around at recess wearing cowboy boots and pretending she was a horse (think: Ninja Pony). With one well-aimed mule kick to both, Richard and Billy’s gonads, the party ended for the two of them. Caterwauling like little girls in pigtails, they turned and fled, Bobby followed — I barely missed that wretched little beast’s head with my book. It sailed past his ear, its pages flapping, and I spent five minutes gathering math papers and crayon-outlined geography maps into a pile before stuffing them back inside the front cover, grousing under my breath the whole time.
Troy’s lip was split and he had a bloody nose, but he grinned his broad, goofy smile when I stood him up. “Are you all right, Troy?†He nodded after I asked all three times, despite his shirt being torn and his ribcage sporting a nice half-moon print of Bobby Wilson’s boot. He ran a shirt sleeve over his face and the drying blood smeared across his cheek.
We collected his things, a Six Million Dollar Man lunch pail complete with thermos, a blue backpack with only 3 sheets of homework inside of it, and then started across the soccer field towards home. Parked on the hill, across the field, my mother sat waiting in her beat up two-door Plymouth. She’d seen the whole episode. I was relieved to see her because now we had an adult to take care of us. She’d take care of Troy now and help him get home.
But, that wasn’t the type of woman Mary Ann was and she sent Troy home on his own. “But, he’s bleeding,†I protested.
“I can see that for myself. Get your ass in the car.â€Â
Her words spelled doom. Once the car turned the corner out of Troy’s line of sight, she bounced my head off the passenger side window. “Proud of yourself, are you?†She asked hotly. “You think hitting people is funny?†I didn’t. But, I thought it was necessary.
“They were hitting Troy.†I said, but history is an energetic teacher. Defying my mother would only make matters worse. For the less-than-a-mile drive home, my head became the focus of her animosity and the best I could do was squeeze myself against the passenger door and hope she’d exhaust her violence quickly.
Beyond a drowning herself in the bottle, that was how my mother solved the preponderance of her problems — by resorting to abuse and violence. Even so, today it continues to upset me more that she refused to help Troy, either when the three boys were attacking him or when she saw that he was bleeding. She left me with a fair share of lumps and bumps for having the audacity to jump in and protect him, but if I had to do any of it all over again, I can’t name one thing I’d do differently.
I’ve spent most of my life surrounded by violent, abusive, and aggressive people. All of the people I know whom I’d classify as aggressive, I’d also classify as noble, trustworthy, and honorable. I’d trust my life to them. They’re strong, straightforward individuals who rarely mince words or beat around the bush. Sometimes they show compassion, sometimes not. Sometimes, compared to them, I see myself as a wuss.
But, some of the people passing through my inner circle over the last few years aren’t aggressive, unless one counts passive aggression. They fear emotion, are terrified of anything resembling anger or agression. They’re polite, generally apathetic, almost sterile. Passionless. Forgive me for sounding sound harsh and judgmental, but a handful of them would even cringe, cowering against the walls of some stinking, lower region of hell and watch — wide eyed — while their friends died some horrid, miserable death. I’m not sure what to do with these people. To me, they’re very strange, very alien. Yet, I’ve gone so soft, I begin to believe I might be one of them now.
Lord help me, but I hope not.
If you are one of these intolerant people who sees aggression as the deadliest of sins — remember aggressive people keep you safe. There’s an OCEAN of difference between aggressive and abusive, and although it’s difficult sometimes to tell, let me help you catch a clue. Both aggressive and abusive people rely on force, however, abusive people are normally bullies, willing to hurt any one, anywhere, and for any reason. Aggressive people are mostly law-abiding, and although they’ve been known to tweak the rules to satisfy their own sense of justice, one can still recognize the law within.
Aggressive people are the tough, the stalwart, and the passionate. Yana tells me Jesus was aggressive. Ghandi was, too. While they may have chosen non-violent means of force, they were no less confrontational. They stood up for what they believed in and didn’t give up, give in, or back down when the going got rough for them. They got their tailbones kicked, too.
Aggressive people are the men and women of the armed forces willing to take up those arms and fight in otherworld countries to defend your freedom (and no, I’m not going to debate right or wrong with you here; I’m talking about willingness.). They’re the law enforcers hunting down the drug dealers, thieves, rapists, and serial killers and putting them away, and the corrections officers who keep them behind bars so that our greatest worries are how our caffé lattes are prepared — will that be whole milk or fat free today?
And, for you friends and families of all the aggressive people out there: husbands and wives, sons and daughters, moms and dads — thank you for the sacrifices you must also make. We need our protectors and defenders — our heroes. Thanks for loving them, and for lending them to us, especially for the holidays.
Peace.