intramuralist ™

I am white.  I don’t like being labelled white or even Caucasian. But because I’m in the race majority for the time being (though this is supposed to change sometime in the next fifteen years and whites will be in the minority), I carry a burden. In the U.S. we still have never made it past the race issue.  When my forbears came to this country in the early 1900’s, they were labeled dumb Pollacks. That wasn’t nice; the Polish worked hard, taking menial labor in the coal mines and working three jobs to make life easier for their children.

This is where I get upset.  I’m trying to be respectful since I am a guest of AR. I don’t understand why black people (and hey, I have two half black nephews, so I am not racist) are frequently changing what white people are supposed to call them. Colored? Not anymore. African American? The label du jour. But I know a lot of black people who are not from Africa and they resent the label. Asians don’t seem to be too upset about being called…. Asian.  Native Americans used to be Indians, but I don’t get the same sense of them having a chip on their shoulder about being or being called Native Americans.  Hispanics?  They deal with their label, too.

Where am I going with this? Well, as a white person, I wonder why African Americans have their own television network and awards program. When whites become the minority in the U.S. — and in 2012 white babies born in the U.S were in the minority, and whites are projected to be in the minority by 2043 — I don’t think we will have the white equivalent of the NAACP. I don’t foresee whites getting that coveted college scholarship or reduction in tuition because they will be the minority. The Hispanics do have their own TV shows, but I don’t see them pushing their agenda, which is equality, I think. Maybe superiority?  I don’t know.

Because, if you ask me, we are all equal.  All races.  We now have a black president.  I never voted based on race, so the black president thing isn’t about Obama being half white and half black. But a lot of people make it about that very thing.  Which then diminishes the equality of the situation.

I didn’t like when Obama chimed in about the George Zimmerman trial saying Trayvon was an African American (true) killed by a white person (not true). Zimmerman is half Hispanic. There they go again, making it about race. It isn’t. If I see a white teen walking around with his hoodie pulled up, a part of me becomes watchful. He could be any color and my guard might go up. To me, this was not about race.  But some made it about race… again.

One more thing.  If black people ever say they want reparations for their ancestors being slaves, I am opting out.  I didn’t have a slave. My ancestors didn’t have slaves either. They were dirt poor, eking out an existence in Eastern Europe.  Which is why they made the trip to America. If anything, I want reparations for my ancestors being labeled dumb and being treated like dirt. That hurts me that my forebears were labeled and treated poorly by other people’s ancestors in America.

See where this leads? To craziness. Race is not an issue anymore.  Black people are afforded the same opportunities as any other race in America.  We all have to work hard and grasp for that brass ring if we want to make it here. So please, stop talking about race and start exerting your energies toward making your world better. But if we’re going to continue this tedious discussion about race and what different races need and demand, then you need to call me what I am.  An Eastern European American.

Here’s to not having to check a box on forms stating our race. Here’s to equality for all.

Thanks for listening.

Respectfully,

DEE

When my daughter was barely 2 yrs old, she took off at her best toddling speed on an unfortunately gravelly path.  Before her grandmother could catch her, she had tumbled face forward.  Shaken to see her innocent face smeared with blood, dirt & tears, I was quickly summoned.  As I held her to assess the damage, her little hands tried to rub away the pain of an open gash between her upper lip & her nose.

Too eager to play to get fully cleaned up from dinner before the frolicking began, reflex now sent her hands to the wound, grimy with dirt and remains of spaghetti sauce.

Other than not being able to prevent this pain in the first place, the most difficult thing for me was having to gently pry her little hands away from the injury.  I tried to explain as best I could in two year old terms that we needed to clean the wound & not to hurt it more.  I secured her arms as she bravely allowed the nurse to disinfect the area & apply a “butterfly” bandage.  Tears finally stalled when she saw her face with the butterfly “mustache” in the mirror.  Amused, she smiled at herself, which stretched at the gap above her lip, re-activating the pain, beginning the crying & hand restraint all over again.

As difficult as that was, I sensed God speaking to me & showing me a lesson in it.

Like a download of understanding, I could sense His compassion toward me, toward us, His kids.  I saw how I had been the child, hurting & trying with my own inadequate hands to fix my pain, often exposing myself to more injury & infection.  Less trusting than my daughter had been, I had even flailed out, hurting others in my attempts to “help” myself.

I saw His constraining love as a parent. Suddenly I could appreciate the necessity of Him asking of me what I might be too limited to comprehend in this earthly realm; to trust Him in the process beyond my natural impulse to fix things according to my own understanding.

Born this side of heaven while made for glorious eternity, life can seem unfair.  My biggest battles seem to be curbing my childish attempts to manage my own impulses… anger, selfishness, envy, pride, lust, gluttony… Thankfully, even through the pain I have caused myself & others, His longsuffering nature still beckons me to return my focus to Him.  The more times I opt to be still, look to Him, & wait to see Him work, His healing comes to my body & soul.  His purposes become more & more clear.

A dozen years later after the incident, my daughter is left with little more than a small scar that I see as a “beauty mark” above her lip.  This & many other scars in my own life remind me of the understanding I received in those moments, the message He has now, several times over, written on me.  I am getting more used to being still & allowing Him to comfort & secure me.  He has cleaned & dressed many wounds in me, & drawn my sight to a higher place from which to see the healing taking place, to see Him work.  I am beginning to see His reflection, a new creation, the new me! …With some beautiful scars, & stories of healing to tell…

Respectfully,

RMH

My grandma owned a tiny neighborhood grocery store in the hills of the Allegheny mountains, and I loved to visit during those long unhurried days of summer. My grandfather had died when my mom was ten, so it fell to my grandma to keep the family afloat financially and she opened up and ran that store for almost thirty years. I found her store fascinating; she sold penny candy, Hershey’s ice cream, soda pop by the bottle and neighbors would stop in to pick up the newspaper and milk and sit down at her counter for a chat. I perched on a stool at the far end of that long burnished wood counter and half-listened to their conversations, and when I grew bored, I went outside to find a cousin or a book to read while perched in a tree.

To me times were simple. T.V. was generally boring, since we only had three stations and if you were lucky, you had cartoons on a Saturday morning. A house had one or two telephones that ate money if you wanted to call anyone long-distance, so you can be sure my mom wasn’t checking on me every day. Fast food had not made its way to my grandma’s town, so you couldn’t rush off to grab a burger and fries. If I wanted some greasy food — and what kid doesn’t — I trundled up the stairs to my aunt’s kitchen and she happily fried chicken and french fries (just peeled) in Crisco.  I woke in the mornings to my Uncle John sitting at my grandma’s table for a cup of coffee before heading to work, and I fell asleep with windows opened wide to catch the lilac-scented breezes and the ghost stories grandma could conjure up.

Did I ever get bored?  Yes, all the time, but I knew better than to say it, for the moment a kid claimed boredom, they were handed a chore or two, since there were always dishes to wash or dusting or weeding to do.

My mom and grandma would hang the clothes out on the clothesline to dry and the crackle and fresh smell of the sheets could not be matched by any fabric softener’s scent. Before the fitness craze obsessed the nation, we would take hike up the mountain to pick flowers and put them on grandpa’s grave, and I suppose much of the outdoors work and even inside cleaning burned a bunch of calories. I don’t recall things being sanitized to death, so we didn’t feel as if the house had to be party perfect before a neighbor could venture over for a cup of coffee or dinner. And the entertainment back then rivaled “The Voice.” Someone would drift over to the piano and start playing requests (and no matter where you went, a person could play), and others would start singing. And on my grandma’s house wide porch? I would swing out there, transfixed by the lightning bugs and sing, oblivious to any listening ears.

I’m not saying I’m averse to clothes dryers and dishwashers and computers or cable TV. I just wish there were a balance between the ways things used to be and today; a melding of the best of both worlds. I suppose it’s natural to look back at your childhood and think it was great, but I’m striving for more here. Do we lead balanced lives? Are we endlessly rushing around? Do we need to be relentlessly entertained? Or do our kids have to be blissed out happy most of the time? I’m not pointing fingers for the blame lies at my doorstep (albeit neatly swept), also.

I give in and let my kid play video games not only on the Xbox now but on his phone. I have over 800 Facebook friends, and let’s face it, no one can possibly keep up with that many people. I skim through the cable listings and proclaim that nothing is on. But I love my Swiffer; it’s much easier than a mop, and fast food saves me at least twice a week. So what gives? Why do I wait for vacation to unplug and reconnect with my family? Why do I make these to do lists that read like something off of Pinterest? I want to make homemade strawberry jam.  I want to make it from the berries that I picked from the field. I want to sit out on our new patio on these warm summer evenings rather than wilt away in the air conditioned comfort of my house. But I don’t seem to quite make it.  The days fill up with carpools and errand running and really running (for fitness sake) and before I know it, the day is gone.

I’m using this as a sort of therapy session for me, and I hope it helps you. I think making boundaries around our time is a good idea. Setting aside some time for reflection and daydreaming makes sense. A woman told me last week how she took a walk outside in her new neighborhood filled with beautiful yards and no one was out. She asked me where everyone was. Inside? I don’t know about you, but something about fresh air and outside makes me feel better if not good. Should we stroll out of our comfort zones? Try connecting in a meaningful way with someone else. Not in a quickly worded email or post, but over coffee or on the phone, and not while we pass away the time driving. Sit down in your favorite chair and focus on the talk. The difference is noticeable.

Thanks for letting me sort this out. I wish I could hear what you remember from “back then.” What do you miss that you want to recreate in your life now? Me? I would find a house with a big porch swing and watch the fireflies before autumn closes in. And maybe sing a little, too.

Respectfully,

DEP

If you read The Intramuralist often, you know she has a voice that is passionate about the need to listen… to be respectful… to be non-judgmental.  Perhaps she inherited some of her grandfather’s DNA, for without the benefit of Facebook, he lived the same passion, face-to-face instead.  Let me introduce you to this Listener.

In a small town there are two people who “know the scoop” about what is happening when, where, and with whom.  No, it is not that they gossip. Rather, they offer a listening ear and closed mouth to their clientele.  They are encouragers, not judges.  So despite the qualifications of the two local pastors in the Minnesota town of my upbringing, Archie, the barber, and Herb, the bartender, were the confidantes, though they never hung out their shingles.  Herb was my dad, and since people drink a beer more often than they get a haircut, he “worked” overtime.

Now I can’t say that as a teen, I was particularly impressed when a customer came in for the coffee I served, but seemed more interested in conversation with my dad in the corner booth.  I knew Dad enjoyed people, and I just passed it off as his friendly attitude.  There was Blanch who needed to join AA, Hank who lost his job, and Herman who was depressed.  But then I discovered friends of mine came to see him too… Jo who was heartbroken over Bob’s rejection, Eddie who was leaving for the Army, Merle who felt she was a disappointment to her parents.  Even after I left for college, they still came to see him.  They sent him cards when they traveled; they called just to say hello; they brought their new spouse to meet him; they came to call at his funeral. With more maturity, I came to realize that Dad knew the importance of people.  His concern and interest were authentic.  His insights wise.  He could be trusted with what was entrusted to him.  He knew love listens.   Would we all seek to listen as my dad?  … and his granddaughter… listening that is respectful and non-judgmental.

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And oh yes, the pastors came to see him too… knocking at the back door to visit… and knowing they could buy a six-pack without anyone else knowing.

Thanks, Intramuralist, for the opportunity to share.

Respectfully,

DDL