It’s My Write
“Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.” – Cyril Connolly
Introverts like myself often experiment with methods of connecting to others, avoiding small talk and gatherings as much as possible. On one hand, protecting our needed quiet time and recharging our batteries alone is sacrosanct for introverts. On the other hand, humans do have the need for connection. The need for others to know who we are.
And so I write. For myself. To share with others who I am and what I do. Me at my core. All the things I won’t get to tell you at the social events I avoid. All the things to know that are in my heart or on my mind.
Sometimes I journal. Other times, it is poetry, a short story, or an essay that will form this journey of words I take, like petals sprinkled on a trail as I pass. If you follow the word path, you’ll know me. That’s my write.
Little Women
Hostile work environments are nothing new. For females, sadly they are also nothing old. In this day and age of presumed enlightenment they exist, dinosaurs that missed the memo alerting of their extinction.
These are environments where the word feminist is preceded by the word militant.
Where the women are referred to as girls. Literally, little women. The hard-working female doing just as much, and oftentimes more, than a male counterpart, is a girl. Regardless of age, regardless of skill, regardless of expertise–not a woman, but a girl.
These are environments where the term “white male privilege” is met with a derisive snort. Laughter. Shaking of heads.
Environments where a woman with a low aptitude test score doesn’t get an interview, but a male candidate does.
Where a man makes more for doing less.
Where a man who stands up for his principles is strong, but a woman who does it is a b***h.
I could go on, but you get my point.
I know there are companies that have eliminated issues like this and I applaud them for treating women with respect.
The rest of the sisterhood will continue to show up daily, hoping for, and working for, change. The old ad said, “You’ve come a long way, baby!” Sadly, that way is just not long enough.
A resilient heart
Broken hearts mend, but they never quite resemble what existed before. When you sweep up the shattered pieces, even the best adhesive can’t produce an exact replica, for some shards are lost permanently and don’t make it into the re-built heart. It is altered forever.
It is still a beautiful heart, though–worthy of the respect, affection and love it so richly deserves and will one day have.
But for now it wears a bandage to keep it safe while it heals.
And heal it will, for I am the owner of a resilient heart.
Watch your step!
Carelessness comes in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes it is a true lack of feelings for others, and sometimes it is mere laziness or selfishness. Sometimes it is an outright act, and sometimes it is an act of omission. You never know when the carelessness of another will cause you to slip and fall–usually figuratively. Thank goodness for the heroes that kick the banana peels of life out of the way before we can get to them, and for the heroes that help pick us back up when we fall down hard. May those who care always outnumber the careless.
Fish out of water
It was likely my obsession with food (and my strong opinions about it) that led to me dining at one of the LAST places anyone who knows me would ever picture me going to willingly. Am I prissy? Yes. Am I prim and proper? Yes. Am I uptight? Oh, yes. So, how is it that I spent last evening at Hooters?
A few weeks ago, the subject of chicken wings came up in a food conversation. While I’m not a huge fan (too messy to eat in public) I did say that I thought the best wings in St. Louis are at Culpepper’s. My friend, Phil, wholeheartedly disagreed. He stated that the best, by far, were at Hooters, adding that all the food there was good. I am sure I made some scoffing noise that conveyed doubt and derision. I felt that saying you went to Hooters for the food was like saying you bought Playboy for the articles. In short, I wasn’t buying it. When I admitted I had never eaten there, he went into full-court-press mode to convince me I needed to go to see what I’d been missing. My suggestion of getting the food as takeout was quickly shot down as Phil insisted I needed to dine there to have the full Hooters experience. He was even bold enough to venture that I’d have a good time and go again in the future.
That is how I found myself walking into Hooters with Phil. I was pleased to not be the only female patron, but I would say the male presence at any given time there was at least 85-90%–no lower, and maybe a little higher. I was in the definite minority of the customers. No big surprise there!
Phil was right about a lot–I did have fun on many counts. Our server was sweet, and kept the flirting to an amount that was reasonably easy to stomach. The drinks and food were good. Not great, but good. (My wing vote still goes to Culpepper’s!) Hooters is an upbeat place, so it was fun in that regard. The mood is a happy one, so there’s always a chance I’ll go again. But I’d be more open to going back if it wasn’t for this one little thing: the uniforms. The little, little uniforms.
Which is actually a big thing for me. It’s probably a combination of the mother in me, the reserved personality I possess, and my protective nature, but my trip to Hooters was mainly about watching the interactions between the young, provocatively dressed servers and the men they waited on. The ogling as the servers walked away, and the subsequent, obvious comments and laughter among the men at the tables made me very uncomfortable…as a mom, as a woman, and as a human. Having two daughters, it makes me sad that society has made it okay, and profitable, for attractive young women to parade around in tight clothing and flirt to increase their tips from inebriated men. At least that’s the feeling that washed over me as I exited the restaurant.
Some might say I need to relax, to loosen up, and maybe there’s some validity to that. But that still wouldn’t address the dynamic I saw at play last night. It was not something I enjoyed witnessing. I thoroughly felt like a fish out of you-know-what. And this little fish couldn’t wait to jump back into her fishbowl and swim in more familiar waters.
Twists and turns
We rise each morning thinking we know how the day will go. We check the calendar, the to-do list, the appointment schedule and off we go to face what we presume will be the day we anticipate. So often we walk through our day-to-day existence
wearing virtual blinders. But now and again, life has a way of waking us out of complacency and forcing us to re-assess who we are and what value.
Today will bring unexpected joy for some. A call will come, and news will reach them of something wonderful, such as a promotion, a new baby, or an engagement. Beautiful surprises such as these alter the course of a day, and often the trajectory of a life. Blessings like these help us to pause in gratitude for the extraordinary gifts life can bring and remind us to give thanks. We are filled with positive energy, and everywhere we go it spreads from us to others. The joy that is in us blesses those around us, as happiness spills out through our subsequent actions. A jolt of good news is a welcome interruption. It is easy to affect the world around us in positive ways after hearing such news.
But today won’t be a day like that for all. The call some receive today will bring devastating news–possibly job loss, divorce, injury, or even death. And there are those who today will hear the heartbreaking news of a loved one’s terminal diagnosis. Those days bring us to our knees. Why? How? What now? There are so many questions that need answers, so much sadness, so much regret. How do we go forward and find good in life when something so unimaginably cruel is happening to someone we love? Obviously we rally around the loved one and support him or her in every way we can. But beyond this, is there a way that we turn the anger and sadness into something–anything–positive?
I believe that the moments that break us can guide us to become even better people if we use them as wake up calls. Life is so very fragile and far too short–it is easy to forget that as we race through our lives, until something forces us to stop and take stock. We need to be mindful every day of who and what are our priorities in life and make sure we are living in ways that honor those priorities. We need to make a conscious effort each day to reach out to those we love with affection and attention–we must never waste the chance to give a compliment or say “I love you.” We should never skip the opportunity to do a random act of kindness or to work a little harder than necessary. We should always make sure to brighten the day of those we love.
Yet, we are all human and we will often fall back into robotic complacency in our fast-paced daily lives. It does often take tragedy to jolt us out of the stupor. But using that as the opportunity to assist others and foster personal growth in ourselves is a way to make positive differences, no matter how small, in the world around us. Nothing can undo the tragedy and grief we will all face from time to time–that is just a fact of life. But using those events as catalysts for improvement ensures that something positive does indeed come out of the twists and turns.
Sharing the path
I can’t say for certain whose gait was more labored and stiff-legged–the elderly man or the graying black terrier he walked on a leash. I greeted them this morning with a nod, a smile, and a hello when we passed, walking in opposite directions on the circular path around a large pond. When I neared them a second time it registered that they had not moved far and I noticed him waiting for the dog as she slowly walked beside him. I felt compelled to break my pace and stop to tell him what a sweet companion he had. He smiled at that, and in a phrase that conveyed far more than the words it contained, he looked at me and said, “She won’t eat anymore.” In his eyes I saw the fear of what that means for a dog as old as she clearly was. He was silent for a few seconds. “She’s fourteen, so, you know…,” he added quietly, not needing to finish the sentiment. I know. All pet lovers know.
I asked him if she’d mind if I petted her and he grinned again and said she’d love it. I crouched down and while I stroked her face I implored her to eat a little something. He shared that he had bought some special food for her to try today–said he wouldn’t want to eat that same old dry stuff everyday either. The unspoken hope in that sentence brought the sting of tears to my eyes. In that moment my hope joined with his that maybe, just maybe, new food would be the answer. Please let it be a dog with a suddenly picky palate, and not an aged dog withdrawing from life.
That walk was 10 hours ago and I’ve gotten teary a few times today thinking about it. I left a little piece of my heart on that path with those two. I hope somewhere tonight she has a full belly and is curled up beside him in a recliner and that their special bond gets to go on a little longer.
Crushed
One small flower, pressed in the pages of a large old book, falls out gently into my lap.
Crushed flat by time and the weight of the pages enfolding her, she’s now merely a remnant of the life and beauty she once held.
Color faded, brittle and crumbling–yet someone once thought enough of her to keep her.
Must have been a beautiful, special flower. Must have been back then.
Now…just forgotten and fragile, easily set aside, longing to once again be treasured.
I’ll keep you, little flower. I understand.
Most Agreeable
Day camp. Adler Park. Summer of 1973.
I can’t tell you if it lasted two weeks, four weeks, or six weeks. I can tell you it felt like years and taught me a painful truth about my value in the hierarchy of my peers; a truth that has been hard to shake.
I was ten that summer, and day camp comprised all the things a nerdy, awkward, plain, strange bookworm like me dreaded: traditional outdoor games, team sports, and swimming. It was torture for me, and torture for the other girls in my camp group to have me there, as they daily made sure I knew. From my clothes, to my hair and looks in general, to my complete lack of athletic ability, I was an easy target to pick on. Already used to being chosen last for teams during gym class at school, I found camp no different. But I learned a new skill that summer–if I was the first to put myself down, the first to demean myself, that was liked by my peers and I could at least stand by them. If I beat them to the punch, I was accepted, in a twisted, cruel way. If I concurred with how worthless I was, I could sit with them at lunch while they made fun of what I ate. If I didn’t speak up for myself when they told the camp counselor that I had volunteered to be the one to get the ball out of the thorn bushes each time it went out-of-bounds, then maybe I could “kind of” swim by them in the pool. By just going along with the way those popular, athletic, and pretty (attributes that translated to power at that age) girls wanted things to be, I learned that their happiness with the situation meant I could sit close enough to pretend to belong.
At the close of camp, an award ceremony was held. We each received a white, circular, paper badge printed with red and blue letters. Called up one by one, our award was called out as the badge was pinned to our chests: Best Swimmer, Prettiest Eyes, Best Runner, Best Smile, Prettiest Hair, Best Laugh, Best Athlete. And then there was mine…Most Agreeable. There is was–validation that suppression of my self-esteem in deference to the wishes and happiness of others was literally reward worthy behavior. My value was in my acceptance of their superiority.
That badge sat in the jewelry box on my dresser for years. Whenever I saw it, it subconsciously reinforced that it was important for me to smile, defer to others and accept what they wanted. I had learned that speaking up for myself was not the way to be included. Conceding to others was the way to have things go smoothly–better to just let others have things their way.
The day I finally ripped that badge into pieces was emotional. I ripped and ripped until the pieces were so small they could be reduced no further by hand. I’d like to pretend that destroying the badge destroyed the behavior, but that’s deeply ingrained and an ongoing battle. I detest conflict and confrontation. I still defer to power (as an adult, that usually translates to the attributes of money, status and position.) I’d still rather be Most Agreeable. But every rare once in a while, that esteem that was stunted so long ago finds its way to the surface and I stand up for myself.
The roar of a mouse may be no roar at all, but it might just deserve an award.
Dust
Greeted, needed, he moves around the room,
Each requires a piece, just a very small piece,
As they chip away the lining of his enormous heart,
Not one sees the resulting holes.
Please help, do this, be here, don’t leave,
His gift becomes his curse,
How can they not see the toll it takes?
The light in his eyes flickering, faltering.
As he slows the ride that’s run for years,
Light floods back into his soul,
It’s time to rebuild what was carved away,
Before all that’s left where he stood is dust. *
*I wrote this poem as a gift for a dear, dear friend back in 2011. With his permission and blessing, I am sharing this today. B.C., these words are as true today as they ever were.
barrelmakersdaughter 