Face to Face with Prejudice

A Hoodie doesn't make one a hoodlum. Or does it?

As the Trayvon Martin case slowly fades from the news, I have to ask myself, "Was this a teaching moment for all of us or just another one of those 'wardrobe malfunctions' that usually afflict Hollywood stars?"

First let me say, with the information we've been afforded by the news, I find there to be little doubt that Mr. Zimmerman acted carelessly, probably with malice, and certainly should not have been on the neighborhood watch and most definitely, not carrying a weapon.

That being said, and at the risk of being too honest, which has never stopped me before, the whole incident has given me pause to think about my reactions to black males, young and old. I believe I have always made a sincere attempt to transform the bias and profiling that seemed so in-grained in my parents' generation. I heard the slurs, the name calling, the jokes based on the color of other peoples' skin. The comments made me cringe as a child and they still do today. But prejudice is hard to eradicate from the head even when the heart says it's baseless and wrong.

Am I more cautious about locking my car doors when I drive through a black neighborhood? Walking alone in a parking lot, do I feel a tinge of fear just a little more if there is a black man rather than a white man walking toward me? Do I automatically assume the black man that pulls up next to me driving the new Mercedes has to be a professional athlete?

You've probably figured out my answer to all these questions. I have been shocked and saddened the last few weeks to become aware, and painfully acknowledge that I have not done a stellar job at removing the prejudices of those before me.

I hope for myself, and maybe for you too, that Trayvon's death, regardless of the circumstances, will prompt all of us to look a little deeper inside, to grow a little more in humanity, to make a personal vow that this young man's death is not overlooked as an opportunity to better ourselves and the world we share with every religion and race.

This was not a wardrobe malfunction. Dark skin and a Hoodie do not make one a criminal, but thinking that it does is a malfunction of the human spirit.

As Ellen Degeneres says at the end of each show...Let's be kind to each other.

Between the lines,
LA

First of all - a Disclaimer. This is NOT a blog to be read before or during mealtime.

I ask you - How many names can one room possibly have? It's called the toilet, the water closet, the outhouse, the bathroom, the restroom, the head, the loo, the library and sometimes by those of us a little rough around the edges - the crapper. I only know 3 words in Spanish and one of them happens to be Bano. I've found out the hard way that you should know how to say  'bathroom' in every language if you're going to drink beer.

When out in public I never know which is politcially correct. Do you ask for the location of the bathroom or the restroom? It would be easy to discern if I planned on taking a bath or a rest, but usually this is not my intent.

If you're like me, you'd rather address the porcelain throne in your own home, but we all know that this is not always possible. When you gotta, you gotta. For times when I predict my stay will be longer than a 'drive-thru', I always seek out the multi-stall locations. Nothing causes more anxiety than knowing the meter is running and other users are lining up outside the door waiting for the single stall that you are occupying. Barnes and Noble Bookstores and Starbucks are one-stall locations to be avoided for extended stays.

And there's the issue of accomodations. I've found it's best to look for a supply of TP before assuming the position. (In the airline we used 'the position' to prepare for emergency landings. We called it, Grab Ankles!)Nothing worse than embarking on the procedure and finding the bathroom lacking supplies because the attendant apparently went home early with dysentary and no one is picking up the slack of bathroom duty.

When there is a delay in completion of the job, I listen and look under intently to see if other occupants remain. I prefer the listening part - breathing sounds and the rustle of TP, rather than the visual because I have a problem with other people's feet. Toenails really gross me out, especially the dirty and untamed ones. I have to make myself look away when I spot them, like when you pass roadkill and are drawn, against your will and better judgement, to staring and moaning. If you wait long enough, the stall turnover will allow you to exit without anyone knowing you've been in there long enough to request a forwarding address for your mail.

Do you sit or stand? And where do you put your purse if some male was responsible for the stall design and forgot to put in a hook? Thoughts of what is and what has been on the floor can be nauseating.
And, do you exit leaving the appliance in the condition you found it? Dry, wet or fully stocked?

And lastly, a really personal question. Do you always wash your hands afterwards or only when someone else might see you bolt, sans humming the Happy Birthday song twice as you soap up? Just wondering...sometimes it's tempting because the faucets and sink look dirtier than any germ you might have picked up behind the stall door.

And lastly, do you continue conversations once you and the toilet have become one, or answer cell phone calls over the sound of the new turbo-charged hand dryers that have caused me to exit so fast I forget to check the bottom of my shoes for the "you're dragging toilet paper on your shoe' look?

Whatever you call it, it's always an adventure in there. I'm sure we'll not meet someday sitting side by side, only separated by a graffited wall and a toilet paper holder that needs written instructions for its operation. I have only two requests. Please don't judge me if I stay too long and please wear closed-toed shoes. ;-)

between the lines (at the ladie's room),
Thanks for reading! 

Near the cutting edge...but carrying a dull knife.

A day late and a dollar short. Yeah. Yeah. I can hear my dad saying it now. Little did I know how prophetic his words were.

It's happened over and over. I get just within reach of the cutting edge, and it moves. I master old math, the week before new math is introduced. I can't wait to be 18 to booze it up, and the week before my birthday they change the age to 21. I take my last college semester of photography with film and darkrooms, as film gives way to computer imaging.

And now here I am with my buttocks bleeding because I'm perched on the wrong side of the cutting edge once again. This time it's the literary publishing world that's waiting to pull the plug on my plans.

I've spent the last 6 years plodding along on a manuscript, knowing someday an agent and publisher would be clamoring for it and that I would see my work in hardcover - beautifully bound, eye-catching cover gracing the windows of Barnes and Noble. I never pictured it to be self-published or read on a Kindle. In my dreams I've been able to smell the ink on the pages as it came off the press, to touch the glossy outside, and turn to the first page to read - by Lee Ann Ropes .

Ah, you say. That could still happen. Maybe, if I had the damn thing completed and ready for press, which I don't. No. By the time I write THE END, cutting edge in the writer's world will undoubtedly be paperless.

Maybe those of us who are always a day late and a dollar short of the cutting edge were put here just to make the rest of you over-achievers look good. Maybe we pave the road to make it smoother for your progress.

But for now I sense I'm foiled again. I'm at least two steps behind the cutting edge. It's like the time I decided to finally go back to work after an extended maternity leave...the Company filed bankruptcy and shut down. Oooh. That dull knife hurt.

By the way, I'm finally ready to cash in the thousands of S&H Green Stamps I've been saving up for years. I hope I'm not too late. They do still redeem those, right?

between the lines,
thanks for reading. :-)

Just one more...Addiction.

I am still reeling over the loss of Robin Williams. Not a day passes where I don't see his image - those sweet eyes - or think of the pain he must have been enduring those last few days. I want to forget about it, but in order to make sense of his death, we must remember. I think he would want us to find a silver lining - to save or at least recognize some other human being that is in pain. Maybe that's what we are supposed to learn from Robin's life and his untimely death. Actually is there such a thing as a 'timely' death?

Anyway, this pondering reminded me of an entry I made some time ago...about addiction and another celebrity. Thought I would share it with you again.

No one grows up dreaming of becoming an alcoholic or addict. It's just not a hit on the Top Ten Parade, for those of you who remember Dick Clark and the show Bandstand. Instead we dream of wealth, happiness, stardom, success, and maybe a long life.

Recently I read an obituary about a man I met many years ago while I was in treatment. My first sight of him was as he shuffled down the hallway like an elderly person, in his slippers, with a distant and glazed look in his eyes. I recognized him. He was a celebrity type. Known for his television career and his wild escapades with celebrities of the opposite sex, in this place he was just a regular guy. He was like me and I just like him. Sick, and sick and tired of being sick and tired.

We became comrades.I watched him struggle as he described several treatment centers he had been in before this one. He finished his 28 day program before me and as we said goodbye, I prayed that he had gotten 'it' this time. I was sad when I heard some years later that he was back in treatment again.

Addiction sneaks up on its victims. Cunning, baffling, and powerful, the menacing disease exercises no discretion at choosing between the poor and the wealthy, the black and the white, the young and the old, blue collar or white collar. It strikes where and when it can, and consumes not only the user, but the entire family and surrounding community. It kills if given the opportunity.

I will probably never know if my friend died sober. The newspaper didn't say. But his legacy to me will be a reminder that recovery from addiction, whatever kind it is - alcohol, drugs, gambling, overeating - all these recoveries are a gift.

Today I am very grateful for my gift. Thank you, James, for sharing part of my journey. May you rest in peace.

Between the lines...

Desiderata - Latin for 'Desired Things"

I'm proud to be a Hoosier. (whatever that word means) Among many things, we're famous for our basketball, our tomatoes, and our love of the card game of Euchre. But I've never been more proud to be from Indiana than when I read the famous words below that were written by one of our own. Thank you, Max Ehrmann.

The Desiderata

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be critical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.

You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be careful. Strive to be happy.

© Max Ehrmann 1927

CAN you teach an old dog new tricks?

I'm in the process of taking a workshop - advice on relationships, healing old wounds, and being independent vs codependent. Heady topics that are painfully reminding me of how long it's been since I practiced the skill of taking notes.

A searing question is battling for my attention during the lectures. Can you teach an old dog new tricks? Actually, the correct syntax would be, "Can you teach new tricks to an old dog?" But old idioms are slow to change, perhaps just like us mature adults.

I grew up thinking the learning process was pretty much completed once you left high school. An occasional news story might contain a nugget of knowledge, but other than that, you didn't know what you didn't know, and you didn't know that either.

I once had the pleasure of giving my Dad a second-hand computer. I watched as he placed his arthritic fingers on a keyboard for the first time. He was awkward but receptive. However, during the days that followed he kept calling the mouse, 'the rat' and I realized with a little frustration that we had a long learning curve ahead of us. Unfortunately he didn't live long enough to complete the curve but I truly believe the old dog could have done it with a few more months of breathe in him.

Yahoo states, "Senior dogs are happy to learn, as long as they have a consistent teacher who hands out plenty of treats." I get that, even though this old dog has lost a few brain cells over the years. So, I'll finish my workshop with the hope that a few tricks will lodge in my brain somewhere between the lobes of "I don't know where I parked my car," and "I'm sorry but I can't quite remember your name."

Does this make me an old dog trying to learn new tricks? Woof. Where are my treats?

later...
Between the lines

Don't buy cheap dishes

Have you heard that God will never give you more than you can handle? Or a reference to how much is on one's plate?

Well, some of us need bigger plates than others. A friend of mine lost her father some months ago and then herself, was diagnosed with stage four cancer. Now her holidays were shattered with the news that her mother has stage four, terminal cancer.

Hello, God. Couldn't we like evenly distribute the bad stuff instead of overloading one family? Not that I wish poor health on others, but how much misfortune can one family take. If there's an annual quota on the diagnosis of this monster disease, couldn't we spread the misery around equivalently?

I am grateful. I have very little on my plate right now and I'm knocking on wood as I type that last line. My plates are inexpensive, though. Whomever's in charge of the big stuff, please keep this in mind should you decide to load me up from life's buffet.

May the new year be a healthier, happier one for the families who've gotten more than their piece of crap pie.

Between the lines,
See ya later.

Gobble gobble from the Adriatic Sea

It is not the first time I've spent a holiday out of the Country. It's an odd feeling...an out of body experience.  

One's  physical being is among people who know little or nothing about Pilgrims and that glorious meal they partook of while the mind and spirit are wrapped around a warm turkey sandwich wrapped in sausage dressing with a glob of cranberry sauce just for added calories.

And then there is family, of course. New sights and sounds are memory-filled and fabulous when you are walking streets never traveled before. But there is something undeniably comforting about sitting down to a place setting of china that only comes out on holidays. Vacation souvenirs dim when compared to Aunt Mary's special pumpkin pie or Mom's request to have Dad carve the turkey.

Venice has the rich smell of garlic, tomatoes and tourists' dollars. But family feuds fade when the aroma of mashed potatoes and gravy waft from the kitchen.

So today, far from home, we will make do. As we Sit down for our first, second, third, fourth, and fifth meal of the day....(and of course  the Midnite  buffet) we will remember those who have none and we will be grateful for our blessings. We will also be praying that the luggage scales at the airport are broken. Chow and Happy Thanksgiving!

In the backyard

     Brisk air has ascended upon us. Surprising us with the realization that Fall and falling back on every clock in the house, is right around the corner.
     There will be a few things I miss about our house but none more so than our window on the world from our backyard. Living on the 'T' of a canal is a triple treat with backyard views all around. Backyards are really families' living rooms. We grill there, we swim, we play ball, we garden - there is a life that goes on there that no one ever sees from our front doors and driveways.
     Squeals of delight drew me outside this evening where a young boy across the canal had a fish on the line of his tiny fishing pole. It was a decent size fish and he had no idea how to pull it in. His sister ran off to the house to presumably get adult help. Mother arrived a few minutes later; looked the situation over and headed back toward the house to presumably get Dad. Dad, Mom and baby sister in her princess costume, soon arrived at the canal's edge to help pull in the big one.
     As the group gathered for the admiration ceremony, Mom hurriedly returned to the house. I knew what she would return with. The camera, of course. Group shots were taken with the fisherman proudly holding up his catch.
     I felt that tightness in my chest that always comes when I am moved by love, or patriotism, or kindness. Or when I lament the passing of my own daughters' childhoods.
     It was a Kodak moment - a short movie with no admission price or jockeying for a good seat. I was blessed to witness it right here from my own backyard. It is one perk I will miss when we move on.

Between the lines,
              later.

Will the real you please stand up.

    Authenticity is a tough one. Oprah makes it sound easy as she proclaims authenticity's profound value. She repeats that each and every one of us has a purpose for being here and that it's our responsibility to seek out that purpose and fulfill it, regardless of how small or seemingly insignificant others may view it.
    Perhaps when we are young, we wear our authentic selves as naturally and visibly as we wear our most comfortable jeans. Our purpose for being here is to have fun, experience the new - basically just to grab life by the balls and keep moving!
    I'm finding this is contrary to the search for one's authentic self in the middle years of life. I think it's called a mid-life crisis. It's like the cataracts my grandma had surgery for.The view for one's genuine self seems a little cloudy after you pass 50. The time clock is tickin' and in moments of self-reflection, panic can set in like dysentery after a bad burrito.
     Like a recent chick flick, where the main character, in fear of a spinster future, takes a second look at all her former boyfriends to see if she might have overlooked a good one, I'm inclined to believe I may have to look back and examine my mammoth inventory of jobs, unfulfilled aspirations, and self-help books. Surely there is a subtle clue among the twisted paths of my past that may dump some enlightenment on me in spite of myself.
     Oprah! I haven't seen you but I know you're out there on that other network. Listen up. You told us to find our authentic selves...that each one of us has a purpose for being here, but I must have missed the show where you gave the instructions for this horrendous challenge! I'm sorry. I've never learned to use my DVR. I'm bad.
    I'll keep searching because I know the real me, is in me, trying to claw it's way out. I wonder if they could see that on my last mammogram?
    Later and probably between the lines, with a red crayon,
                 me.
   
   

Items in the Rear View mirror can look very familiar.....

It was her last visit to Florida. 
It was Christmas time. 


I had just moved into a new home with a new partner and his two children. A blended family, holiday chaos, out of town visitors and an emotionally unstable host don't make for peace at the dinner table or any other time for that matter.


I was judgmental and cross with her as she sat on the patio smoking like the recent wildfires in Texas. I badgered her to eat out, to do some tourist things, to participate in the holiday merriment.


She chose to be idle. To relax, and to watch and to just be.
And as she silently watched, she must have grimaced at the over-reaching, the auto-pilot induced stress, and the insensitivity playing out in front of her.


I'm sure it made her sad. I don't remember seeing many smiles on her face. I don't remember even a moment where I hugged her or connected with the love between a mother and a daughter.


Despite my attempts to keep these painful memories at bay, they wash ashore from time to time, stinging like salt water does to an open wound. A harsh word from a loved one, a sense of irrelevance cast my way, a rebuke of a well intentioned effort, forces me to cringe at a mirror image of my behavior toward her.


I don't recall the Christmas gifts that were exchanged that year. But I do know if I could relive the past, my gift to her wouldn't be wrapped in a box with a bow. Instead, it would be an offering of kindness and patience, and a conscious attempt at acceptance  that is borne of love and respect.

Hi. My name is...and I'm an alcoholic.

The rooms are often not pretty. The furniture doesn't look like its from IKEA. The Salvation Army or Goodwill would be more likely. There's always the smell of strong coffee wafting into the hallway. The occupants in these church basements and classrooms, are old and young, wealthy and poor, in business attire and shorts and tshirts. They drink coffee. They mingle. They laugh. And they drink more coffee.

The meeting opens with the Serenity prayer followed by readings from 'their Bible' - The big book of Alcoholics Anonymous. It's actually a blue book but its called the big book anyway.

What follows is never static. Discussion, tears, laughter and most of all, the stories of miracles.
*The man who lost it all - his family, his job, his soul...now sober and a respectable member of society.
*The young woman who lost her children to the State because of her addiction, now sober and blessed with the gift of parenting again.
*The elderly man, still full of life, who turned his life around 55 years ago when he stumbled into an AA meeting and found he wasn't really alone like he had believed.
*The bright-eyed 18 year old, who hardly even needs to shave yet, full of enthusiasm for a program that has given him a chance for freedom from the drugs he had become a slave to.
*The man released from prison, the woman who escaped homelessness, the housewife who drank in secrecy, the executive who drank every day at lunch....all miracles who have gathered in the room.

None of those assembled need religion, money or status. All that is needed is a desire and willingness to try a new way of life. And, of course, the ability to drink really bad coffee!

No one is sure why or how the miracles happen but they can't be denied because they are too many and happen too often.

And so the meeting ends each holding the hand of the one next to them with bowed heads during the Lord's Prayer.  During the hour, a  renewed chance for a life beyond the wildest dreams has been afforded to them once again ...a beautiful life without drugs and alcohol.

The final act of the gathering is emptying and cleaning the coffee pot, because they all know....
No coffee - No meeting.   No meeting - No miracles.

This is Alcoholics Anonymous.

Between the lines (and one day at a time!),
Lee Ann R.