Nobody important. Just the president

Anybody who reads this blog knows mornings don’t suit me. I’m agin ‘em, in fact. I usually stumble down the stairs, then down some more stairs, peel an orange, and sit and stare. Yesterday morning,  I sat at the dining room table and in my stupor-stare my gaze skittered across the newspaper, which I’ve just about stopped reading. Ours is a good publication, except for all that news stuff, which I’ve become pretty weary of. However, this happened to be the part that is home to the obituaries, which I do read, you know, just to see if I’m there.

Unfortunately, to get there I had to see the front page of the Local section, and there, at the top of the fold, was the shame of Oklahoma: “No Welcome Mat for Obama.”

My president, your president, the president of all who live in this country, arrived in Oklahoma on Wednesday night. According to the article, this is the first sitting president in 20 years to be in this state overnight.

You know which one of our top two officials greeted the president? Um, let me see. Oh. None. And when I say none, I mean none. Not one. Governor Mary Fallin is on a family trip to Puerto Rico. Lt. Governor Todd Lamb is in Washington for a business meeting with Vice President Joe Biden.

Then there’s the governor’s energy secretary who is out of town on business.  Oklahoma’s secretary of commerce, Dave Lopez may represent the governor’s office in Cushing when President Obama speaks there. That’s as far down the ladder as I want to go. Anything below that just piles insult upon insult.

Let’s just hope Lopez doesn’t receive another invitation beforehand. I hear there’s a tractor pull going on in Kiefer.

It’s true that the news of President Obama’s trip to Oklahoma was not officially known until Sunday night, and that Governor Fallin was already in or flying to Puerto Rico. I understand that people make plans, and that those plans are important to them.

But this is the President of the United States. So you’re a republican. So you don’t like the man. Can we not respect the office? Or shall we have a pissing contest to see just how low we can bring our image?

Many people did want to hear the president speak and were not able to do so. The trip isn’t for campaigning but for business, so attendance was limited. And yes, the federal government paid for it. Quite a few column inches in The Tulsa World were devoted to just how much you paid, so if you’re interested, read it and write your own rant. This trip is neither the first nor the last that you will pay for. If you will scroll down past the information on cost, you can also read what people are saying about the man and the trip. Predictably, the comments are divided according to political party.

I didn’t vote for former President George W. Bush, and I agreed with very little he said or did. But he was my president, for good or ill. If I had been fortunate enough to meet him, I’d have said, “Yes sir, no, sir, and thank you sir.” And I would have been just as appalled had he not been greeted at the airport by the appropriate representatives of our state.

I love Oklahoma, but sometimes I think the bulk of its citizens are in a state of delusion. It isn’t bad enough that a corporation and a fetus are people and a woman is little more than a receptacle. We also rank near, if not at, the top in incarcerated women and near, if not at, the bottom in education. We’ve recently passed antediluvian laws that have made us the butt of jokes on national television. The number of our children killedas the results of neglect and at the hands of their parents and guardians is reprehensible. One of the people who can help change the state of our state is

President Barack Obama

And yet we feel so above it all, so superior, that we see no obligation to make concessions for our him.

I listened to a speech last night by a man who is avowedly and unabashedly conservative. He said that he, and by implication, other conservatives, have some traits rarely seen in, also by implication, liberals–honor, courage, valor, integrity, respect for the First Amendment.

He has every right to attribute those traits on whomever he chooses and to claim their absence in whomever else he chooses.

I say that people of many political, religious, ethnic, and cultural groups are imbued with those characteristics.

But I have to ask—where is plain old hospitality? The agreement to disagree and still treat one another with the respect due each of us, whether it is by virtue of the office we hold or our humanity?

The late Eric Hoffer, a versatile and critically acclaimed author, noted that “rudeness is the weak man’s imitation of strength.” Some of us are sure good actors, aren’t we?

How to avoid becoming Asphalt Butter

I know I always say it’s all about me, and that hasn’t changed. I’ll get to me in a minute. First I have to say this: Hey. Cyclists—those of you on the non-motorized variety. You know what? I have a message for you in case you want to use the same road as, oh, I don’t know, cars? Sharing the road goes both ways. I signal. You signal—yeah, you can actually do it manually, and I’m sure the majority of you do. I stop at the red signs that say Stop, you stop at those red signs, too. Somebody didn’t today, and I very nearly turned him into asphalt butter. (And he flipped me off. That wasn’t a biker thing. That was a jerk thing.)

Before you become outraged, please know I’m not picking on you. I used to ride a bike, too, but I wasn’t very good at it, so I quit. But before I did, I obeyed traffic signals and signs even when motorists didn’t. I’ve also driven for ten miles behind groups of people on bicycles traveling well below the speed limit because going around would have been dangerous for all of us.

Here’s where it becomes about me: If I ran over you, whether it was my fault or yours, whether I killed you or just maimed you, I would never get over it. And I’ve got way too many things in my sack of dead cats to include your death or dismemberment.

So ok. Rant over. I’ll go back to making you laugh about how lame I am. These are the reasons I quit riding a bike. First, though, in my defense—it’s my only defense and not a good one either—I never had a bike growing up. When I was five I “borrowed” one from a neighbor’s porch and taught myself to ride. That lasted until the neighbor came out, knocked me off her bike, and chained it to the porch post.

When TBL started riding a few years ago, we thought it might be something we could do together. He bought me a much less expensive bike than his, just in case I didn’t stick with it. Wise move, as you’ll soon see.

We were riding on a nice, hilly path that ran alongside the turnpike. The downside of this trail was that riders had to stop at a number of traffic signals, push a button, and wait (See? That’s how it’s supposed to be done). We were in the last few miles of a 25 mile ride and stopped at the signal. My bike was just a little bit too tall to allow me to put both feet on the ground, so I just put one down. After about thirty seconds, I apparently forgot which leg I was resting on and leaned the other way, with predictable results.

I’m really, really not stupid. I do have a tee-tiny problem with my ability to focus. Read on.

Another time, we were riding on a different path that cut through midtown. We crossed a busy street, and as we set out on the path again, I noticed an elementary school on the other side of a grassy area. The parking lot was filled with cars. Since this was on a Sunday, the presence of all those cars set me to wondering. Why are all those cars over there? I wonder if somebody’s starting a new church? Like we don’t have enough churches. And of course my attention left what I was doing and settled on what I was thinking about. My eyes, of course, followed.

So. You know those barriers meant to keep motorized vehicles off bike paths? They’re about three feet tall, and from the way it felt when I hit one, made out of something really, really hard. I hit it with my knee, flew about ten feet from my bike and landed on my side. I had bruises so deep they didn’t show up for two weeks. To my credit, though, there were three of them, and I only hit the one.

What I finally realized is that obeying traffic rules and wearing a helmet would not help me a bit as long as stuff like that kept happening to me (see how I took the blame off me? I know, right?). And if there is one thing I understand about me, it’s that as I get older, I’m not going to change. I’ll just get more like me than I ever was.

That could get me killed. Even without a bicycle.

 

 

Should’ve died young when I had the chance

I had a birthday the other day. It was very, very sad. You know why it was sad? Because I didn’t want it. I did not want to be 59. Last year I didn’t want to be 58. I think it all goes back to . . . um, let’s see . . . my 32^nd birthday. I didn’t think I would mind 32. I didn’t mind 31 or 30. I didn’t figure 32 should be a big deal. Ha!

You know how when you’re at the doctor and she’s going to give you a shot, and you say, “Is this going to hurt?” and she says, “It’ll just be a little pinch”? And then when you stop screaming you realize she lied but you can’t change the outcome, which was about like being bitten by, I don’t know, a snapping turtle?

Well, that’s what getting old is like. You hear all about the “golden years.” People are always saying they’ll just grow old gracefully. I think I said that. That’s how I thought it would be. Then I turned 32.

I was just going along minding my own business, riding in the truck alongside TBL, when I saw it. There, in the side mirror, was my head, and right there, right on the temple, was a little streak of gray. The screech I might have let loose had I been bitten by a big old snapping turtle was nothing compared to the one that split the air when I saw that gray.

Not because I wasn’t expecting it. Someday.  Someday when I was really old, like 59 or something. Someday when I had lines on my face and half the stuff that used to be up here had fallen down there. Someday when students started telling me I remind them of their grandmothers.

I was not prepared to be old, much less gray. Somebody, and by somebody I mean that man I married, knew it was there but had told me that that little bit of gray was just where the sun had bleached my hair. The rest of my hair was a dark brown and the sun had bleached that little patch. The transparency of the lie is astonishing. The fact that I chose to believe for a couple of years is just—well, tragic.

You know what else is tragic? My butt.

Did you know that when your butt falls—and it will, so don’t sit there and smirk at me—and you get a tan, you’ll have a little white line on each leg right where your butt didn’t used to be? Oh, don’t try to look yourself because if you do you will get dizzy and hit your head on the bathtub. Not that I have. I think I must have read that in a book.

When I was 32, I still thought I could have an open casket funeral when I died, because they could just open the casket from the waist down instead of the waist up. I figured legs last, faces don’t. That was back when I thought I’d die young. Well, now I’ve passed having either end of the coffin open.

I’d just have myself cremated but Eric Clapton would probably balk at singing “Wonderful Tonight” to a Wal-Mart sack full of ashes.

And that’s what it would be. A man who will tell you that streak of gray hair is sun-bleached is not going to spring for a stylish urn.

I guess there is some good news. My friend told me that while in dog years I’m dead, at least in Celsius I’m only 15. She did the math, too.

Leave a number after the beep

I can’t get anything done. The phone has been ringing off the hook for the last two weeks. Every time I answer it’s one of those guys. You know, the ones on TV? The portly one, the rich one, the one with all the sweater vests, and that other guy, the really creepy one?

Usually people are nicer in person than they might seem to be on television. No. Really. They are. Not these guys. They call me, mind you, but do you think they want to hear anything I have to say? They do not. They just run right over me with their blah blah blahs. They’ve all got a bone to pick with the other guy. You’d think they were robots or something, but robots wouldn’t be such asses, would they? Who would think to record his voice saying that if I don’t vote for him the world’s hell bent for—well, Hell—and it’s all my fault.

Well. You know what I think? I think some people just want to get elected. Can you believe it? Like the one with the sweater vests. You know what he’s mad about? Contraception. Know how many kids he has? Seven. No freaking wonder he’s all het up over it. It doesn’t work. Or—think of it! Maybe NOBODY FORCED HIM TO USE IT. So is contraception really a problem? It is for people who need it but can’t afford it. Him? Not so much.

And then there’s the portly one, or Chubby Cheeks, as I like to call him. You know the burr under his saddle? Gas prices. Yeah, I know. None of us are happy about that. However, if I were Mr. CC, I would think twice about smacking somebody upside the head because gas prices are so high.

Know what he drives? An S65 AMG Mercedes. Know what kind of mileage it gets? 12 mpg in town, 19 on the highway. I am not making this up, people.

And yeah, the cost of fuel is tough on all of us, but I’d bet my Amazing Rhythm Aces ball cap that our hardship isn’t what’s got CC in an uproar. I’m just saying.

And then there’s the rich one. I’m not even sure he has an actual issue. I’m wondering if his tie might not have cut off the oxygen to his brain or something. The Blunt Amendment? “I’m not for the bill, but look, the idea of presidential candidates getting into questions about contraception within a relationship between a man and a woman, husband and wife, I’m not going there.”

Minutes later, the other side of his mouth did go there, disagreeing with that statement. Not that it was the rich guy’s fault. The journalist—you know, those people who go to school for years just to learn how to communicate clearly—asked the question in a confusing manner. The poor man “thought it was about something else.”

Apparently, the man’s just simple. Bless his heart. Why else would he tie a dog to the top of his car? It just goes to show—you can send a guy to Stanford, Brigham Young, and Harvard, but you can’t make him think.

And then there’s the one that really, really creeps me out. I’m just gonna say it. Randall Terry. News reports say he’s bringing out the big guns in Oklahoma—the dead baby collection. Not my words. His. In a recent Tulsa World article, Terry said that “getting ‘6 to 7 percent’ of the Oklahoma vote would be enough ‘to show the Democratic National Committee I can cause defections based solely on dead babies and Obama’s tyranny.’” To accomplish this, Terry forked over $40,000 for a series of ads featuring “dead and dismembered fetuses.”

OK. Let me get this straight. Terry has said in no uncertain terms that he doesn’t have any real designs on the presidency. He just wants to “stop abortion.” So he’s using gruesome images of what he calls “dead babies” in order to further a crusade to edify himself.

The definition of tyranny is the arbitrary or unrestrained exercise of power, or undue severity and harshness. The people of the United States elected Barack Obama as president. I haven’t seen any arbitrary exercise of power on his part.

I do see something “harsh” and “severe” about the arbitrary use of “dead and dismembered fetuses” to show how mighty you are.

So you guys—don’t call me anymore. I don’t expect you to heed my request. I didn’t ask you to call to begin with. If you do, just leave a number. I’ll get back to you.

At the polls.

Don’t you dare dare ME!

I once heard somebody on TV say that when she felt like exercising she just flung herself face down on the couch until it passed. I could do that. Well, no. I couldn’t. All I’d see in my mind is my big fat butt getting bigger and fatter. Besides that, my elliptical is right beside the couch, hunched there, staring at me.

I don’t know what it is I hate about exercise. It’s actually kind of pleasurable sometimes. Like when somebody else is doing it and I’m just watching. I’ve sat through entire videos of somebody doing step aerobics. You know. So I’d know what I was doing when I actually stood up. But I had to watch it several times. I figured if I watched three times a week for an hour it would count as exercise. I don’t know why not. Sitting in the office preparing manuscripts to send out counts as writing time. Why should exercise be any different?

I just hate to sweat. It’s sooo unattractive. And icky.  And even though I put the floor fan on top of the coffee table and point it at me, turn on the ceiling fan, turn off the heat, and open the windows, sweat happens.

Why can’t I be one of those women who couldn’t work up a sweat in a furnace? Who takes a sweater to a 4^th of July picnic? Just in case.  That woman is the same one who she just has no appetite at all. Can’t force down a single bite of that carrot cake.

Please. I could eat the entire cake with a quart of ice cream. In my sleep. I hate that woman. Suffice to say we are not related. I’m not even sure we’re of the same species. She’s probably a morning person, too.

My son reveled in any exercise or hard, physical work. The more sweat, the better. On Saturday mornings he’d crawl out of bed covered with bruises, cuts, abrasions, and swellings, from his Friday night football game. He’d grin like a fool when he talked about how he got this one and that one and the other one. The kid hauled hay for fun. Well, and for money. But in my mind, hauling hay must be the worst possible job.

The sun. The sweat. The hay sticking you through your jeans and long sleeved shirt. The occasional snake. And the sunshine of my life loved it. I wonder if it’s possible he’s not mine?

I used to run.  Not very fast. Maybe a 17-minute mile. I did it for the best reason in the world. No, not health. What do you take me for? Reasonable? No. I did it because I was dared. Sort of. TBL ran, and one day I was lying on the couch (no spying exercise equipment then) in front of the air conditioner when he came in, all sweaty and skinny.

I said, stupidly, I might add, that I wished I were a runner. You know what he said? No, don’t guess. I’ll tell you. He, in his infinite wisdom and his delusion that he knew me well, said, “Hah. You’d never do it. You can’t stand to sweat.” And of course you know what happened. I ran. Not until I was appropriately attired.

By appropriately, I mean clothes that made me look like I knew what I was doing. How does anybody know what you’re supposed to be if you don’t have on the right clothes?

I did look fine, I must say. Of course, that’s before gravity took its toll. Besides, the fact that I looked good didn’t mean I didn’t put all that gear to good use. I huffed and I puffed and worked my way up to about six miles a day, almost every day.  It was hard. And by hard I mean that I hated every single step. Every. Single. Step. And I did it anyway.

I did it for 18 months, even when it felt like everything inside was soon to be outside. Even when it was so hot I had to run at ten p.m.  Even when I almost stepped on a snake.  The only time it was even remotely pleasurable was six hours later when the sweat had been showered off and I was sprawled on the couch with a book and a Diet Pepsi.

I even participated in a 5k run. Just for the t-shirt, but still. It was nice to have a t-shirt for something you actually did, rather than buying it online and wearing it under false pretenses.

What finally stopped this self-inflicted misery happened at the end of that 5k. It didn’t matter that I finished so far to the rear that somebody in a wheelchair clipped me on her way to the finish line, or people offering water to runners had gone home before I got to any of them. It didn’t matter that my running partner was literally circling me as we ran and didn’t even break a sweat.

What happened was somebody took a picture. Of me. In all my red-faced, pissed-off, sweating glory. If I looked like that when I stopped running, what must I have looked like when I was actually doing it?  Oh! The horror!

So I stopped. I had illustrated my ability to tolerate sweat and had the picture to prove it. Mission accomplished.

 

Hey, you should read this: Using Twitter to market the books you wrote.

Reblogged from Insatiable Booksluts:

I got a tweet yesterday on my private account–not that it’s protected or anything, but I just mean, on my non-book account–from an author imploring me to check out his work online. I had never encountered this author before, and I really had no bloody idea why on earth I should want to check out his “fiction” in a magazine–no, I mean really, I had no idea why he had approached me or what about me made him think I might connect to his work.

Read more… 1,644 more words

This is something every reader and writer should read.

Unbalanced

I don’t know why it is, but I get my best ideas for blog posts when I’m emailing someone. Maybe by email I mean free writing. And maybe by best I mean only. Oh, well. It’s all about me anyway, now isn’t it?

Something is always awry in my checkbook, which is no doubt why it’s my checkbook and not our checkbook. Like last month the bank said I had about $900 more than my checkbook said I did. Ten days later the bank balance was $1100 to the good. At the beginning of this month I had $800 more in the bank than in the checkbook.

If you think I spend that money, you probably knew me well but maybe not so well lately. For some time now I’ve just ignored the money if I’m in the black, because terrible, awful things can happen if you spend it and then find out you don’t really have it. I’ve never done anything like that, but I think I read about it on the Internet.

I’ve also read that some people balance their checkbooks to the penny every single month.

Of course, that could be one of those, what do you call them, urban myths. Or just a downright lie to make some people feel badly about themselves. Not me. I’m not the kind of person who would believe that. That would be like trying to sell a hide-a-bed on Craig’s List and having a person email you from Arizona offering way more money than you ask for the couch, then sending a cashier’s check accidentally made out for $2500 and telling you to cash it immediately and send—never mind. That would never happen.

So, I never spend that ghost money.  I’ve heard some people’s bank accounts get all messed up because they forget to write down how much they spent. They might be talking to the cashier about the cool nail polish she’s wearing and about how she got it online and you have to polish the nails then put a magnet really close to the nail and it makes this ripple effect. In other words, not paying attention. So, you know. I just don’t want to be one of them.

There I am online, and I see I have all my transactions recorded. So just for fun, I add up my outstanding transactions and subtract that amount from the amount the bank said I should have. Then I subtract something from something else, I don’t know what, and I came up with the same amount as my outstanding checks.

Two numbers, and they’re the same!  I thought I had balanced my checkbook!  It was as if I’d just seen Big Foot! I mean, I’d heard about it, but I’d never really seen it.

Of course, you can probably tell from my description of how I arrived at that conclusion that there is no way in Texas that I had done that. However, lest you pity me for my deficiency, let me just point out that there are advantages to being a financial moron.

• If you’re married, you never get stuck paying the monthly bills.
• People don’t ask you to help with their checkbooks.
• Nobody expects you to calculate a tip.
• You develop a close relationship with your company’s salary and benefits person due to their having to explain your pay stub to you every much.
• Best of all, you never get depressed over spending too much money, because you don’t know how much you ought to have anyway.

Well, this month the difference between what the bank says and what my checkbook says is less than $300. Still to the good, though. That’s what counts, right? And if anybody asks me if I have a nest egg for retirement, I can say yes, I do, and if they ask me do I have a good interest rate, I can say yes, I do. A flexible rate.

End the befuddlement

Things apparently taken for granted in the world befuddle me. Granted, I am easily befuddled, but that’s just one more reason things shouldn’t be so out of whack. So as not to confuse me. It’s very important that I not be confused, and if you don’t believe me, just ask around.

And don’t think I don’t know that this post will get me in hot water. I do, and I guess I’ve reached a point at which you can just boil my butt plumb off. I’d rather be butt-less than brainless. Not that anybody out there is brainless. I’m just saying. Better no butt than no brains. I’m sure that’s written down somewhere besides here. Probably.

So here’s the first thing.

• Why do so many people hate Planned Parenthood? Is this organization hurting anybody? Does it bother people that through Planned Parenthood men, women, and teens who might otherwise be unable to afford contraception, HIV protection, or sex education can access it? Does anybody really think that because PP exists people are going to run around having sex with random people?

 What kind of nonsense is that? I’ll tell you what kind. The kind that believes Planned Parenthood exists mostly to provide abortion services (which, by the way, aren’t illegal, and, further, a very, very small percentage of clients are there for abortions.) And it’s the same kind of nonsense that insists kids won’t have sex if somebody doesn’t tell them it exists. Please, people. Ever heard of hormones?

Sex is going to happen, whether we talk about it or not. Wouldn’t it be nice if kids didn’t venture into the world without either knowledge or protection?

Which brings me to the next point on my befuddlement chart.

• Who would start a rumor that Planned Parenthood is the place the Anti-Christ goes for vacation? Okay, that’s not exactly what was said. What was said was nobody needs the information and services Planned Parenthood provides. You know who says that? I’ll tell you who.

Parents of girls who find themselves pregnant at 15, completely clueless as to a) exactly how sex led to this quagmire and b) how they might have prevented it; parents of sons who will spend the next 18 years trying to either a) keep up child support payments or b) be a father–and here’s a surprise–parents of kids who seek abortions because no one has offered them an alternative.

You probably would like me to stop now, but I can’t. Stopping in the middle of saying things I haven’t said since I was shown the door in a couple of churches is kind of like covering your mouth with duct tape when you are nauseated (and yes, that usage is just fine, thank you very much. Look it up). All that sick is still in there, and if that duct tape ever gives—well, you get the picture.

• What is so wrong with contraception? If a person doesn’t want to do it, he or she doesn’t have to. If a parent hopes to keep a teenager from using it by telling them not to have sex in the first place, good luck. And don’t think for a minute it can never happen to kids raised in a religious tradition. Teen pregnancy isn’t just for heathens.

And it would behoove us all to remember that we are not the only people on the planet, and that we are not the only people who want the best for our children.

Now. I’ve got this one last thing. Not the least, mind you. But I know you’re probably relieved to know it’s the last.

• Why do men get to decide what women can and cannot do with their bodies? Where is it written that my body is subject to legislation, to jurisprudence, or maybe just a whole lot of juris and very little prudence.I’m referring to the Supreme Court, which, in case you don’t know your supreme courts, is largely made up of men, one of whom said that the government has “a legitimate interest” in abortion because it wants to stop women from making unwise decisions.

Can the man not hear himself?  The very fact that he said it proves that he, for one, cannot prevent anyone from making “unwise decisions.”

Why do we not just quit making stuff up and and arguing about what’s made up and what’s not? And–now, here’s an idea–why don’t we concentrate on doing what too many of us aren’t doing? Like taking care of the children who are already here? Maybe keep them from dying at the hands of their parents? Provide them with a quality education? Healthcare? Is anybody against any of this? I didn’t think so.

So–I will if you will.

Get a clue

Sometimes I despair. I’m beginning to think that if we worked as hard to make money as we do to stay ignorant we’d be rich indeed.

Do people really not know racism is a bad thing? Seriously? Maybe it’s just that they know the definition of racism. Here it is, courtesy of the American Heritage Dictionary, 5^th edition (yes, I do have it, and yes, it does weigh about sixty pounds, but how skinny did you think ten thousand new words would be?):

1. The belief that race accounts for differences in human character and ability and that a particular race is superior to others.
2. Discrimination or prejudice based on race.

Seems simple enough to me. No big words. No highfalutin’ concepts. Don’t need a calculator or a map or a translator. So if it’s that simple, and we can see that being a racist is detrimental to our world, why don’t we just freaking stop it? Why do we insist on teaching our children that racism is Biblical, factual, and insurmountable?

You know why? Because every day we hear people like Rush Limbaugh say, “We need segregated buses. This is Obama’s America.”  We read about emails sent by people like Carol Carter, State Committeewoman for Hillsborough County, FL:  “I’m confused. How can 2,000,000 blacks get into Washington, DC in one day in sub zero temps when 200,000 couldn’t get out of New Orleans in 85 degree temps with four days notice?”

And of course you can’t go wrong talking about racism if you quote good old Newtie, who would have us know that Barack Obama is a “food stamp president,” and that African-Americans should be looking for jobs, not food stamps.  Not only that, but he can’t understand why anyone should be offended by such statements. He is, after all, only addressing a painful subject that others won’t.

If all those people, those educated, in the public eye, people, think that kind of talk is okay, why should we? You know why? BECAUSE WE AREN’T STUPID, THAT’S WHY!

Everybody has a choice

Such moronic statements are the pathetic attempt of a little people to seem like bigger, more important people. From people like that, our children learn to make hurtful, absurd comments. Consider these:

“My parents said I could date anybody I wanted except Blacks and Jews.” (Said aloud. ALOUD. In a classroom).

“How can I be a racist? My best friend in high school was African-American. I even stayed at his house overnight.”

That’s not the most ridiculous thing students have ever said, bless their hearts, but  it’s the one that might make a teacher want to kick that student’s butt up between her shoulder blades so she’d have to take off her stylish beret before she could—well, you know. And not that it happened to me. I’m just saying.

I am so tired of the idea that African-Americans are without intelligence, work ethic, or morals. Or that “white” is the default, and anyone who hopes to succeed has to conform to the white ideal.

That’s all ignorant, racist stupidity.

I know these things to be true:

• Race has no basis in biology. It is a societal construct—that means we built it, brick by brick, and it can be torn down the same way
• Race is absolutely political; whatever group is dominant will always make the rules

• There is no divine or cosmic hierarchy of color with white at the top

If this is news to you, you might want to study up. I wasn’t born knowing them. I read a book. Or 10. Or 100. I can look at objective fact rather than being swayed by whatever anecdotal evidence the world might offer.

Oh, yeah. I know one more thing: racism is a choice.

 

 

Go ahead. Rate your professor. See if she cares.

Ratemyprofessor.com is to teachers what truth is to politicians—unwanted, unneeded, and, ultimately unnerving. I mean, seriously. Who wants to do a job where every day the people who don’t like the way you do it can—well, as a friend says, put it on your permanent record! You know the permanent record, right? It must be out there in the ether, because most of us who were threatened with it have never seen it. Wherever it is, it’s covered up in every wrong thing you’ve ever done,  like your D in sixth grade math, or a neighbor’s memory of you at 9 years old, standing on the viaduct near your house screaming all the curse words you know and being taken “down to the station” to await your mother. Not that those things ever happened to me. I’m just saying. That’s the kind of stuff that could be there. Politicians, on the other hand, have the means to create spin, so their foibles somehow turn into attributes. Unless they have sex with interns. Then, not so much.

However, in cyberspace, teachers have a permanent record, or at least teachers in higher education do. It’s called rateyourprofessor.com. Students are anonymous, professors are not. You are identified by your real name as well as where and what you teach. There’s a place for professor rebuttals, but what student is going to believe anything there? It was posted by the enemy. Well, this enemy will never, ever go there again. I did, once. And here’s what I saw:

• A chili pepper. I can’t even speculate on what that has to do with teaching.
• “Mrs. Johnson is obsessed with John Stewart, but not in a good way.” How can there be a bad way? It’s John Stewart!
• “Mrs. Johnson is openly unmedicated.” And I thought that was the default. Besides which, it’s a dirty lie.
• “Mrs. Jnsos grade incostantently and goves D for know reaction at all. DONOT tak herclass.” Enough said.
• “She is prejudice against junior college student,” one wrote.  Am not. I was one.
• “Mrs. Johnson is an atheist. She thinks Eric Clapton is God.” Have you heard him play? And how am I an atheist if I believe he exists?
• “Mrs. Johnson is a liberal but she doesn’t try to shove it down your throat.” Finally. Something positive. You take what you can get.
• “All you ever do in this class is read and write.” Duh.

I am not making this up. I couldn’t make it up. It’s too sad. What’s even sadder is that this is often the basis upon which students choose a teacher. They view it as a gift from God, handed down from the mount. Or from Eric Clapton, handed down from the stage. Whatever your persuasion.

The saddest thing of all is that anybody can put anything at all on that Web site, and you can’t stop them. If you don’t want to be held up to the world as a really lousy teacher and human being, you’d better give everybody an A and forget about actually teaching them anything.  Shoot. Just hand out the grades at the beginning, and you won’t have to contend with the following:

What if I could go to ratemystudents.com and write random comments about them?

• In a paper (about abortion and after I specifically said, “Do not write about abortion or gun control), a student wrote,   “A person is a feces, too.”
• A student’s explanation on why a C was unfair: I worked really, really hard on that paper. I spent two hours on it.
• A student received a B on the one essay (out of four) she turned in to me. She missed twelve out of fifteen classes and then registered a complaint when she failed the class.
• In a literary analysis on the treatment of women in the early 20^th century: “In the olden days, women were placed on a pedal stool.”
• After he plagiarized his entire first paper, a definition essay, from the Internet ( a bad paper with ten-year-old sources formatted according to APA guidelines), he said the plagiarism shouldn’t be held against him because it wasn’t discovered until he had submitted his second essay. Guess what word he was defining? PSYCHOPATH!
• He couldn’t do his homework because he had to take his girlfriend to the fair.

I could go on and on, but now I’m depressed again. Shouldn’t be, because the majority of my students are hardworking, dependable, and focused.

For the others—I’m thinking about something along the lines of ratemystudent.com. It would save their future employers a lot of time and effort.