A Colorblind Society

I was swimming today at a lake in a state park near me with my godson and goddaughter and their aunt, one of my best friends. There were two busloads of kids from a YMCA swimming as well. I'm not sure where they were from, but probably a bigger city somewhere near here. The kids were being quite rowdy, and my six-year-old godson--we'll call him Ned--had a few pails of water dumped on him and a couple narrow misses with various limbs coming close to his head. So my friend called him and the other kids with us over to where we were and told them they had to stay near us until the rowdy kids left. And Ned, with the innocence of a small-town six-year-old, asked, "You mean until the brown kids leave?"

A majority of the kids from the YMCA were African American, which in our small town is uncommon, so I guess he knew they were different somehow. His question wasn't malicious or angry. He had probably heard himself referred to as "white," so in his head it made sense to call them brown. Of course we told him that wasn't what we called them; they're just kids like you. But, while his innocence was sort of amusing at first, the more I watched him and thought about it, the more it saddened me. Ned is a smart kid, and I could see him processing this new information in his head, where it would surely leave an indelible mark: "Dark-skinned people are different from me. They're rowdy and I shouldn't play with them."

Now I'm not saying that I think he'll turn into a malicious racist or anything like that; his family will raise him better than that. But it does make me wonder if we'll ever live in a color-blind world. It seems like a pretty far reach to hope so. Sure, it's gotten better since the fifties and sixties, but there are still cultural and ethnic differences that are apparent even to a six-year-old. I don't know if it's better or worse in bigger cities where there may or may not be more integration. But in small towns, it seems pretty universal: there is a stigma attached to being different from everyone else.  In my high school class there was one African American. And he was adopted by a white mother. People keep their distance when someone different comes to town. They're wary and uncomfortable. 

And it makes me sad. "A person's a person, no matter how small," says Dr. Seuss, probably one of the wisest men of my childhood. Of course "small" is interchangeable with any number of words, including "color" or "race" or "religion" or "wealth." In society's eyes, I'm lucky that I was born into a Caucasian, middle-class family. And to me, that's all it is, is luck. I'm no better or worse than anyone else. But despite my efforts to look past race, I'm not always successful. Like Ned, there are certain stereotypes that are so ingrained in me, I don't even realize they exist until something brings it up, and I'm forced to confront that little bit of ugliness in me. To bring up another of America's wisest men, Stephen Colbert frequently claims he can't see race. "They're all just people."

If only that was possible for all of us.

Why I'm Not Ready for Marriage

This post is inspired by the five or six friends of mine who have gotten hitched this summer. I'm very happy for all of them, however it has made me acutely aware of how much the thought of marriage at this point in my life is completely alien and disconcerting.

He's actually kind of creepy...

Reason 1: I don't have a man.

Duh. I suppose if I was desperately in love with someone, and they completed me and made me whole and I couldn't imagine life without them things would be different. As it is, this is not the case. In fact, that whole concept strikes me as odd, because I feel quite whole as I am, thank you very much. Even if I did have a man, though, I would not necessarily be ready for marriage. It's probably best that I'm not committed to anyone at the moment. It takes away any pressure that might possibly be there from the guy himself, parents, grandparents, etc. (Not that I think my family would pressure me, just the assumption that this might be THE ONE would be enough to make me reconsider doing things that I might otherwise just go ahead with.)

Reason 2: I may just jet off to England someday soon.

Especially if Sarah Palin even comes close to inhabiting the White House again. But seriously, I want the ability travel and do whatever I want right now. I've been dealing with a traveler's bug like no other the last few weeks, probably exacerbated by living in middle-of-nowhere-PA for so long. Don't get me wrong, I love this place in its own way, but I'm not ready to settle down here for the long haul. I want to get out and explore a bit. (Mom - Don't worry, I'll at least wait until Michael comes home. :p)

Um, no.

Reason 3: I am only mildly domestic.

I told my mom today that she and Dad have probably spoiled my expectations for marriage. I come from a home in which men can and like to cook. My dad is a great cook, as are both of my brothers. It only struck me a couple weeks ago that not all homes are like this. Now, I don't consider myself overly feministic, but I also don't plan to revert to the 40s and 50s either. A man can and should help out around the house. Gender roles be damned. I don't buy into the idea that God created woman to serve man. Sorry, but no. Ours will be an equal-opportunity household. I.e. the Mr. will have plenty of opportunities to change diapers and wash dishes. Especially if I'm working outside the home as well, which seems to be more and more the norm these days.

Don't get me wrong, I like to cook and have no problem doing that. I even like to clean (in intense and random bursts of what I call binge-cleaning). Living with male roommates for a year taught me that I have a latent clean freak hidden in me somewhere.

And what if it turned out to be evil??

Reason 4: I want kids in my life, just not my own.

Someday I definitely want children. No question about it. I can already feel the biological clock beginning to whir and stir. BUT right now I'm content to hold them, play with them, then give them back after a couple hours. Children are fascinating and adorable and wonderful...and exhausting. I guess getting married doesn't necessarily mean the babies start coming immediately, but that's the next step; one I'm nowhere near ready to take.

Reason 5: I have a lot of ME to discover still.

This is probably the biggest factor in my marital immaturity. I have a lot to discover and find out about myself still. Lots of questions to ask, opinions to form, beliefs to iron out. College turned over a whole new leaf for me, and I'm still trying to figure out where exactly that's leading me. It seems rather risky to commit my life to someone, when I'm not even sure where I'm headed or how I'm going to go about getting there.


Alright, I think five reasons are enough for now. Besides, I keep getting distracted by a beautiful yellow butterfly flitting about under the clear blue sky of a summer afternoon. See I do love this place...sometimes.

Toy Story 3

I've gotten a lot accomplished so far today, so I'm pushing on and including a long-overdue blog post in my spurt of productivity. The question is, what do I want to write about? I have a number of topics saved up that I just never seemed to get around to. I'm feel in the mood for something happy and nostalgic at the moment, though, so I'll go with what I deem the best movie I've seen in a very long time. Toy Story 3.

*SPOILER ALERT*

I am fully aware that some of you may be very skeptical about my taste in movies at this point. But this is my own personal opinion and based solely on my emotions and whims. So I'm not interested in arguing about plot or anything like that. I went to see Toy Story 3 a few weeks ago with my mom. I figured that it would be cute and fun, as I had always enjoyed the first two films. In fact I even went back and watched the first two with friends the night before, just to get in the spirit and remind myself what happened in them. What I forgot about was how the Toy Story movies are every bit as enjoyable for adults as they are for kids. There are a number of jokes that are definitely aimed at the parents in the crowd--jokes that I didn't get or even recognize as jokes when I was ten or eleven.

Toy Story 3 did not disappoint in this department. In fact, I think that of the three, the third movie is most geared toward adults. Sure, kids will enjoy the adventures Woody and Buzz have as they try to escape from Lotso, the pink, strawberry-scented bear. But the brunt of the movie, the real core is about growing up. Andy is going to college and leaving behind his toys, his childhood best friends. It's heart-wrenching to watch the abandonment Buzz and the others feel when they think Andy is throwing them out, disregarding all of their history together for something newer and more exciting. We've all been left behind before, whether it be by siblings or friends or significant others.

The thing that makes the Toy Story movies so successful is that they are universal. The premise behind the movies, that your toys come alive when you leave the room, is something I think every little kid believes is true for some amount of time. I know I did. My toys were alive to me. They had stories, backgrounds, likes and dislikes. They loved me, and I loved them. Watching this fantasy come to life on screen draws you in; it takes you back to your own childhood.

There is one scene in particular, where Andy's playtime is illustrated as a child would see it while playing. Everything becomes real. Evil Mr. Porkchop is trying to take over the world with his Barrel O' Monkeys minions and Sheriff Woody and Ranger Buzz have to save the day. It is so perfectly imaginative. I can't get over it. One of my goals in writing is to recapture the child's imagination, because  to me it is one of the most incredible, fascinating things ever. Toy Story has done that. Three times. And it's gotten better every time, in my opinion.

So all of this combined makes the final scene in Toy Story 3 one of the most emotional scenes in a movie I have ever experienced. It had me in tears. And I don't cry during movies. I honestly cannot think of another movie that I've actually cried in. Teared up, maybe, but no rolling tears. It ends with Andy finding the toys that his mother accidentally donated just as he is about to leave for college. And there is a note (written by Woody) telling him about a little girl who lives around the block. So he takes his toys and makes the little girl promise to take good care of them for him. And he has one last playtime session. You can feel the love and reconnection well up in every single heart in the theater, watching Andy play with his toys one last time. It's not something I can get across in words. I strongly recommend that you go and see it for yourself if you haven't already.

It may not have been made for 3D or visually amazing, but it was emotionally outstanding. And I know I'm not alone. A 99% score on rottentomatoes.com is not something to be scoffed at.  All I know for sure is that when I got home that night, I went into my closet and checked on my old friends--Baby Susie, Pink Bear, Samantha and Megan, and all the rest. And I reassured them that I still loved them. And I always would.

I Feel Home

Becca reprimanded me for not posting anything recently. So here is something small. These are the lyrics to one of my favorite songs at the moment. "I Feel Home" by O.A.R. I'm mildly obsessed with the band, and every time this song comes up, it makes me smile. So here are the lyrics, and I suggest you find the song and listen to it at some point.

There are few things pure in this world anymore,
and home is one of the few.
We'd have a drink outside,
maybe run and hide if we saw a couple men in blue.
To me it's so damn easy to see
that true people are the people at home.
Well, I've been away but now I'm back today,
and there ain't a place I'd rather go.
I feel home,
when I see the faces that remember my own.
I feel home,
when I'm chilling outside with the people I know.
I feel home,
and that's just what I feel.
Home to me is reality,
and all I need is something real.

Feeling alright, heading out tonight,
maybe out to a dark driveway.
I say now some feel bored,
and some are looking for more.
Well, we all just decide to stay.
We got nothing to do,
and I look at you
I see something that I know and love.
and with the crack of a smile we all stay a while
we know from home there ain't nothing above.

Well in the end we can all call a friend
well that's something I know as true.
And then a thousand years and a thousand tears
I'll come finding my original crew

cause to me throughout eternity
there's somewhere where you're welcome to go
I said it's something free that means a lot to me
when I'm with my friends I feel home.

I feel home,
when I see the faces that remember my own
I feel home,
when I'm chilling outside with the people I know.
I feel home,
and that's just what I feel.
Home to me is reality,
and all I need something real
Home to me is reality,
and all I need something real

I feel home.

Altered State of Mind.

It occurs to me that many of the world's most influential writers were alcoholics, drug addicts, or severely depressed. I've even been told that in order to succeed in the writing field these conditions are prerequisites.  I wonder if this is true. These three conditions have something in common. All three involve a sort of hypersensitivity. An understanding of the state of consciousness that cannot be reached by the sane, sober self. (I must admit I've never been on drugs, but I understand from others that this is the case.) There is a complete focus on every thought and every notion. One picks up on things that might otherwise be overlooked, assumed stupid and unimportant. But isn't this what most of the great writers focus on? The seemingly silly and unimportant things, which experienced at a different level are actually highly interesting and remarkable?

The questions of motivation--why we do things--are suddenly obvious. Completely obvious and no longer complicated by the excuses of the sane. Every motivation is clear and obvious. We are at peace with our base selves. Or if not at peace, we at least admit their existence--the fact that it is impossible to ignore the most embarrassing faults of our inner selves. They are real and unavoidable.

I'm not saying that I want to be an alcoholic, drug addict, or severely depressed. But I do think that they are interesting states of being. And perhaps more in tune with the desires and thoughts that drive us on a deep level. Thus they are what make us think and consider on the basest level of sobriety.

Oh, Summer Days

I went biking in the PA Grand Canyon today. It's one of my favorite places to be, to tell you the truth. Especially at this time of year, when tourist season is still in its beginning stages and the trail is still a little rutted from the winter, discouraging the tourists who are around from going too far. My friend Heather was with me: just the two of us. We rode in silence for most of the trip, only stopping once to watch a doe bent over drinking in the middle of the river. I couldn't help but revel in the memories that flowed along like the river next to me.

A good portion of my high school and college summers were spent at the canyon. There was a group of five or six of us who would go every week or so, as often as we could. Given the small town we lived in, it was one of the few places we could go to just hang out, and we often had it to ourselves. I would make the rounds, picking up various friends along the way (I had my dad's SUV and a bike rack, making me automatic designated driver). We almost always unloaded in the Darling Run vicinity and biked to the bottom of the Turkey Path, where there was prime access to the river (because, let's be honest, playing in the water was really the highlight of the trip). 

As I rode along today, I remembered many games of bike tag, usually started out of the blue and wavered on and off as we rode, the best strategy being to ride along until everyone forget who was it and sneaking up behind someone. No tag-backs, of course. I recalled the year three of us came in March, anxious to get the summer underway, only to find snow still covering the trail. Biking in snow, let me tell you, is extremely difficult, but makes for some great stories. Certain places reminded me of one accident-prone friend who always brought a first aid kit with him, just in case he skidded out on the gravel or managed to fly over his handle bars in one way or another. And of course the summer nights after a canyon trip: rinsing off in Catherine's pool and inevitably running around the perimeter until we had created a whirlpool, hunting for raspberries on Casey's property, a bonfire at my house, or lying in someone's yard on the sleeping bags we kept in our cars all summer, watching for shooting stars.

But the most vivid memories were more centered on what summer meant back then: our first tastes of freedom, late nights, and true friends of the opposite sex. The sticky red flush of skin under the hot sun; the salty smell of sweat mingling with the pungent odors of bug repellent and Coppertone Sport; the warm yet strangely refreshing breeze in our faces. The inevitable ache in butt, legs, and arms after a winter away from bikes and hiking. Dust, earth, the occasional rotting fish. Everything that makes summer the most magical season for kids and teens alike.

The friendships that came about as a result of those summer canyon trips are still some of my strongest and most treasured relationships. I'll never forget the boys struggling along with the red Radio Flyer wagon rigged up to the back of their bikes, carrying a picnic lunch we ate on a large rock in the middle of the Turkey Path waterfall. "Yellow Submarine" will always reserve a special place in my heart for the summer we found a plastic yellow submarine floating in the river. Rocks piled high in the middle of a river will send a shiver of dread through my spine as my mind's eye watches a friend narrowly avoid being hit by a tumbling tower of rocks he built.

Even though it was just Heather and me this time, and the bottom of the Turkey Path was swarming with pesky flies so we couldn't stand to stay too long, I feel as though my summer has finally, really begun. And that makes me indescribably happy.

Jump

There's a time in everyone's life that comes just as you're about to embark on a new project or journey. You can't wait to get started, but at the same time you're just not totally into it yet. You find yourself holding back, unsure of how to start. It doesn't matter how many times you remind yourself that it's easy: you just have to take that first step, and you'll be fine from there. Sometimes you can make yourself do it; close your eyes, plug your nose, and plunge into the cold waters of uncertainty. Other times you need someone else to push you, assuring you that they're there to catch you just in case you need some help. It's a very frustrating place to be. You're excited, anxious, ready, and uncertain all at the same time. You know in your heart that somehow you're going to get into that water. It's just a matter of how long you stand there trying to convince yourself to just get it over with, so you can move on and have fun. Sometimes it's just so much easier if someone comes up behind you and pushes you with no warning and no chance to look back. You may have to fight your way up for a little while, but in the end things will calm down, and you'll be in a better place.

And you know this. But you still can't bring yourself to jump.