I came across this via Bookshelves of Doom. In response to Juan Williams' comments about Muslim garb (and the insane level of hatred against Muslims in general that has been spewed by the uninformed ever since 9/11), this blogger is posting Pictures of Muslims Wearing Things.
The first Muslims I ever knew, back in Columbia, Missouri, in the mid-eighties, tended to wear Taco Bell uniforms. Talk about scary clothing! Those were the days when the uniforms were made out of half-inch thick, plasticey polyster in a lovely dried-blood burgundy with orange and green stripes. Nice people though. I wonder where they are now and I hope they're okay. Ahlem and Zahra both had babies while I knew them. It's strange to think those kids are in their twenties now! Time sure does fly.
Showing posts with label People I've known. Show all posts
Showing posts with label People I've known. Show all posts
Monday, October 25, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
Public Humiliation
So. The Rejectionist is having one of her "uncontests" today, in honor of the beginning of banned book week. The idea is for readers to post embarrassing exerpts of their early writing on their own blog and then link to it in the commments section of her blog. Alas, I have no early writing samples. So, never being one to have the sense to avoid a chance for public humiliation, I thought I'd tell a story instead.
I went, first through eighth grades, to a small rural elementary school called Leesville R-IX. It's been expanded in the decades since I was a "bluebird", but when I started the kindergarten, first and second grades were conducted in a partitioned-off corner of the gymn (which was also the auditorium and the cafeteria)and the library was in a strange little, wedge-shaped closet at the bend in the hallway. Every classroom held two grades, we recited the Pledge of Allegiance every morning and probably the worst trouble you could get into was for taking the name of the Lord in vain.
Our principal was a lady named Mrs. Thompson, who had taught at a one-room schoolhouse before Leesville was built. She was a tall, stern, woman who brooked no nonsense from anyone. She always dressed properly in a skirt or dress, wore nylons and sensible, dark shoes, and was the first woman I ever knew who wore makeup. Looking back now, I know she was a kind and dedicated woman who cared deeply about the students under her protection, and I credit her with the high standards that Leesville adhered to and that gave us all a strong education, at least in the basics of reading, writing, and arithmatic.
In grade school, I was in awe of her.
When I was nine, Mrs. Thompson called all the fourth through eighth grade girls into the auditorium (no longer, by that time, doubling as a classroom). There were maybe 100 students in the whole school, and perhaps twenty-five of us, sitting there nervously on grey folding chairs, wondering what we'd done to get in trouble. That we were in trouble, no one questioned. Mrs. Thompson stood in front of us, hands clasped in front of her. She had a light Southern accent and spoke in a high, melodic voice that carried even over the din of a crowded playground. In the subdued silence of that auditorium, it echoed.
She said, "I understand that some of you girls have been talking about periods on the bus and on the playground."
Instand mortification! They'd been talking about periods! Mrs. Thompson knew they'd been talking about periods! And now she was talking about periods! Right out in the open and everything!
"Now, I know that this is something you're learning about, and that it's interesting to you. But you can't be talking about these things where these little boys can hear! These little fourth-grade boys like Ronnie and Radon*, they don't need to hear this sort of thing! I don't mind if you talk about it when you're alone, in the restroom or on a corner of the playground, but I don't want to hear any more about you talking about periods in front of the boys. Do you understand?"
Twenty-five little girls nodded solemnly, still not raising their heads. Avoiding eye contact.
"And, you know, you can also always talk to your teachers and me. You come to us, and we'll be happy to try to explain anything you're confused about. Understand?"
More nodding.
"Okay, well, before we go back to class, do any of you have any questions?"
Twenty-four little girls sat in uncomfortable silence, staring at the concrete floor, ready to die rather than involve themselves any more than necessary in this discussion. But I did have a question. So I raised my hand and when she called on me, I asked if we could talk about commas . . . .
*Yes, his name was really Radon, like the gas. ;)
I went, first through eighth grades, to a small rural elementary school called Leesville R-IX. It's been expanded in the decades since I was a "bluebird", but when I started the kindergarten, first and second grades were conducted in a partitioned-off corner of the gymn (which was also the auditorium and the cafeteria)and the library was in a strange little, wedge-shaped closet at the bend in the hallway. Every classroom held two grades, we recited the Pledge of Allegiance every morning and probably the worst trouble you could get into was for taking the name of the Lord in vain.
Our principal was a lady named Mrs. Thompson, who had taught at a one-room schoolhouse before Leesville was built. She was a tall, stern, woman who brooked no nonsense from anyone. She always dressed properly in a skirt or dress, wore nylons and sensible, dark shoes, and was the first woman I ever knew who wore makeup. Looking back now, I know she was a kind and dedicated woman who cared deeply about the students under her protection, and I credit her with the high standards that Leesville adhered to and that gave us all a strong education, at least in the basics of reading, writing, and arithmatic.
In grade school, I was in awe of her.
When I was nine, Mrs. Thompson called all the fourth through eighth grade girls into the auditorium (no longer, by that time, doubling as a classroom). There were maybe 100 students in the whole school, and perhaps twenty-five of us, sitting there nervously on grey folding chairs, wondering what we'd done to get in trouble. That we were in trouble, no one questioned. Mrs. Thompson stood in front of us, hands clasped in front of her. She had a light Southern accent and spoke in a high, melodic voice that carried even over the din of a crowded playground. In the subdued silence of that auditorium, it echoed.
She said, "I understand that some of you girls have been talking about periods on the bus and on the playground."
Instand mortification! They'd been talking about periods! Mrs. Thompson knew they'd been talking about periods! And now she was talking about periods! Right out in the open and everything!
"Now, I know that this is something you're learning about, and that it's interesting to you. But you can't be talking about these things where these little boys can hear! These little fourth-grade boys like Ronnie and Radon*, they don't need to hear this sort of thing! I don't mind if you talk about it when you're alone, in the restroom or on a corner of the playground, but I don't want to hear any more about you talking about periods in front of the boys. Do you understand?"
Twenty-five little girls nodded solemnly, still not raising their heads. Avoiding eye contact.
"And, you know, you can also always talk to your teachers and me. You come to us, and we'll be happy to try to explain anything you're confused about. Understand?"
More nodding.
"Okay, well, before we go back to class, do any of you have any questions?"
Twenty-four little girls sat in uncomfortable silence, staring at the concrete floor, ready to die rather than involve themselves any more than necessary in this discussion. But I did have a question. So I raised my hand and when she called on me, I asked if we could talk about commas . . . .
*Yes, his name was really Radon, like the gas. ;)
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Like a Rocket to Heaven
Last Sunday promising young Warsaw, Missouri, sprint car driver Jesse "The Rocket" Hockett won his third race in three days. Last Wednesday, while preparing his trailer for a busy schedule of Memorial Day weekend races, he died in a freak electrical accident. He was only 27 and had just been married a matter of months.
I didn't know Jesse, though I'm sure I've seen him hundreds of times. His mother and grandmother-in-law, however, are both friends and co-workers. I'd like to extend to both of them, and to all his friends and family members, my deepest condolences.
I didn't know Jesse, though I'm sure I've seen him hundreds of times. His mother and grandmother-in-law, however, are both friends and co-workers. I'd like to extend to both of them, and to all his friends and family members, my deepest condolences.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
The "F" Word
Last week Janet Reid had a post about a writer whose publisher dropped him because they got tired of him sending them "F-you" emails. Naturally, all her good little clients got on the comment board to reassure her that we would never do something like that, and for the most part I suspect we were all telling the truth.
It occurs to me, on reflection, though, that there was one time in my life when I did actually swear at someone. It happened like this:
Many, many yahrens* ago when I was a junior in college, an administrative error left a couple hundred of us without housing. After a couple of months in a temporary dorm where nothing got fixed, it wasn't a good idea to unpack because you didn't know how long you'd be there, and my roommate kept locking me out so she could have sex with her boyfriend, I wound up sharing a tiny apartment with three women I barely knew. Sherri and Monee I got along with fine (though they couldn't stand one another), but Lillian and I hit it off like bleach and ammonia.
Lillian was deeply-repressed fundamentalist Christian and a rabid conservative. The first thing we clashed over was homosexuality. She told me one day, very sanctimoniously, that she didn't believe gays were actually evil, they were just sick and needed to be cured. I have a half-brother and some very good friends who are gay and so I took exception on their behalf. She thought that I was probably a lesbian myself but wouldn't admit it to her. I thought she was probably a lesbian but wouldn't admit it to herself. She thought I was a dangerous, bleeding-heart liberal. I thought she was insane.
So, anyway . . . . After we'd been living together awhile a problem came up regarding the food we each brought in the house. Sherri and Lillian were both relatively well-off, going to school and living on money from home. Monee and I were poor as the proverbial church mouse, relying on scholarships, Pell grants and student loans to pay our tuition and scraping by on what we could make by working when we weren't in class. In Sherri and Lillian's eyes, anything in the kitchen was fair game, so that Monee and I, who could least afford it, kept coming home to suppers that were no longer there.
Finally we sat down and discussed it with them. At first they were both indignant. After all, they bought food too and they weren't telling us we couldn't eat it. Since we lived together we should be like a family? And, considering there were four of us and each of us despised one of the other three, they may have had something there. Still, that wasn't a solution either Monee or I was comfortable with. I'm not entirely sure why, but I think it may have been, at least in part, the fierce pride of the very poor. We were struggling mightily, but we were supporting ourselves. I don't need your food, thank you. I am able to buy my own. And for me, there was another complication. I'm a vegetarian, so if someone ate what I'd bought for dinner, there wasn't necessarily going to be anything among their groceries to replace it.
After a long discussion they agreed that we would each treat our groceries as our own and not take anything that didn't belong to us without at least asking. Sherri conceded gracefully, Lillian, less so. How much less so I was to discover a couple of nights later.
At the time she and I were the only ones home. I had been in class all morning, then worked all day, and I was trying to catch up with my homework so I could get up the next morning and do it all over. Lillian, puttering around in the tiny kitchen, decided to make popcorn.
"I think I'll make some popcorn, Loretta. Is this your popcorn, Loretta? Do you mind if I make some popcorn?"
I sighed. "No, it's not my popcorn. Do whatever you want."
"Of course, I'll want some butter for the popcorn. Is this your butter, Loretta? Can I use some of this butter, Loretta?"
"Yes, that's fine." I had transferred in from a junior college with an associate's degree that counted as the core work for my major, but my 8 AM art history lecture assumed that I had taken prerequisites that I had, in fact, not.
"Oh, and salt! Is this your salt, Loretta? Do you mind if I use a little salt, Loretta?"
"I don't know whose salt it is. Go ahead."
"I'm going to need a pan to melt the butter. Is this your pan, Loretta? Can I use this pan?"
"That's fine."
"Oh, and a fork to stir the butter too. Is this your fork, Loretta? Can I use your fork."
"Whatever."
"And this is your popcorn popper too, isn't it, Loretta? Can I use that? Is that all right? Do you mind if I use your popcorn popper?"
At this point I put down my pen and said, "Lillian, I do not give a damn if you use the fucking popcorn popper."
She went to bed.
Turned everything off, went into her darkened room without a word and climbed under the covers with her clothes still on.
Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.
MAJOR guilt.
I was always taught to be kind to others. Don't hurt people's feelings. If you can't say something nice about someone . . . . And PROFANITY! Ladies don't swear! They certainly don't say the "F-word"! Strong language is the refuge of those who aren't intelligent enough to think of a better way to express themselves.
Finally I got up, went into her room and said, "I'm sorry I lost my temper with you."
In the glow coming in the window from the streetlights I could see her give me a smug, self-satisfied little smile. "I forgive you," she said very sweetly.
And at that point I very nearly cussed her out again, but I decided it wasn't worth the aggravation so I just turned around and went back to my books.
*For those of you who recognize the term "yahrens" I'd just like to be clear that this is a reference to the original BG and not to the popular but hopelessly bastardized modern version, which I refuse to even look at on the grounds that Starbuck's not a woman, dammit! He's a GUY! A really cute GUY! And when I was twelve I had a crush on him and a dog named after him and everything! So he's NOT a chick! Sheesh!
It occurs to me, on reflection, though, that there was one time in my life when I did actually swear at someone. It happened like this:
Many, many yahrens* ago when I was a junior in college, an administrative error left a couple hundred of us without housing. After a couple of months in a temporary dorm where nothing got fixed, it wasn't a good idea to unpack because you didn't know how long you'd be there, and my roommate kept locking me out so she could have sex with her boyfriend, I wound up sharing a tiny apartment with three women I barely knew. Sherri and Monee I got along with fine (though they couldn't stand one another), but Lillian and I hit it off like bleach and ammonia.
Lillian was deeply-repressed fundamentalist Christian and a rabid conservative. The first thing we clashed over was homosexuality. She told me one day, very sanctimoniously, that she didn't believe gays were actually evil, they were just sick and needed to be cured. I have a half-brother and some very good friends who are gay and so I took exception on their behalf. She thought that I was probably a lesbian myself but wouldn't admit it to her. I thought she was probably a lesbian but wouldn't admit it to herself. She thought I was a dangerous, bleeding-heart liberal. I thought she was insane.
So, anyway . . . . After we'd been living together awhile a problem came up regarding the food we each brought in the house. Sherri and Lillian were both relatively well-off, going to school and living on money from home. Monee and I were poor as the proverbial church mouse, relying on scholarships, Pell grants and student loans to pay our tuition and scraping by on what we could make by working when we weren't in class. In Sherri and Lillian's eyes, anything in the kitchen was fair game, so that Monee and I, who could least afford it, kept coming home to suppers that were no longer there.
Finally we sat down and discussed it with them. At first they were both indignant. After all, they bought food too and they weren't telling us we couldn't eat it. Since we lived together we should be like a family? And, considering there were four of us and each of us despised one of the other three, they may have had something there. Still, that wasn't a solution either Monee or I was comfortable with. I'm not entirely sure why, but I think it may have been, at least in part, the fierce pride of the very poor. We were struggling mightily, but we were supporting ourselves. I don't need your food, thank you. I am able to buy my own. And for me, there was another complication. I'm a vegetarian, so if someone ate what I'd bought for dinner, there wasn't necessarily going to be anything among their groceries to replace it.
After a long discussion they agreed that we would each treat our groceries as our own and not take anything that didn't belong to us without at least asking. Sherri conceded gracefully, Lillian, less so. How much less so I was to discover a couple of nights later.
At the time she and I were the only ones home. I had been in class all morning, then worked all day, and I was trying to catch up with my homework so I could get up the next morning and do it all over. Lillian, puttering around in the tiny kitchen, decided to make popcorn.
"I think I'll make some popcorn, Loretta. Is this your popcorn, Loretta? Do you mind if I make some popcorn?"
I sighed. "No, it's not my popcorn. Do whatever you want."
"Of course, I'll want some butter for the popcorn. Is this your butter, Loretta? Can I use some of this butter, Loretta?"
"Yes, that's fine." I had transferred in from a junior college with an associate's degree that counted as the core work for my major, but my 8 AM art history lecture assumed that I had taken prerequisites that I had, in fact, not.
"Oh, and salt! Is this your salt, Loretta? Do you mind if I use a little salt, Loretta?"
"I don't know whose salt it is. Go ahead."
"I'm going to need a pan to melt the butter. Is this your pan, Loretta? Can I use this pan?"
"That's fine."
"Oh, and a fork to stir the butter too. Is this your fork, Loretta? Can I use your fork."
"Whatever."
"And this is your popcorn popper too, isn't it, Loretta? Can I use that? Is that all right? Do you mind if I use your popcorn popper?"
At this point I put down my pen and said, "Lillian, I do not give a damn if you use the fucking popcorn popper."
She went to bed.
Turned everything off, went into her darkened room without a word and climbed under the covers with her clothes still on.
Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt. Guilt.
MAJOR guilt.
I was always taught to be kind to others. Don't hurt people's feelings. If you can't say something nice about someone . . . . And PROFANITY! Ladies don't swear! They certainly don't say the "F-word"! Strong language is the refuge of those who aren't intelligent enough to think of a better way to express themselves.
Finally I got up, went into her room and said, "I'm sorry I lost my temper with you."
In the glow coming in the window from the streetlights I could see her give me a smug, self-satisfied little smile. "I forgive you," she said very sweetly.
And at that point I very nearly cussed her out again, but I decided it wasn't worth the aggravation so I just turned around and went back to my books.
*For those of you who recognize the term "yahrens" I'd just like to be clear that this is a reference to the original BG and not to the popular but hopelessly bastardized modern version, which I refuse to even look at on the grounds that Starbuck's not a woman, dammit! He's a GUY! A really cute GUY! And when I was twelve I had a crush on him and a dog named after him and everything! So he's NOT a chick! Sheesh!
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