Today, in some feeble attempt to connect with Lincoln Hall--a mountaineer who almost lost his life on Everest--I tried to fathom the epitome of a meditative state. While attempting to summit Everest in 2006, Hall was left for dead, but miraculously made it off of the mountain while being coerced by Sherpas who were not his own (although the latter is only heresay). What saved his life was his ability to detach via Buddhist practice; desire, it is believed, is the root of unhappiness. Hall, while in and out of consciousness, hallucinated while simultaneously envisioning his family. Now, this may seem simple, something you and I may have done numerous times to deal with pain; however, Hall's experience was much different, in that, his body physically--not just emotionally--responded to this form of Yoga. As he imagined the nearness of his loved ones, his body temperature began to rise. He began to thaw.
I began to think of all of the trials with which I have been confronted throughout my life. I thought of how easily that pang of bitterness had, at times, consumed me; how easily anger and pity and cynicism had meandered in and out of my life. Then I placed myself on the Hillary Step, meters away from Everest's summit. I was cold and frostbitten so that my extremities were black with gangrene. My oxygen was depleted and fellow mountaineers, guides, and sherpas walked by ignoring my existence, because really, I did not exist. I was, at that moment, frozen in time. I was Lincoln Hall, except unlike Hall, my soul had been annihilated. Bitterness, anger, pity, and cynicism were symbolic of all of those empty canisters of oxygen that litter Everest. I was empty.
Then, something quite foreign happened. Those ghosts, what some have brushed off as being mere hallucinations, became real. Not in the literal sense, but rather an ephemeral happening. It was then that I had an epiphany. We are all on the brink of death; perhaps not today or next week or even next year, but it is inevitable. The ghosts and the people that Hall saw as he sat literally frozen to the mountainside, were not meant to be physical beings; these were the persona of survival at its greatest. A survival that encapsulates, not only what a passerby might see, but the core of mankind.
Regardless of your religious philosophy, it is the fight of achieving the here and now that really matters. When I was a small child, my great-great aunt had a plaque that hung on her wall that read: Today is the first day of the rest of your life. I would like to believe that those words were among the many visions Hall had the day he descended the grandest mountain in the world.
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
A Choice
It has been over a week since I've written...anywhere. Yesterday, as I was sitting at La Diosa visiting with my cousin, Amy, reality (again) slapped me in the face. As I was discussing my Master's thesis, I felt somewhat snobbish. You must know, that I am the first in my immediate family to ever graduate from college. In any event, I have multiple degrees, yet this still does not erase the person I was. Before I moved in with my grandparents, I lived in a mobile home with my mother and step-father. Each day before I stepped onto the bus with wet hair and smoke (an herbal mixture, if you will) permeating from my clothing, I would secretly hope the drug dogs did not come to school that day; I always feared my parents' addiction would be my eternal embarrassment.
As I sat there, sipping wine and eating butter olives, I remembered how much I hated school. I hated living a lie and cliques and loving to read, but mostly, I hated going back to that trailer park. The stories I wrote while sitting in my bedroom were the only means of escape from the world I fought so hard to deny; those stories were only meant for my alter ego. Now, aside from that trip to the Himalayas--I discovered them in a set of encyclopedia my mother had bought from a door-to-door salesman, and lived there via pencil and paper--I am actually her; I am actually that little girl with opportunities.
For what it's worth, I am an educated woman with a future, who, as a child thought she was destined to a realm of nothingness. For seven years I worked two jobs and attended college full-time so my daughters would not have to sit in their rooms and wish for Armageddon. For seven years, the Himalayan mountains became a metaphor for my struggle to break a cycle; I have reached the summit, giving my daughters the same opportunity, but for different reasons.
Yesterday, at La Diosa I had an epiphany; it matters not where we come from or the lives we lived prior to today. Although those moments may have made us stronger, that cliche cannot heal the past. We can never recreate our childhood, nor can we always control what happens in the future, but we can manipulate the negativity that some use for an excuse to never progress beyond their past. We have the capability to evolve. It is a choice.
Until next time, ciao.
As I sat there, sipping wine and eating butter olives, I remembered how much I hated school. I hated living a lie and cliques and loving to read, but mostly, I hated going back to that trailer park. The stories I wrote while sitting in my bedroom were the only means of escape from the world I fought so hard to deny; those stories were only meant for my alter ego. Now, aside from that trip to the Himalayas--I discovered them in a set of encyclopedia my mother had bought from a door-to-door salesman, and lived there via pencil and paper--I am actually her; I am actually that little girl with opportunities.
For what it's worth, I am an educated woman with a future, who, as a child thought she was destined to a realm of nothingness. For seven years I worked two jobs and attended college full-time so my daughters would not have to sit in their rooms and wish for Armageddon. For seven years, the Himalayan mountains became a metaphor for my struggle to break a cycle; I have reached the summit, giving my daughters the same opportunity, but for different reasons.
Yesterday, at La Diosa I had an epiphany; it matters not where we come from or the lives we lived prior to today. Although those moments may have made us stronger, that cliche cannot heal the past. We can never recreate our childhood, nor can we always control what happens in the future, but we can manipulate the negativity that some use for an excuse to never progress beyond their past. We have the capability to evolve. It is a choice.
Until next time, ciao.
The Hat
Recently, Devin, a friend of mine, posted a picture of himself wearing an all too familiar hat, which brought back memories of my elementary school days. It was then that I used to wear a rust colored ivy cap everywhere I went, even to school. Hats were not “legal” according to the school dress code, and, therefore, by 9:00 a.m. you could find me sitting at my desk with my thin, blonde hair stuck to my scalp. However, the cap would find its place back on my head during recess. By the afternoon, my teachers gave in and allowed me to wear the hat. This routine became a redundant part of my teachers’ lives; for me, the hat was yet another tool in my attempt to deviate from the norm.
In the fourth grade, I remember film day in the library, and friends braiding one another’s hair. Giovanni Mendez was always the culprit who would pull off my hat and braid my hair. I loathed the idea of looking like the other girls, but differentiated the situation by allowing a boy to style my hair instead of one of the girls. Of course, his work was done in vain because the hat would soon tousle my thin strands of hair, causing tiny hairs to escape from the tucks and twists that Giovanni had so delicately manipulated.
One day, in fifth grade, I found a book in the school library entitled _Go Ask Alice_. This book, I learned later, was on the banned books list, and the librarian huffed in disgust when she found it had not been removed from the school library. I remember handing her the book so she could stamp it, as she simultaneously pointed in the direction of some books on a mechanism that resembled a spinning bookcase. On this contraption, brightly colored books with pictures of children and boxcars begged me to privilege them. And so I pretended to. But not before I slipped the “bad” book off of the front desk and into my hat.
In the sixth grade, I retired my hat. It made me different; it sheltered me from the sun that always seemed to blister my porcelain skin; it served as a holster for words that were denied students because some person, who had apparently read too much Orwell, decided literature should be condemned because it was too real or too smart. I am not sure what became of my hat, but I will never consider it to be lost. Each day, as I braid my hair to keep it out of my face or put sunscreen on to prevent a burn or place another book on my bookcase, I will remember that once upon a time, one single assembled piece of clothing protected me, while at the same time encapsulating my individuality.
Thank you, Devin, for the memory.
In the fourth grade, I remember film day in the library, and friends braiding one another’s hair. Giovanni Mendez was always the culprit who would pull off my hat and braid my hair. I loathed the idea of looking like the other girls, but differentiated the situation by allowing a boy to style my hair instead of one of the girls. Of course, his work was done in vain because the hat would soon tousle my thin strands of hair, causing tiny hairs to escape from the tucks and twists that Giovanni had so delicately manipulated.
One day, in fifth grade, I found a book in the school library entitled _Go Ask Alice_. This book, I learned later, was on the banned books list, and the librarian huffed in disgust when she found it had not been removed from the school library. I remember handing her the book so she could stamp it, as she simultaneously pointed in the direction of some books on a mechanism that resembled a spinning bookcase. On this contraption, brightly colored books with pictures of children and boxcars begged me to privilege them. And so I pretended to. But not before I slipped the “bad” book off of the front desk and into my hat.
In the sixth grade, I retired my hat. It made me different; it sheltered me from the sun that always seemed to blister my porcelain skin; it served as a holster for words that were denied students because some person, who had apparently read too much Orwell, decided literature should be condemned because it was too real or too smart. I am not sure what became of my hat, but I will never consider it to be lost. Each day, as I braid my hair to keep it out of my face or put sunscreen on to prevent a burn or place another book on my bookcase, I will remember that once upon a time, one single assembled piece of clothing protected me, while at the same time encapsulating my individuality.
Thank you, Devin, for the memory.
A Lesson in Tolerance
As many of you may already know, I was once married to an Arab. Sounds like a made-for-Lifetime movie, right? Well, I guess it could be. In any event, I am currently enrolled in Cultural Diversity, one of my last two graduate courses. One of my assignments is a community experience which entails logging four hours at a religious establishment that is not my own, and analyzing its method of worship. A colleague recently asked me if I was going to “research” Islam, what with being married to a Muslim and all. My answer was “no, I do not need to research Islam because I am quite familiar with its practice, and besides it would be a bit cliché.” Why, you might ask? Well, since 9/11 Islam has been put under a microscope, so to speak. My goal is to learn something new, to remove or perhaps intensify, a stigma that has been placed on a particular religious group. Islam has been done over and over and over. It, like Catholicism and Judaism, has become a stereotype rather than a way of connecting with a higher power.
As a child I can remember the dreaded knock on the door. Those people who didn’t believe in Hell or Christmas or Birthdays were nothing more than a nuisance to our lives, as busy as we were with watching sitcoms, drinking beer, and hiding the tray with the green stuff on it. My mother often morphed into a theologian, grabbing her Bible that sat beneath the aforementioned tray, and inviting those people inside. She would rant and rave to them about their belief system as they sat quietly listening. She would condemn them to hell in a hand basket, as they graciously awaited her next exhale so they could get a word in. Peering around the doorway, I would watch my mother escort them to the door while simultaneously rolling her eyes and cursing them under her breath. I felt sad that they had to go to Hell, while we were allowed to sit at the right hand of the Father, whoever He was.
My mother church-hopped. One year I was Lutheran and the next I was Pentecostal. One year I was quietly reciting the Lord’s Prayer, and the next I was standing at the front of a church trying my damnedest to speak in tongues, but giving up because I didn’t want to run around the church like the others. Religion, for me, was a circus and the ringmaster was the preacher. Even as a young adult, I just couldn’t feel what others would say they felt when reading the Bible or listening to their pastor. I was extremely jaded by the fact that we, as individuals, had the right to threaten eternal damnation, yet, I remembered that the Bible clearly stated that we did not have the right to judge.
All of this reminded me of the poor young lady sitting in my living room when I was a child. I have therefore decided to attempt to understand those people my mother judged. None of us has the right to assume that people are bad because they think differently than us. Sure, we can disagree with their beliefs or way of living, but lack of celebrations and articles of clothing and door-to-door preaching are not what we should fixate upon. Instead, we should remember that tolerance is of utmost importance. In a few days, I will invite my friend, Jacque, over once more. She is a Jehovah’s Witness. I am learning quite a bit from our chats, and, no, she is not trying to convert me, nor do I intend on ever labeling myself this or that religion. Each time she walks through my door, I remember that lady my mother called a liar, and the shy smile she gave me as she walked away. She did not frighten me like preachers had done in the past, but instead, the memory of her reminds me that stones do not have to be cast in order to claim a spot in the hereafter, wherever that may be.
As a child I can remember the dreaded knock on the door. Those people who didn’t believe in Hell or Christmas or Birthdays were nothing more than a nuisance to our lives, as busy as we were with watching sitcoms, drinking beer, and hiding the tray with the green stuff on it. My mother often morphed into a theologian, grabbing her Bible that sat beneath the aforementioned tray, and inviting those people inside. She would rant and rave to them about their belief system as they sat quietly listening. She would condemn them to hell in a hand basket, as they graciously awaited her next exhale so they could get a word in. Peering around the doorway, I would watch my mother escort them to the door while simultaneously rolling her eyes and cursing them under her breath. I felt sad that they had to go to Hell, while we were allowed to sit at the right hand of the Father, whoever He was.
My mother church-hopped. One year I was Lutheran and the next I was Pentecostal. One year I was quietly reciting the Lord’s Prayer, and the next I was standing at the front of a church trying my damnedest to speak in tongues, but giving up because I didn’t want to run around the church like the others. Religion, for me, was a circus and the ringmaster was the preacher. Even as a young adult, I just couldn’t feel what others would say they felt when reading the Bible or listening to their pastor. I was extremely jaded by the fact that we, as individuals, had the right to threaten eternal damnation, yet, I remembered that the Bible clearly stated that we did not have the right to judge.
All of this reminded me of the poor young lady sitting in my living room when I was a child. I have therefore decided to attempt to understand those people my mother judged. None of us has the right to assume that people are bad because they think differently than us. Sure, we can disagree with their beliefs or way of living, but lack of celebrations and articles of clothing and door-to-door preaching are not what we should fixate upon. Instead, we should remember that tolerance is of utmost importance. In a few days, I will invite my friend, Jacque, over once more. She is a Jehovah’s Witness. I am learning quite a bit from our chats, and, no, she is not trying to convert me, nor do I intend on ever labeling myself this or that religion. Each time she walks through my door, I remember that lady my mother called a liar, and the shy smile she gave me as she walked away. She did not frighten me like preachers had done in the past, but instead, the memory of her reminds me that stones do not have to be cast in order to claim a spot in the hereafter, wherever that may be.
Culture
All day Saturday, before my first true week of teaching seventh graders, I worked hard attempting to uncover a bit of creativity in order to teach my students the Parts of Speech. Soon, I unearthed a song from Conjunction Junction. A bit primitive, one might think; however, School House Rock is not just an 80s concept. It is still alive and kicking today.
In any event, I located a nice little rap that chants "if you yearn to learn, then we're here to teach...a little something known as the parts of speech..." Something to that effect--a little paraphrasing never hurts, especially since I am no connoisseur of rap music. Tuesday came, and I worked effortlessly connecting the necessary technology to play the aforementioned song. Unfortunately, it was not a success. In fact, all five of my classes simply stared at me, jaws on their desks, as I stood there in some feeble attempt to wake the dead with my own rendition of "Rhyme and Reason." Needless to say, the kids were not impressed, and, in fact, their silence was proof that I had failed.
It has been exactly one week, and today I had a substitute. I was not ill, but rather had to attend a workshop regarding a new computer program that is supposed to help with writing skills. As all good teachers do, I left a worksheet so my sub wouldn't have to lecture, and, just in case the students completed their work, I left a photograph. Now, we all know that pre-teens should have no time to idle. Therefore, I decided to blow up a picture to use as a writing prompt.
As many of you may know, today marks the 400th anniversary of Galileo's telescope. I figured I had nothing to lose; after all, I wouldn't be in the class when my students' infamous silence sent chills up the substitute's spine. As suspected, they finished their worksheets early and were asked to write a paragraph describing what they thought was occurring in the photograph. Yes, they had to use creative thinking and write about something very few of them were familiar.
Lo and behold, each time I walked past my classroom, there was silence. Their heads were bowed, and their pencils were scurrying across their paper. They were writing.
I realized, as I flipped through some of their work this evening, that I had made the ultimate mistake as a teacher. I had stereotyped. The majority of my students are latino/a, and I had just automatically assumed I could reach them with music that "fit their culture." I was wrong. Although they didn't know who Galileo was, his telescope saw something much deeper than my simple human eye.
In any event, I located a nice little rap that chants "if you yearn to learn, then we're here to teach...a little something known as the parts of speech..." Something to that effect--a little paraphrasing never hurts, especially since I am no connoisseur of rap music. Tuesday came, and I worked effortlessly connecting the necessary technology to play the aforementioned song. Unfortunately, it was not a success. In fact, all five of my classes simply stared at me, jaws on their desks, as I stood there in some feeble attempt to wake the dead with my own rendition of "Rhyme and Reason." Needless to say, the kids were not impressed, and, in fact, their silence was proof that I had failed.
It has been exactly one week, and today I had a substitute. I was not ill, but rather had to attend a workshop regarding a new computer program that is supposed to help with writing skills. As all good teachers do, I left a worksheet so my sub wouldn't have to lecture, and, just in case the students completed their work, I left a photograph. Now, we all know that pre-teens should have no time to idle. Therefore, I decided to blow up a picture to use as a writing prompt.
As many of you may know, today marks the 400th anniversary of Galileo's telescope. I figured I had nothing to lose; after all, I wouldn't be in the class when my students' infamous silence sent chills up the substitute's spine. As suspected, they finished their worksheets early and were asked to write a paragraph describing what they thought was occurring in the photograph. Yes, they had to use creative thinking and write about something very few of them were familiar.
Lo and behold, each time I walked past my classroom, there was silence. Their heads were bowed, and their pencils were scurrying across their paper. They were writing.
I realized, as I flipped through some of their work this evening, that I had made the ultimate mistake as a teacher. I had stereotyped. The majority of my students are latino/a, and I had just automatically assumed I could reach them with music that "fit their culture." I was wrong. Although they didn't know who Galileo was, his telescope saw something much deeper than my simple human eye.
Goodbye Nabokov
After having read all but two of Nabokov’s works--_Pnin_ and _Nabokov’s Dozen_—the former because either I could not locate the grandiose writing to which I was accustomed with Nabokov or perhaps I subconsciously did not want to finish the only book in which I had yet to read; the latter title I had never seen until about a year ago when a friend found it in a used bookstore—I thought (like all Nabokov lovers) that I would never witness another publication. I was wrong.
Even through all of the controversy of Dmitri, Vladimir’s son, publishing his father’s book posthumously, I knew I had to read _The Original of Laura_. Although the subtitle warns its readers that it is merely a “novel in fragments,” it is actually many novels in fragments. I read it only once, but plan to read it several times, as I know I missed much symbolism—one always does the first time around, especially with Nabokov.
Signs of _Lolita_ ran rampant throughout this novel—from the pedophilia behavior of the illicit lover of Flora’s (later FLaura) mother, Hubert Hubert, to Flora's marriage to an older man on whom she later sexually deceives—sexuality, or perhaps lack thereof for some, becomes a major struggle for the characters; or is it Nabokov himself?
I also found similarities to _Invitation to a Beheading_. However, instead of a constant fear and wonder of when an execution might occur if, in fact, it does (or did), here the character becomes detached from his own being, wondering how he, himself, might delete a certain part of his “wretched flesh” (p. 159).
I am left to wonder if Flora, FLaura, Laura is the sneezing nurse who, in the introduction, Dmitri claims left the window open that later contributed to our Vladimir’s demise. Was Vladimir himself the antagonist, a man struggling with the aging process? In most every page you will find a loathing aroused by the aged human anatomy. Finally, I wonder if his quote from Nietzsche was a tell-tale sign that Vladimir had thoughts of suicide. I wonder.
By the end of the book I felt somewhat guilty. Did Vladimir want this piece of work to be “obliterated” as not only Vera, his wife, had said, but that Vladimir had written on a note card? Was this a journal of his private struggle with life and the end of it? Or was this fragmented piece of art just another Nabokovian genius? Perhaps we will never know.
Personally, I am sad. Vladimir died when I was only five years old. I would not discover him until years later. I would never know the feeling of having my favorite author die until recently, for his were classics before I was graced with his words. Now, however, I feel he has died once more, and still I am not sure why I am going through this metamorphosis. I am not sure I will re-read _The Original of Laura_ for a while; perhaps I will savor it for some time. Perhaps.
Even through all of the controversy of Dmitri, Vladimir’s son, publishing his father’s book posthumously, I knew I had to read _The Original of Laura_. Although the subtitle warns its readers that it is merely a “novel in fragments,” it is actually many novels in fragments. I read it only once, but plan to read it several times, as I know I missed much symbolism—one always does the first time around, especially with Nabokov.
Signs of _Lolita_ ran rampant throughout this novel—from the pedophilia behavior of the illicit lover of Flora’s (later FLaura) mother, Hubert Hubert, to Flora's marriage to an older man on whom she later sexually deceives—sexuality, or perhaps lack thereof for some, becomes a major struggle for the characters; or is it Nabokov himself?
I also found similarities to _Invitation to a Beheading_. However, instead of a constant fear and wonder of when an execution might occur if, in fact, it does (or did), here the character becomes detached from his own being, wondering how he, himself, might delete a certain part of his “wretched flesh” (p. 159).
I am left to wonder if Flora, FLaura, Laura is the sneezing nurse who, in the introduction, Dmitri claims left the window open that later contributed to our Vladimir’s demise. Was Vladimir himself the antagonist, a man struggling with the aging process? In most every page you will find a loathing aroused by the aged human anatomy. Finally, I wonder if his quote from Nietzsche was a tell-tale sign that Vladimir had thoughts of suicide. I wonder.
By the end of the book I felt somewhat guilty. Did Vladimir want this piece of work to be “obliterated” as not only Vera, his wife, had said, but that Vladimir had written on a note card? Was this a journal of his private struggle with life and the end of it? Or was this fragmented piece of art just another Nabokovian genius? Perhaps we will never know.
Personally, I am sad. Vladimir died when I was only five years old. I would not discover him until years later. I would never know the feeling of having my favorite author die until recently, for his were classics before I was graced with his words. Now, however, I feel he has died once more, and still I am not sure why I am going through this metamorphosis. I am not sure I will re-read _The Original of Laura_ for a while; perhaps I will savor it for some time. Perhaps.
That Much
Tuesday night I heard a commotion in the Bracero house. My bedroom window is nearly aligned with its window; the window the hens and rooster use to enter their giant perch. When my daughters and I moved into this house, the Bracero house was forbidden. The people before us had used it as a dump. I have no elegant word for its purpose for the previous tenants, as they had littered it so terribly that not even a spider would burrow in its wet, haunted wood that now smelled of a small child who had been neglected for days.
We decided to brave the task of cleaning up the place. The front half of the house, where the bathroom and kitchen must have been so many years ago, was clean. I told the girls we could use that area to store our camping gear and bikes, but they insisted that we could use the bracero house in its entirety, and so began the day-long journey to clear out the living area; the bedroom of migrant farm workers and their families.
After several hauls to the city dump and several gallons of bleach that we poured on the wooden floor, the room came alive. Spiders and snakes began to appear, and that is when the rooster and hens arrived. We did not own them, nor did we purchase them in some feeble attempt to get in touch with our new lives of living in the country; they just decided to adopt us. They now had a home. The Bracero House.
Every night they would roost on the rafters, huddled together in a row as if they had been waiting years for this new home to be built. It was perfect for them. We boarded up all but two of the windows so the chickens (and my junk) would be protected from the elements, and so was born the greatest chicken coop in all of Lovington's history.
In the mornings I began throwing on an old sweatshirt and rain boots, and traipsing through the back area of my house to unlatch the door to the “chicken coop.” And every morning the hens and their rooster would cluck to let me know that, while they appreciated all of the hospitality, my presence wasn’t wanted long. I would fill up their feeder with chicken scratch that we purchased downtown at a feed store. The owner laughed when I first told him of our adoption, and knew right away that I had always been a city girl. But every month, like clockwork, we drove to his business to purchase food for our new additions. And every month, he would smile and shake his head as he loaded the feed into the trunk of my Toyota Camry.
In the meantime, Aaliyah became quite close to these farm animals. She worried on weekends we were away, and, like the rest of us, enjoyed the sound of the rooster crowing, although he did it very sporadically, and rarely at daylight. He was much like his new family, lacking a schedule and early to rise. Aaliyah took them hay when it was cold and searched for eggs when it was warm. We never found where the hens were laying, but we didn’t care because we always felt like we were just part of the family.
At two o'clock Tuesday morning I heard a loud noise outside my window. I knew that a coyote had finally found the dwelling of our friends. The chickens screamed, but there was nothing I could do. It all happened so quickly that by the time I sat up in bed, the noise had stopped. I plopped back down on my pillow and cursed the circle of life.
The next morning I continued with my regular routine; I took feed and water to the chickens, although I knew, by the strewn feathers, that I was doing so in vain. We drove to school and I simply existed. I said nothing to Aaliyah because I had yet come to terms with the event myself. In the teacher’s lounge, my neighbor asked if I was missing a chicken. He had found one lying on the road that runs beside his house. Everyone made jokes about chickens crossing the road, while I thought to myself that even the most intelligent people have no heart. I silently wondered how I would break the news to Aaliyah.
Aaliyah took the news better than I expected, but I guess subconsciously she knew one would return. And one did. She found a hen waddling in the back area behind our house that same evening. Aaliyah caught her, and found that her foot had been injured. She carefully laid her down and began doing all she knew how to do. She gathered some hay and began building a nest for the hen inside the Bracero house. She then came inside and grabbed the old sweatshirt that I had worn each morning for so many months to nourish this hen and her family. She nursed her, but even with all of her effort, it was just not meant to be.
This morning I stepped outside to take photographs of nature. Sitting on the window of the Bracero house was a lone bird, singing a lovely morning tune. I snapped a picture and walked around to unlatch the door to check on the hen. There she lay on her side on the old sweatshirt that she had seen each morning since the day she moved in. It had become her resting place. I knelt down beside her and wept. Aaliyah had been so brave and carried her around, but I had always been the feeder. Nothing more. So I reached out my hand and stroked her feathers in an attempt to feel what Aaliyah had felt. I apologized for nature’s course, and walked inside to explain to Aaliyah that her hen missed the rest of her family that much.
We decided to brave the task of cleaning up the place. The front half of the house, where the bathroom and kitchen must have been so many years ago, was clean. I told the girls we could use that area to store our camping gear and bikes, but they insisted that we could use the bracero house in its entirety, and so began the day-long journey to clear out the living area; the bedroom of migrant farm workers and their families.
After several hauls to the city dump and several gallons of bleach that we poured on the wooden floor, the room came alive. Spiders and snakes began to appear, and that is when the rooster and hens arrived. We did not own them, nor did we purchase them in some feeble attempt to get in touch with our new lives of living in the country; they just decided to adopt us. They now had a home. The Bracero House.
Every night they would roost on the rafters, huddled together in a row as if they had been waiting years for this new home to be built. It was perfect for them. We boarded up all but two of the windows so the chickens (and my junk) would be protected from the elements, and so was born the greatest chicken coop in all of Lovington's history.
In the mornings I began throwing on an old sweatshirt and rain boots, and traipsing through the back area of my house to unlatch the door to the “chicken coop.” And every morning the hens and their rooster would cluck to let me know that, while they appreciated all of the hospitality, my presence wasn’t wanted long. I would fill up their feeder with chicken scratch that we purchased downtown at a feed store. The owner laughed when I first told him of our adoption, and knew right away that I had always been a city girl. But every month, like clockwork, we drove to his business to purchase food for our new additions. And every month, he would smile and shake his head as he loaded the feed into the trunk of my Toyota Camry.
In the meantime, Aaliyah became quite close to these farm animals. She worried on weekends we were away, and, like the rest of us, enjoyed the sound of the rooster crowing, although he did it very sporadically, and rarely at daylight. He was much like his new family, lacking a schedule and early to rise. Aaliyah took them hay when it was cold and searched for eggs when it was warm. We never found where the hens were laying, but we didn’t care because we always felt like we were just part of the family.
At two o'clock Tuesday morning I heard a loud noise outside my window. I knew that a coyote had finally found the dwelling of our friends. The chickens screamed, but there was nothing I could do. It all happened so quickly that by the time I sat up in bed, the noise had stopped. I plopped back down on my pillow and cursed the circle of life.
The next morning I continued with my regular routine; I took feed and water to the chickens, although I knew, by the strewn feathers, that I was doing so in vain. We drove to school and I simply existed. I said nothing to Aaliyah because I had yet come to terms with the event myself. In the teacher’s lounge, my neighbor asked if I was missing a chicken. He had found one lying on the road that runs beside his house. Everyone made jokes about chickens crossing the road, while I thought to myself that even the most intelligent people have no heart. I silently wondered how I would break the news to Aaliyah.
Aaliyah took the news better than I expected, but I guess subconsciously she knew one would return. And one did. She found a hen waddling in the back area behind our house that same evening. Aaliyah caught her, and found that her foot had been injured. She carefully laid her down and began doing all she knew how to do. She gathered some hay and began building a nest for the hen inside the Bracero house. She then came inside and grabbed the old sweatshirt that I had worn each morning for so many months to nourish this hen and her family. She nursed her, but even with all of her effort, it was just not meant to be.
This morning I stepped outside to take photographs of nature. Sitting on the window of the Bracero house was a lone bird, singing a lovely morning tune. I snapped a picture and walked around to unlatch the door to check on the hen. There she lay on her side on the old sweatshirt that she had seen each morning since the day she moved in. It had become her resting place. I knelt down beside her and wept. Aaliyah had been so brave and carried her around, but I had always been the feeder. Nothing more. So I reached out my hand and stroked her feathers in an attempt to feel what Aaliyah had felt. I apologized for nature’s course, and walked inside to explain to Aaliyah that her hen missed the rest of her family that much.
Life in a Tent
I live in a tent. I do not live there permanently, not physically anyway, but rather emotionally. I wish I lived in a tent. Tent life is different—it does something to you. It is a way of life that meanders into your soul, liberating you from the gravitational pull of human narcissism. It is like a good book. The kind you read but never place on a shelf. The kind you carry around for fear it might get thrown in a cardboard box, never to be touched again. It is tattered and torn and bent, and its scent is like none other. It is always intellectually stimulating. Tents are the cover of a good book. Not a hardback, for that is too rich, but rather a paperback. A tent gives minimal protection to your physical being because its job is simply to encapsulate your psyche.
I have learned a lot while lying in a tent. It is where I first became intimate with Edward Abbey and learned that Ho Chi Minh was an intelligent man of meager means. I have learned that sometimes what I have been taught is not the truth. I have learned that man lies and I have learned to accept his fate. In my tent I have been afraid, but more often I have felt safe. I have frozen in the winter winds, and I have suffocated in the Utah heat. I have slept on an army cot, air mattress, and rocks. Sleeping on rocks is what I prefer. It is a humbling experience. Many Caucasians, Asians, Arabs, Mexicans, and other humans sleep on rocks—I am no better, and so I have learned to shift often and focus on something more problematic like, for instance, the javelinas now circling my campsite. Their snorting reminds me of the gluttony consuming people these days, a topic into which I will not delve, but instead let serve as a transition into my thoughts about tent people.
For the most part, tent people are a different breed. They are an eclectic group. Of course, within the last five years, even they have become somewhat soft. Five years ago, solar showers hanging from tree limbs and fire-starter bricks were considered luxuries of camping. Today, however, I sit here wishing for ear plugs as my tent neighbors play some Zen rendition of Celine Dion on their battery operated CD player, while simultaneously cooking steaks on their less than portable grill. Too, it is becoming more and more arduous to set up a tent where the humming of a generator does not disturb the natural setting. Nylon and aluminum-alloy are being replaced more rapidly by gas-guzzling RVs and tow vehicles. Similarly, quiet soul-seeking people are being replaced by their loud thrill-seeking adversaries.
I simply want to read with only nature as background noise, but Happy Meal children are running to and fro screaming at one another as they cast stones from the river bed. I decide to cast them as characters in Karnow’s book, but I suddenly feel like the merciless emperor at Huế and I realize it is not their fault, but the aforementioned gluttony that has probably already devoured their parents. Still, I look over at my daughter collecting insects for temporary viewing, and I am thankful that she understands the concept of solitude—at least while in nature. I suppose I have not advanced enough—by monetary means anyway. I tend to be judgmental which I admit, in all reality, makes me a hypocrite. Unfortunately, I cannot overcome that feeling of detest with the current tent yuppies in their SUVs when opposite of me an old yellow school bus with “poor, young, and angry” painted on one side and “ennui” on the other has just birthed a group of tent gypsies. I can relate to their spray painted thoughts. After all, I, too, feel a sense of dissatisfaction with the world as it is today.
It is a saddening experience to have to come home to reality. I have often wondered how people who have been dependent on their tent for months at a time cope with the transition. Even after one week of living in my tent, breaking camp seems equivalent to an eviction. To exile. By then, I have become so accustomed to a lack of amenities that I almost feel guilty when I come home to a mattress and a toilet I do not share with strangers. I cannot remember a time, before today, that I did not cry at the sight of the soil where my tent has left an impression. I cannot remember a time that I did not feel a sense of envy towards the next person to claim my site. But today is different as I sit on the ground writing these words. The tears have settled in my throat causing a feeling of panic in my being. As I look around me, I see the prints of the wildlife that I sometimes fear, and I wonder if I could truly live here. I wonder. I do not cry until the mountains, once serving as my shield, leave my peripheral view and Eddie Vedder’s voice reminds me that the soul that is inside me now is like a brand new friend I will forever know.
I live in a tent. I do not live there permanently, not physically anyway. My soul lives in a tent.
I have learned a lot while lying in a tent. It is where I first became intimate with Edward Abbey and learned that Ho Chi Minh was an intelligent man of meager means. I have learned that sometimes what I have been taught is not the truth. I have learned that man lies and I have learned to accept his fate. In my tent I have been afraid, but more often I have felt safe. I have frozen in the winter winds, and I have suffocated in the Utah heat. I have slept on an army cot, air mattress, and rocks. Sleeping on rocks is what I prefer. It is a humbling experience. Many Caucasians, Asians, Arabs, Mexicans, and other humans sleep on rocks—I am no better, and so I have learned to shift often and focus on something more problematic like, for instance, the javelinas now circling my campsite. Their snorting reminds me of the gluttony consuming people these days, a topic into which I will not delve, but instead let serve as a transition into my thoughts about tent people.
For the most part, tent people are a different breed. They are an eclectic group. Of course, within the last five years, even they have become somewhat soft. Five years ago, solar showers hanging from tree limbs and fire-starter bricks were considered luxuries of camping. Today, however, I sit here wishing for ear plugs as my tent neighbors play some Zen rendition of Celine Dion on their battery operated CD player, while simultaneously cooking steaks on their less than portable grill. Too, it is becoming more and more arduous to set up a tent where the humming of a generator does not disturb the natural setting. Nylon and aluminum-alloy are being replaced more rapidly by gas-guzzling RVs and tow vehicles. Similarly, quiet soul-seeking people are being replaced by their loud thrill-seeking adversaries.
I simply want to read with only nature as background noise, but Happy Meal children are running to and fro screaming at one another as they cast stones from the river bed. I decide to cast them as characters in Karnow’s book, but I suddenly feel like the merciless emperor at Huế and I realize it is not their fault, but the aforementioned gluttony that has probably already devoured their parents. Still, I look over at my daughter collecting insects for temporary viewing, and I am thankful that she understands the concept of solitude—at least while in nature. I suppose I have not advanced enough—by monetary means anyway. I tend to be judgmental which I admit, in all reality, makes me a hypocrite. Unfortunately, I cannot overcome that feeling of detest with the current tent yuppies in their SUVs when opposite of me an old yellow school bus with “poor, young, and angry” painted on one side and “ennui” on the other has just birthed a group of tent gypsies. I can relate to their spray painted thoughts. After all, I, too, feel a sense of dissatisfaction with the world as it is today.
It is a saddening experience to have to come home to reality. I have often wondered how people who have been dependent on their tent for months at a time cope with the transition. Even after one week of living in my tent, breaking camp seems equivalent to an eviction. To exile. By then, I have become so accustomed to a lack of amenities that I almost feel guilty when I come home to a mattress and a toilet I do not share with strangers. I cannot remember a time, before today, that I did not cry at the sight of the soil where my tent has left an impression. I cannot remember a time that I did not feel a sense of envy towards the next person to claim my site. But today is different as I sit on the ground writing these words. The tears have settled in my throat causing a feeling of panic in my being. As I look around me, I see the prints of the wildlife that I sometimes fear, and I wonder if I could truly live here. I wonder. I do not cry until the mountains, once serving as my shield, leave my peripheral view and Eddie Vedder’s voice reminds me that the soul that is inside me now is like a brand new friend I will forever know.
I live in a tent. I do not live there permanently, not physically anyway. My soul lives in a tent.
Virginia: A True Fiction
After I was born, my family uprooted and moved to East Texas. The city was no place to raise a child, my dad repeatedly told my mother during one of his “moments” as my mother used to say, speaking about my father’s so-called brilliant method he used to justify all of his actions via clichés. My mother, being non-confrontational, agreed and packed our belongings into a moving truck. The home we moved into was modest and had a well-kept yard, which was identical to the picture my father had found in some family magazine to which he had subscribed the moment he saw that I was more than just two blue lines on pregnancy test. His favorite attribute of our new home was an old oak tree that divided our yard from our neighbor’s. The tree reached far beyond the roofs of its two owners, and its limbs with all of their leafy glory formed a canopy that provided shade in the summer, which saved on electricity so that I could have a college education someday (as if the savings were that astronomical). More importantly, however, was the habitat this tree became for me when I craved an escape from reality.
Why, you might ask, would I want to escape reality? My family, though not dysfunctional, was, well, lacking function, at least in a familial sense. My father worked. His life revolved around “making the world a better place to live in”--cliché--by researching, and/or trying to locate a cancer-causing agent supposedly found in crude oil. He was determined; therefore, I remained nothing more than his basis of justification. He was, you see, doing this all for me. My mother, unfortunately, remained non-confrontational--rather catatonic, so I became an introvert who frolicked about in the world of literature in search of a ‘Stepford-free’ realm. She never questioned my new existence, as she was busy with her perpetual tidying, and my father took the credit for my ability to read such fantastic novels, though he had not even the slightest idea what books I was reading.
By the time I was ten, I had traveled to Russia via Tolstoy, Ireland via Joyce, and South America via the unforgettable poetry of Pablo Neruda “Y fue a esa edad … Llego la poesia.” For it was, as Neruda said, at that age that poetry came into my life. Poetry was not, however, the words on my pages, but instead the tree’s first owner. Poetry became the words of an elderly woman who, I thought, could not have been younger than forty. I would learn later that she was closer to eighty. My visions of older people within the literature I read never exceeded the age of my neighbor, so it was at that moment that I realized, or rather my father informed me, that I was oblivious to anything beyond my imagination. Virginia was her name. Her favorite author was Daniel Defoe; she said she was a regular Moll Flanders during her youth. This confused me until I found a novel on her shelf with the same title by Mr. Defoe himself. I read the novel, and wondered immensely if that was why I never saw any pictures of children in her home, or a husband for that matter. Had she given all of her offspring away to continue her search for the next man who might provide her with better, more expensive amenities? If so, it had not worked to her advantage, obviously, because her clothes were threadbare, and her appendages were certainly not draped in gold.
In any event, Virginia, regardless of her past, or at least the past I had imagined her to have, became my confidante the summer before I entered sixth grade. My father, who said I would never “fit in with the crowd,”--cliché--if I continued to keep the company of an old woman, marched me downtown one day to join the Girl Scouts. My mother, of course, nodded sadistically in agreement. Fall approached, as did the inevitable school year, and, too, the day I would walk from door to door donned in a brown uniform with a matching woolen beret selling cookies to elderly people and parents with spoiled, already sugar-induced children. But instead of mimicking the door-to-door salesman, Virginia rescued me and purchased every box of cookies I had been tugging around in a red wagon my father had purchased in one of his memory lapses where he thought I was still three years old. Virginia did not eat the cookies, mind you, she donated them to some children’s home on the East side of town; their parents, I interpreted from Virginia’s description, were identical to mine, except theirs were gone physically, while mine were simply gone mentally.
One day in early November after school had dismissed, I jumped off of the school bus and headed straight to Virginia’s where I knew, as habit would have it, a hearty sandwich and an even heartier tale awaited me. Instead of seeing Virginia, though, I saw my father’s unusually red and glistening face. He was pointing to, what looked like, a tree devastated by a twister, and yelling at Virginia’s front door. Turns out, Virginia had taken a chain saw to the old oak tree. Well, it was not her, per se, but some “overgrown brutes.” Whoever the culprits were, my father now supposed my hopes of a real education were pretty much null and void. Ultimately, he blamed Virginia. And ultimately he moved me and my mother back to the city. I had passed the vulnerable age, and besides, my father had come to the conclusion that it did not matter where a person lived, there were crazies everywhere (referring to Virginia, of course).
Nine years later, one year after I graduated from High school and my father had died, I enrolled in a community college located in the same town where I was raised, or where I raised myself. My mother had been hoarding part of my father’s paycheck since the day I came home from the hospital, and after he passed away, asked a friend, who had been an accessory to this act of humanitarian thievery, to send the money. I guess part of her psyche was not as psychotic as I had previously assumed. It was this same year that I saw Virginia again. Her appearance had not changed much, aside from her choice of attire. Unlike her previous just-below-the-knee navy blue skirts, white button-up blouse, grey cardigan, and house slippers, she now wore a longer, more flared skirt, a kimono style blouse, and moccasins. Brown, lace-up moccasins just like the Indians wore on the picture of a bookmarker she once gave me that advertised a newly revised The Last of the Mohicans. I ran up to her and embraced the figure that had molded me with the assistance of numerous authors. Virginia did not respond, but pulled away and wandered around aimlessly until a grey-haired man hooked his arm through hers and led her away. I would later learn that this man was her son who had recently meandered back into her life after having been raised by his father.
I wrote to my mother that night and told her of my encounter with Virginia. She wrote back a week later, and enclosed in the envelope was a withdrawal slip with Virginia’s name on it that equaled my tuition. Virginia and my mother, it turns out, were in cahoots. My mother knew I was different. Not different in a negative way, but gifted. She, too, as a youth, had befriended an elderly woman who changed her life. Her hideaway was an old barn with tunnels she made from hay. The barn had burned to the ground one night, but back then, investigations were not practical, or even heard of for that matter, and so the ashes remained, as did my mother’s visions of my grandmother with soot on her face and the old lady with the smell of gasoline on her hands. Unfortunately, my mother did not have the privilege of ever acquiring a decent relationship with her father either. Her father, with whom she just could not connect regardless of her mother’s desires, forced her to marry my father; he was a “good Christian man” with the same addiction to clichés as my grandfather. Anyway, Virginia, when she had the tree cut down, had, along with my mother, an ulterior motive. She thought that she could capture my father’s attention: lose the tree, lose the one thing that I hid behind to escape my father’s presence, and gain a father/daughter relationship. My mother wanted desperately for me to have what she had lacked, and what her mother, in a fit of desperation, had tried to create. Virginia wanted to help. The three women, my grandmother, my mother, and Virginia learned that it was not always a material object--whether it is man-made or natural--that hindered relationships. Sometimes it was merely fate.
Why, you might ask, would I want to escape reality? My family, though not dysfunctional, was, well, lacking function, at least in a familial sense. My father worked. His life revolved around “making the world a better place to live in”--cliché--by researching, and/or trying to locate a cancer-causing agent supposedly found in crude oil. He was determined; therefore, I remained nothing more than his basis of justification. He was, you see, doing this all for me. My mother, unfortunately, remained non-confrontational--rather catatonic, so I became an introvert who frolicked about in the world of literature in search of a ‘Stepford-free’ realm. She never questioned my new existence, as she was busy with her perpetual tidying, and my father took the credit for my ability to read such fantastic novels, though he had not even the slightest idea what books I was reading.
By the time I was ten, I had traveled to Russia via Tolstoy, Ireland via Joyce, and South America via the unforgettable poetry of Pablo Neruda “Y fue a esa edad … Llego la poesia.” For it was, as Neruda said, at that age that poetry came into my life. Poetry was not, however, the words on my pages, but instead the tree’s first owner. Poetry became the words of an elderly woman who, I thought, could not have been younger than forty. I would learn later that she was closer to eighty. My visions of older people within the literature I read never exceeded the age of my neighbor, so it was at that moment that I realized, or rather my father informed me, that I was oblivious to anything beyond my imagination. Virginia was her name. Her favorite author was Daniel Defoe; she said she was a regular Moll Flanders during her youth. This confused me until I found a novel on her shelf with the same title by Mr. Defoe himself. I read the novel, and wondered immensely if that was why I never saw any pictures of children in her home, or a husband for that matter. Had she given all of her offspring away to continue her search for the next man who might provide her with better, more expensive amenities? If so, it had not worked to her advantage, obviously, because her clothes were threadbare, and her appendages were certainly not draped in gold.
In any event, Virginia, regardless of her past, or at least the past I had imagined her to have, became my confidante the summer before I entered sixth grade. My father, who said I would never “fit in with the crowd,”--cliché--if I continued to keep the company of an old woman, marched me downtown one day to join the Girl Scouts. My mother, of course, nodded sadistically in agreement. Fall approached, as did the inevitable school year, and, too, the day I would walk from door to door donned in a brown uniform with a matching woolen beret selling cookies to elderly people and parents with spoiled, already sugar-induced children. But instead of mimicking the door-to-door salesman, Virginia rescued me and purchased every box of cookies I had been tugging around in a red wagon my father had purchased in one of his memory lapses where he thought I was still three years old. Virginia did not eat the cookies, mind you, she donated them to some children’s home on the East side of town; their parents, I interpreted from Virginia’s description, were identical to mine, except theirs were gone physically, while mine were simply gone mentally.
One day in early November after school had dismissed, I jumped off of the school bus and headed straight to Virginia’s where I knew, as habit would have it, a hearty sandwich and an even heartier tale awaited me. Instead of seeing Virginia, though, I saw my father’s unusually red and glistening face. He was pointing to, what looked like, a tree devastated by a twister, and yelling at Virginia’s front door. Turns out, Virginia had taken a chain saw to the old oak tree. Well, it was not her, per se, but some “overgrown brutes.” Whoever the culprits were, my father now supposed my hopes of a real education were pretty much null and void. Ultimately, he blamed Virginia. And ultimately he moved me and my mother back to the city. I had passed the vulnerable age, and besides, my father had come to the conclusion that it did not matter where a person lived, there were crazies everywhere (referring to Virginia, of course).
Nine years later, one year after I graduated from High school and my father had died, I enrolled in a community college located in the same town where I was raised, or where I raised myself. My mother had been hoarding part of my father’s paycheck since the day I came home from the hospital, and after he passed away, asked a friend, who had been an accessory to this act of humanitarian thievery, to send the money. I guess part of her psyche was not as psychotic as I had previously assumed. It was this same year that I saw Virginia again. Her appearance had not changed much, aside from her choice of attire. Unlike her previous just-below-the-knee navy blue skirts, white button-up blouse, grey cardigan, and house slippers, she now wore a longer, more flared skirt, a kimono style blouse, and moccasins. Brown, lace-up moccasins just like the Indians wore on the picture of a bookmarker she once gave me that advertised a newly revised The Last of the Mohicans. I ran up to her and embraced the figure that had molded me with the assistance of numerous authors. Virginia did not respond, but pulled away and wandered around aimlessly until a grey-haired man hooked his arm through hers and led her away. I would later learn that this man was her son who had recently meandered back into her life after having been raised by his father.
I wrote to my mother that night and told her of my encounter with Virginia. She wrote back a week later, and enclosed in the envelope was a withdrawal slip with Virginia’s name on it that equaled my tuition. Virginia and my mother, it turns out, were in cahoots. My mother knew I was different. Not different in a negative way, but gifted. She, too, as a youth, had befriended an elderly woman who changed her life. Her hideaway was an old barn with tunnels she made from hay. The barn had burned to the ground one night, but back then, investigations were not practical, or even heard of for that matter, and so the ashes remained, as did my mother’s visions of my grandmother with soot on her face and the old lady with the smell of gasoline on her hands. Unfortunately, my mother did not have the privilege of ever acquiring a decent relationship with her father either. Her father, with whom she just could not connect regardless of her mother’s desires, forced her to marry my father; he was a “good Christian man” with the same addiction to clichés as my grandfather. Anyway, Virginia, when she had the tree cut down, had, along with my mother, an ulterior motive. She thought that she could capture my father’s attention: lose the tree, lose the one thing that I hid behind to escape my father’s presence, and gain a father/daughter relationship. My mother wanted desperately for me to have what she had lacked, and what her mother, in a fit of desperation, had tried to create. Virginia wanted to help. The three women, my grandmother, my mother, and Virginia learned that it was not always a material object--whether it is man-made or natural--that hindered relationships. Sometimes it was merely fate.
Soraya's Message
One week ago, a colleague approached me about a film she had recently watched. Coincidentally, I had been following a similar story via Amnesty International, with whom I have been a supporter since the moment Islamic culture became a part of my life, not on a religious level, but rather a personal one: my own daughter, Aaliyah. I was willing to watch _The Stoning of Soraya M._ mostly because, like most people I know, I am sinfully curious, but also, I desired to understand the psyche of those culprits who administer such brutal punishments as casting stones upon the “guilty.”
Needless to say, I was not surprised with the plotting and lies that led up to Soraya’s verdict; however, the slow and painful reenactment was one I almost could not bear, but still I watched it because I felt it was my duty as a woman--as a human being--to feel the pain caused by selfishness in its most wicked form. It seems almost cruel to say that the recreation was beautiful, but in all reality, beauty is not always pretty. Beauty is sometimes what is birthed from the deformities of societal blindness. It is what forces us to see beyond the safety of our own personal realm.
Societal blindness is what happens when we as a people only see the wrong-doings of far-away nations, like those whose belief systems seem to have frozen in Biblical times. It is what our media (both conservative and liberal) portrays as being one that is inhumane and like nothing we could ever fathom. It is a way of living that the majority of us judge, but sadly, one that mirrors our own in many ways.
The night I watched _The Stoning of Soraya M._ I, like my counterparts, began to curse the Islamic culture and everything for which the Mullah stands. I cursed Mankind. I cursed my daughter’s ethnicity. Then, as I sat in my bedroom analyzing the events of Soraya’s life, I had an epiphany. I realized that, in previous years, while joining and (minimally) funding organizations that reach impoverished women as far as India and the Middle East, I have been developing societal blindness. I realized that I am guilty of standing by and allowing women in my own country to be stoned, even if only symbolically.
We condemn cultures that most of us have only ever read about in National Geographic, but we have failed to see that America’s women are also at risk. Our mothers, sisters, daughters, and friends are all vulnerable to abuse. Just because women in America do not wear burkas and are allowed to drive cars, does not make them any more liberated than those women we see on television with netting across their eyes walking home with the week’s water supply upon their heads. Just because women in America suffer silent abuse because their fathers or husbands have a reputation to uphold, does not make them anymore liberated than the women whose fathers and husbands cast stones at them while the townspeople silently watch.
I cried many times that night. I cried for Soraya. I cried for her daughters. I cried for the scores of women who are abused and killed each year. Everywhere. But mostly I cried for the ignorance that is a pandemic, and one that will continue to create barbaric behaviors all over the world. For years, monetary donations appeased my subconscious, but were merely a contradiction to the problem I wanted so desperately to cure. After all, money (or the lack thereof) is often what cultivates abuse. And so I decided that it is my obligation, not as a human, not as a woman, but as a teacher, to give a minute amount of my courage, strength, and compassion to each and every young woman who walks into my classroom. It will be my belated gift to women like Soraya in lieu of the money that will never save them.
May Courage and Strength and Compassion always be a part of your content standards.
Needless to say, I was not surprised with the plotting and lies that led up to Soraya’s verdict; however, the slow and painful reenactment was one I almost could not bear, but still I watched it because I felt it was my duty as a woman--as a human being--to feel the pain caused by selfishness in its most wicked form. It seems almost cruel to say that the recreation was beautiful, but in all reality, beauty is not always pretty. Beauty is sometimes what is birthed from the deformities of societal blindness. It is what forces us to see beyond the safety of our own personal realm.
Societal blindness is what happens when we as a people only see the wrong-doings of far-away nations, like those whose belief systems seem to have frozen in Biblical times. It is what our media (both conservative and liberal) portrays as being one that is inhumane and like nothing we could ever fathom. It is a way of living that the majority of us judge, but sadly, one that mirrors our own in many ways.
The night I watched _The Stoning of Soraya M._ I, like my counterparts, began to curse the Islamic culture and everything for which the Mullah stands. I cursed Mankind. I cursed my daughter’s ethnicity. Then, as I sat in my bedroom analyzing the events of Soraya’s life, I had an epiphany. I realized that, in previous years, while joining and (minimally) funding organizations that reach impoverished women as far as India and the Middle East, I have been developing societal blindness. I realized that I am guilty of standing by and allowing women in my own country to be stoned, even if only symbolically.
We condemn cultures that most of us have only ever read about in National Geographic, but we have failed to see that America’s women are also at risk. Our mothers, sisters, daughters, and friends are all vulnerable to abuse. Just because women in America do not wear burkas and are allowed to drive cars, does not make them any more liberated than those women we see on television with netting across their eyes walking home with the week’s water supply upon their heads. Just because women in America suffer silent abuse because their fathers or husbands have a reputation to uphold, does not make them anymore liberated than the women whose fathers and husbands cast stones at them while the townspeople silently watch.
I cried many times that night. I cried for Soraya. I cried for her daughters. I cried for the scores of women who are abused and killed each year. Everywhere. But mostly I cried for the ignorance that is a pandemic, and one that will continue to create barbaric behaviors all over the world. For years, monetary donations appeased my subconscious, but were merely a contradiction to the problem I wanted so desperately to cure. After all, money (or the lack thereof) is often what cultivates abuse. And so I decided that it is my obligation, not as a human, not as a woman, but as a teacher, to give a minute amount of my courage, strength, and compassion to each and every young woman who walks into my classroom. It will be my belated gift to women like Soraya in lieu of the money that will never save them.
May Courage and Strength and Compassion always be a part of your content standards.
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