Today, Juneteenth commemorates African American freedom and emphasizes education and achievement. It is the oldest nationally celebrated commemoration of the ending of slavery in the United States. On this day, this week, and in some areas, this month, there will be celebrations of family gatherings, picnics, or events with guest speakers.
The celebration originated in Galveston, Texas in 1865. Since then, the observance of June 19th as the African American Emancipation Day has spread across the United States and beyond. It is even celebrated in France by the many expatriates living abroad as a way of connecting with their American heritage. But like most anything, the celebration looses something in the translation. Sometimes that ‘’something’’ is charming, and sometimes, well, unintentionally hilarious.
A few years back I attended a Junteenth event at the American Church on the left bank in Paris, France. The church is a place where many American families get together in an effort to find comfort in a very foreign city. And in recent years, many French people began attending the event in order to learn more about Junteenth and the members of the African American community who lived there.
The audience of attendees where from all over the world, and the participants who were not American were predominantly African or Arab youth who loved Hip-Hop music. While many did not speak English, they still loved the energy they found in rap music. Everyone was encouraged to participate and many of the speakers came from the American Civil Rights movement and either lived in Paris, or came specifically for this event.
The atmosphere was generally conservative as the church was located in a high-rent district with many wealthy patrons in attendance. The theme for this day was ‘’Tolerance’’ and many of the elder members were happy to let the ‘’young’’ people have a moment for the American music they loved.
I marveled at the eloquent speeches made and the passion their stories stirred in the audience. The number of young African and Arab teenagers who were there to participate also touched me. I spoke to two girls; both dressed in colorful clothing, who were about to perform a dance number for the standing-room-only crowd. Neither spoke a word of English, but they were so excited about dancing to American rap. I asked them what song they had selected for the performance. It was a song I hadn’t heard. But the title, which included many expletives and a couple of derogatory terms for women, didn’t seem to fit the agenda.
I put the CD in the player and listened to the lyrics. Both girls began moving their bodies to the rhythm and smiling at one another until they saw the horrified look on my face. ‘’What’s wrong?’’ one of the girls asked. ‘’Do you have any idea what these lyrics are?’’ I said. They didn’t. So, I explained, much to their horror that the words were anything but ‘’uplifting,’’ particularly for women and men of conscious. They stood there, ashen. I quickly explained that this was called ‘’Gansta Rap’’ and that it was a depiction of a certain type of inner city expression in my country. ‘’We can’t dance to this in this church!’’ they both said in unison, and riffled through their bags for another disc. A woman standing in the doorway motioned me to return to my seat. It was time for the next performers to go onstage.
I made my way back to the middle aisle and sat frozen waiting for those two lovely girls to take their place on the stage. The last speaker introduced the sisters who walked out in their brightly colored outfits. They stood center stage, facing each other waiting for the music to begin. My stomach knotted as the lights slowly dimmed. Then the music started ‘’I got sunshine, on a cloudy day. When it’s cold outside, I got the month of May.’’ The Temptations belted out ‘’My Girl’’ while the girls did their best hip-hop moves. The audience scratched their collective heads at the choice of music, but ultimately thought it was ‘’cute.’’ I, on the other hand, thought it hilarious. At the end of the performance, the baffled crowd gave them a standing ovation, and I went back to their dressing room to give them both a hug.
As I was leaving, I noticed that one of the girls had a book in her purse about ‘’Junteenth’’ that was written in French. I asked them if they were going to be performing here next year. Yes, they were. So, we took a Metro to the nearest bookshop to get a couple of French language books on the history of Rap in America.
19 June 2007
Punto Finale
Boy that last episode of the Sopranos has really divided the shows' fans into two camps; the ‘’We Hate David Chase, Forever!’’ camp, and ‘’This Guy is Bloody Brilliant!’’ side. I have even read that some people are thinking of punishing HBO by canceling their service. Hmm, so this is what happens in a culture where ‘’closure’’ seems to be our birthright? Therefore, after receiving a number of emails from friends who felt cheated after spending 8 years with a man whose behavior, they ‘’tolerated’’ and became fond of, but who did not have to answer for his sins in a way deemed satisfying. It seems clear to me that they not only were out for blood, they wanted to view the body.
I find it interesting that ‘’we,’’ by this I mean the loyal viewers of The Sopranos, may find it difficult to accept that we have all been accepting of Tony’s sociopath behavior since the first episode. And, only now in the last series do we voice our displeasure in his inability to change because we want so desperately to believe that we ourselves were not simply enjoying his exploits vicariously. There is not one character on this brilliantly written program that has not been living in denial from the beginning. Yet, we not only knew them all intimately, we saw the ‘’human’’ side of them and chose to focus on that aspect. We the viewers lived in denial right along side our favorite characters. The fact that many of us even had ‘’favorite’’ characters of the killers-among-us crew is testimony to our ability to compartmentalize the things we need and discard those things that do not please.
So then, why is it that many are frustrated or surprised that a character like Tony, who has rarely accepted any responsibility for his actions throughout the 86 episodes, had learned little from his life in the last episode? He has never had to. There was always his crew there, and we the viewers, to help him justify his actions. Everything in Tony’s life that pushed him towards looking at himself in the mirror was someone else’s fault. It was his mother’s fault, or his father’s, or Carmela, A.J. or Meadow’s, or even the Fed’s. And, anyone looking for a ‘’glimmer’’ of insight on the part of Tony, could find it in his comment to Dr. Melfi about his mother, ‘’I think our mothers are the ‘buses’ that we ride into this world, but we are meant to get off and let them go on their own journey, instead of spending the rest of our lives trying to get back on.’’ You see? All those years in therapy did actually produce some insight. That was a very deep and insightful comment that, at least in my eyes, made me feel that his therapy did end up doing some good. Albeit, it took some years to get here, but then time flies when you are in the ‘’Waste Management’’ business.
Some viewers have called Chase a ‘’coward’’ for being unable to give us a Godfather-like death in a hail of bullets. However, I think that David Chase showed remarkable bravery in ending his series the way he did. Far from being a coward being unable to kill off his character in order to satisfy the viewers’ need for ‘’closure’’, or worse, making secret movie deals in exchange for suitcases filled with cash, He forced us to look at our own vicarious adrenalin-lust in living life through the eyes of a ‘’killer’’ like Tony. For the first very real time, Chase, in the last few minutes of the last episode, made us all feel, really feel, what it must be like to live a life of ‘’looking over your shoulder’’ and not knowing exactly when the plug may be pulled.
And in essence, we the viewers had been coddled by the a safe distance of our TV screens into enjoying 8 years of voyeuristic sex, drugs, and revenge killings that had us rooting for Tony to survive. Last night we all wanted Tony to pay the ultimate price for our guilty pleasure so that we could go to bed feeling that, yes, a bad man will have to pay for his sins someday, but not us for enjoying the ride. Well, last night, David Chase held us all accountable and we got to suffer the shock of having ‘’our’’ plug pulled right along side Tony’s. And it was not what we expected.
I find it interesting that ‘’we,’’ by this I mean the loyal viewers of The Sopranos, may find it difficult to accept that we have all been accepting of Tony’s sociopath behavior since the first episode. And, only now in the last series do we voice our displeasure in his inability to change because we want so desperately to believe that we ourselves were not simply enjoying his exploits vicariously. There is not one character on this brilliantly written program that has not been living in denial from the beginning. Yet, we not only knew them all intimately, we saw the ‘’human’’ side of them and chose to focus on that aspect. We the viewers lived in denial right along side our favorite characters. The fact that many of us even had ‘’favorite’’ characters of the killers-among-us crew is testimony to our ability to compartmentalize the things we need and discard those things that do not please.
So then, why is it that many are frustrated or surprised that a character like Tony, who has rarely accepted any responsibility for his actions throughout the 86 episodes, had learned little from his life in the last episode? He has never had to. There was always his crew there, and we the viewers, to help him justify his actions. Everything in Tony’s life that pushed him towards looking at himself in the mirror was someone else’s fault. It was his mother’s fault, or his father’s, or Carmela, A.J. or Meadow’s, or even the Fed’s. And, anyone looking for a ‘’glimmer’’ of insight on the part of Tony, could find it in his comment to Dr. Melfi about his mother, ‘’I think our mothers are the ‘buses’ that we ride into this world, but we are meant to get off and let them go on their own journey, instead of spending the rest of our lives trying to get back on.’’ You see? All those years in therapy did actually produce some insight. That was a very deep and insightful comment that, at least in my eyes, made me feel that his therapy did end up doing some good. Albeit, it took some years to get here, but then time flies when you are in the ‘’Waste Management’’ business.
Some viewers have called Chase a ‘’coward’’ for being unable to give us a Godfather-like death in a hail of bullets. However, I think that David Chase showed remarkable bravery in ending his series the way he did. Far from being a coward being unable to kill off his character in order to satisfy the viewers’ need for ‘’closure’’, or worse, making secret movie deals in exchange for suitcases filled with cash, He forced us to look at our own vicarious adrenalin-lust in living life through the eyes of a ‘’killer’’ like Tony. For the first very real time, Chase, in the last few minutes of the last episode, made us all feel, really feel, what it must be like to live a life of ‘’looking over your shoulder’’ and not knowing exactly when the plug may be pulled.
And in essence, we the viewers had been coddled by the a safe distance of our TV screens into enjoying 8 years of voyeuristic sex, drugs, and revenge killings that had us rooting for Tony to survive. Last night we all wanted Tony to pay the ultimate price for our guilty pleasure so that we could go to bed feeling that, yes, a bad man will have to pay for his sins someday, but not us for enjoying the ride. Well, last night, David Chase held us all accountable and we got to suffer the shock of having ‘’our’’ plug pulled right along side Tony’s. And it was not what we expected.
Better Late than Clever
The last episode of The Sopranos airs this coming Sunday on HBO, and my boyfriend and I had become the last people in America without cable television. Until recently, that is. The decision to get cable was not an easy one…well, actually, it was. There was no way in Hell that I was going to miss the last episode of a program that made me proud of the writing talent that exists in what I call television’s underground.
Without cable, we got our Sopranos ‘’fix’’ from our ‘’Married With Children’’ friends who would graciously, sometimes begrudgingly, make DVD’s for us. And together my partner and I would sit, cuddled on the sofa while praying that somehow Adriana and Christopher would walk off into the sunset without having to deal with the FBI, or Tony’s men. Or that the Mob would spare the life of Tony’s ‘’outed’’ gay henchman Vito. In other words, we were just as delusional about the reality of television mob-life as we were about the fact that our friends would be our ‘’enablers’’ forever.
Then one day last week, we got a few telephone calls that sent chills down our collective spine. Every friggin’ one of our friends had decided to leave the heat of the desert and go on HOLIDAY WITH THEIR FAMILIES! My boyfriend and I stood there staring into one another’s face, frozen in time. Seconds that stretched on for hours crept by as we stood there, sweat running down our brows as if in slow motion. He had difficulty swallowing. I tore my eyes from his panicked glare and saw that his lips were moving. He was trying to speak. His lips were dry and cracked and he let out small bursts of breath. ‘’Honey,’’ I said, holding on to his shoulders, ‘’you know what this means don’t you?’’ He lowered his head and nodded. ‘’Yes,’’ he said, ‘’I do know what this means. We are going to have to make some fast friends with some other people. Real fast!’’
Well, we didn’t make any fast, new friends. He and I are too bloody old and we just can’t move that quickly anymore. Few things give me unconditional and unrelenting joy. Many of those things involve loved ones and friends. But a good film, or a brilliantly written script just sends my creative spirit soaring. And when that spirit is set loose, I feel that I can do the unthinkable, like getting cable television for the first time at the age of 51.
Without cable, we got our Sopranos ‘’fix’’ from our ‘’Married With Children’’ friends who would graciously, sometimes begrudgingly, make DVD’s for us. And together my partner and I would sit, cuddled on the sofa while praying that somehow Adriana and Christopher would walk off into the sunset without having to deal with the FBI, or Tony’s men. Or that the Mob would spare the life of Tony’s ‘’outed’’ gay henchman Vito. In other words, we were just as delusional about the reality of television mob-life as we were about the fact that our friends would be our ‘’enablers’’ forever.
Then one day last week, we got a few telephone calls that sent chills down our collective spine. Every friggin’ one of our friends had decided to leave the heat of the desert and go on HOLIDAY WITH THEIR FAMILIES! My boyfriend and I stood there staring into one another’s face, frozen in time. Seconds that stretched on for hours crept by as we stood there, sweat running down our brows as if in slow motion. He had difficulty swallowing. I tore my eyes from his panicked glare and saw that his lips were moving. He was trying to speak. His lips were dry and cracked and he let out small bursts of breath. ‘’Honey,’’ I said, holding on to his shoulders, ‘’you know what this means don’t you?’’ He lowered his head and nodded. ‘’Yes,’’ he said, ‘’I do know what this means. We are going to have to make some fast friends with some other people. Real fast!’’
Well, we didn’t make any fast, new friends. He and I are too bloody old and we just can’t move that quickly anymore. Few things give me unconditional and unrelenting joy. Many of those things involve loved ones and friends. But a good film, or a brilliantly written script just sends my creative spirit soaring. And when that spirit is set loose, I feel that I can do the unthinkable, like getting cable television for the first time at the age of 51.
The Stench of True Love
5:02 A.M.: There is something cool and moist pressing against my closed eyelid. It feels like a soggy overripe loganberry. Except, there is a steam-rush of hot air behind every thrust. I wince but I’m too bloody tired to turn over. I feel a heavy, warm paw gently placed on the top of my forehead as though it were a steam towel put there for my comfort. I slowly open my eyes. It was only my dog, Sydney. Ready to start the new day with a brisk walk. The ‘’briskness’’ was from him, not me. I would crawl behind him with one eye closed muttering ‘’ Good boy. That’s a good doggy’’ intermittently spoken while snoring.
It was my fault that Syd got up so early. I inadvertently trained him that way. You see, I had decided to ‘’get fit’’ and start jogging at 5:30 every morning. It was a moment of insanity brought about by the giddy joy I felt at having my new puppy. The thought went something like this; we would face the dawn together, happily trotting around the city with the sunrise – then have our breakfast. Mine of toast and tea, his of carefully selected animal bits mixed with kibble. This glorious plan lasted all of about two weeks. Although the fitness aspect of the plan was thrown-under-the-bus, we continued to rise at 5:00 am for the much needed morning dog walk that Sydney was now accustomed to having. I got up every morning, weekends included, at 5:00 am for the entire length of Sydney’s life.
I still rise at dawn. Sometimes it’s 4:30 am; at others, I’ll make it to 5:30. Old habits are hard to break. I’ll do yoga on some mornings, and then go for a walk around the city park. I like the cool air at this hour, and there are other people in the park too walking their pets towards the dog-park. Here they meet with friends, or make new ones. They sit about talking and laughing while their dogs soak up the heady mixture of dog-scented grass and the feces-scented flytraps that surround the enclosed area. The giddy pet owners don’t seem to notice the ominous fragrance as they gaze on lovingly at the fun their pets are having.
Whenever I took Syd to a dog-designated area in Paris (well, actually the entire city can be considered a ‘’dog-designated area’’ but that’s another story) I never noticed the smell of the park. It was only when I brought friends with me in the afternoons and noticed the look of horror on their faces, did I understand that there was something malodorous about the air. But I was too much in love with my pet to notice.
Now that I no longer have a dog, I notice these things. Mostly in the warmth of the summer air, but I notice it nonetheless. But I also notice the looks on the faces of the dog owners, and I remember being in that place of ignorant bliss. So I just smile, occasionally wince when the wind shifts. And briskly walk on my way.
It was my fault that Syd got up so early. I inadvertently trained him that way. You see, I had decided to ‘’get fit’’ and start jogging at 5:30 every morning. It was a moment of insanity brought about by the giddy joy I felt at having my new puppy. The thought went something like this; we would face the dawn together, happily trotting around the city with the sunrise – then have our breakfast. Mine of toast and tea, his of carefully selected animal bits mixed with kibble. This glorious plan lasted all of about two weeks. Although the fitness aspect of the plan was thrown-under-the-bus, we continued to rise at 5:00 am for the much needed morning dog walk that Sydney was now accustomed to having. I got up every morning, weekends included, at 5:00 am for the entire length of Sydney’s life.
I still rise at dawn. Sometimes it’s 4:30 am; at others, I’ll make it to 5:30. Old habits are hard to break. I’ll do yoga on some mornings, and then go for a walk around the city park. I like the cool air at this hour, and there are other people in the park too walking their pets towards the dog-park. Here they meet with friends, or make new ones. They sit about talking and laughing while their dogs soak up the heady mixture of dog-scented grass and the feces-scented flytraps that surround the enclosed area. The giddy pet owners don’t seem to notice the ominous fragrance as they gaze on lovingly at the fun their pets are having.
Whenever I took Syd to a dog-designated area in Paris (well, actually the entire city can be considered a ‘’dog-designated area’’ but that’s another story) I never noticed the smell of the park. It was only when I brought friends with me in the afternoons and noticed the look of horror on their faces, did I understand that there was something malodorous about the air. But I was too much in love with my pet to notice.
Now that I no longer have a dog, I notice these things. Mostly in the warmth of the summer air, but I notice it nonetheless. But I also notice the looks on the faces of the dog owners, and I remember being in that place of ignorant bliss. So I just smile, occasionally wince when the wind shifts. And briskly walk on my way.
Rhinestones & Rib-Scented Smoke
Dusty (not her real name) is a ‘’mature’’ woman in her mid-sixties, with long platinum-gold hair. Her two-inch nails are usually painted neon pink. Sometimes she paints them a more conservative Jungle Red. The large beauty mark on her left cheek directly below her eye, on occasion, ends up closer to her lips than her lashes. According to her Supervisor, a handsome young man in his mid thirties, Dusty has been working at this desert store for almost a year. You see, Dusty is unique in her style - she’s cheery, enthusiastic, and oozing with grandmotherly charm (well, that is if your grandmother also dresses like Britney Spears).
One of the things I like most about living in the Coachella Valley is that alongside the conventional you get the very unconventional. Like the sight of an authentic southern soul food restaurant, complete with a huge smoke-spewing barbeque pit, located right next to the giant IMAX theatre. I just love standing in line at the cinema while the wind shifts hurling plumes of baby back rib scented smoke in my face. It’s a priceless experience.
Or when I find myself sitting among the ‘’beautiful people’’ on El Paseo at the Starbucks Cafe having their latest Mocha Choca Lata Ya Ya, and a man who appears to be homeless, parks his shopping cart at one of the outdoor tables. He puts down one of his many books on the table and goes inside for a drink. Everyone seems to know him and he extends his pleasantries to the other patrons who are sipping their coffees. He sits there most of the afternoon, chatting with couples and Paris Hilton wannabes.
But not all those ‘’beautiful people’’ are just sitting around chatting up the homeless. Some of them actually do something about it. For the many homeless in the desert, there is a place called Martha’s Village and Kitchens that opened its doors 24 hours a day since the beginning of February 2007 (83791 Date Avenue, Indio, Ca 92201- (760) 347-4742). Moreover, the Palm Springs Homeless Task Force works tirelessly to provide essential services for those in need. Volunteering is a great way to get to know some of the people who make up this interesting area, and there are places that are always in need of volunteers and donations: Well in the Desert, Palm Springs – 219-3522. Coachella Valley Rescue Mission, Indio – 347-3512. These are just a few places on offer.
But whenever I want a good-hearted laugh, dealing with Dusty never fails. My first encounter with her was the result of a third-degree sunburn I got that needed immediate attention. I had decided to go for my daily walk in mid afternoon on a day when the temperature had reached 110 degrees. I was new to the desert and thrilled about exploring the city on foot. However, I did not bring an umbrella with me and I was wearing shorts. I ran into the air-conditioned drug store and stood motionless as the cool air seared my flesh like an ice cube on a griddle.
The woman behind the counter called out to me while peering over the shoulder of her customer, ‘’Hey, you! You look just like Diana Ross!’’ The line of clients that snaked back to the beverage section glanced at me, and just looked annoyed and impatient. I just smiled and crawled to the nearest aisle where I could find sun block and a hat. When I got to the counter, she looked at me and said ‘’Are you okay, honey?” I was not. I felt as though I had just walked through the first circle of hell and my internal organs were on fire. However, she made me laugh with her painful rendition of ‘’Baby Love’’ while trying to ring up my items with her nails. They kept hitting the wrong keys, so I was there for a good while. The next time I went into the store I saw that Dusty had cornered some poor woman who she thought ‘’looked just like Phyllis Diller’’, only prettier, she added.
I just laugh off her remarks and continue to shop there whenever I need supplies. While I find it annoying at times, it is also innocuous. And on some days when the line is particularly long and Dusty is covered in rhinestones from head-to-toe, I’ll just wave to her through the window as I pass by. Her eyes light up and she starts singing an off-key version of a Motown hit. I smile, give her a nod and just keep walking down the street until I can no longer hear her singing ‘’Reflections’’ through the sliding glass doors. Ah, the sounds and sights of the Desert.
One of the things I like most about living in the Coachella Valley is that alongside the conventional you get the very unconventional. Like the sight of an authentic southern soul food restaurant, complete with a huge smoke-spewing barbeque pit, located right next to the giant IMAX theatre. I just love standing in line at the cinema while the wind shifts hurling plumes of baby back rib scented smoke in my face. It’s a priceless experience.
Or when I find myself sitting among the ‘’beautiful people’’ on El Paseo at the Starbucks Cafe having their latest Mocha Choca Lata Ya Ya, and a man who appears to be homeless, parks his shopping cart at one of the outdoor tables. He puts down one of his many books on the table and goes inside for a drink. Everyone seems to know him and he extends his pleasantries to the other patrons who are sipping their coffees. He sits there most of the afternoon, chatting with couples and Paris Hilton wannabes.
But not all those ‘’beautiful people’’ are just sitting around chatting up the homeless. Some of them actually do something about it. For the many homeless in the desert, there is a place called Martha’s Village and Kitchens that opened its doors 24 hours a day since the beginning of February 2007 (83791 Date Avenue, Indio, Ca 92201- (760) 347-4742). Moreover, the Palm Springs Homeless Task Force works tirelessly to provide essential services for those in need. Volunteering is a great way to get to know some of the people who make up this interesting area, and there are places that are always in need of volunteers and donations: Well in the Desert, Palm Springs – 219-3522. Coachella Valley Rescue Mission, Indio – 347-3512. These are just a few places on offer.
But whenever I want a good-hearted laugh, dealing with Dusty never fails. My first encounter with her was the result of a third-degree sunburn I got that needed immediate attention. I had decided to go for my daily walk in mid afternoon on a day when the temperature had reached 110 degrees. I was new to the desert and thrilled about exploring the city on foot. However, I did not bring an umbrella with me and I was wearing shorts. I ran into the air-conditioned drug store and stood motionless as the cool air seared my flesh like an ice cube on a griddle.
The woman behind the counter called out to me while peering over the shoulder of her customer, ‘’Hey, you! You look just like Diana Ross!’’ The line of clients that snaked back to the beverage section glanced at me, and just looked annoyed and impatient. I just smiled and crawled to the nearest aisle where I could find sun block and a hat. When I got to the counter, she looked at me and said ‘’Are you okay, honey?” I was not. I felt as though I had just walked through the first circle of hell and my internal organs were on fire. However, she made me laugh with her painful rendition of ‘’Baby Love’’ while trying to ring up my items with her nails. They kept hitting the wrong keys, so I was there for a good while. The next time I went into the store I saw that Dusty had cornered some poor woman who she thought ‘’looked just like Phyllis Diller’’, only prettier, she added.
I just laugh off her remarks and continue to shop there whenever I need supplies. While I find it annoying at times, it is also innocuous. And on some days when the line is particularly long and Dusty is covered in rhinestones from head-to-toe, I’ll just wave to her through the window as I pass by. Her eyes light up and she starts singing an off-key version of a Motown hit. I smile, give her a nod and just keep walking down the street until I can no longer hear her singing ‘’Reflections’’ through the sliding glass doors. Ah, the sounds and sights of the Desert.
I'm In the Mood for Blog...
I’ve been thinking about the concept of writing a blog lately. I thought about what blogs are saying about us as a culture and as a nation at war. Many people who blog regularly about social issues, write from the heart and mean well. Most of us who blog want to put our best foot forward and show the world who we are – really are. And hope that others will see past our cyber-selves and into the compassionate soul on the other end of the keyboard.
However, in the recent past I have met many bloggers who, on the surface, seem to have the desire to do-good, but in reality I haven’t been able to figure out what they have actually done. We all find some way of dealing with what we consider our inner deficiencies. Some of us paint pictures, write poems, or simply throw dinner parties where we can vent full-force into the faces of our friends and loved ones while serving them lovely casseroles that come with a side order of pent-up frustration. But, maybe that is what blogging does, it helps us to vent and perhaps help others in the process.
Many of my friends are extremely intelligent, kind, and compassionate people, and yet their personal ‘’issues’’ cloud their ability to truly help others in a meaningful way. They haven’t been able to heal because they cannot acknowledge their inner deficiencies. Just as we, collectively as a nation, struggle to let go of intolerance and ignorance in all its forms. But, it always comes back to haunt us when we least expect it.
‘’Are you saying that we should then do nothing until we heal ourselves?’’ my friend Ron asked. While I couldn’t answer him immediately (my mouth was full of the bitter tasting casserole I had served that evening) – I do feel that there is something amiss when people cannot, or will not seek help with their own baggage before they try to help others overcome theirs. How can we help others if we sit around tolerating even coddling our own prejudices as though they were delicacies?
Some of my friends are activists who try to fight the good fight. They mean well, really they do. But when they are off the protest line, they behave in questionable ways. A few of them have some serious issues when it comes to dealing with others in a realistic manner. But they blog! And so do I. Because it feels like ‘’healing’’, a way of using the outer work (consciously, or unconsciously) to mask the difficulty of it all.
So, here is my answer to Ron – No. I do not think that we should all just sit idly while the world spins out of control. We must, and should act. But in ways that make deep, lasting changes. Not just take public actions that look good on the surface while the cauldron bubbles below. Shouldn’t we all be trying to heal ‘’ourselves’’ too, at the same time? We all have a lot of work to do. All of us. We need to balance our intellect and compassion and deal with some truthful self-examination. If we cannot come from a place of real honesty, what good are we to anyone else? Meantime, is anyone ready for dessert?
However, in the recent past I have met many bloggers who, on the surface, seem to have the desire to do-good, but in reality I haven’t been able to figure out what they have actually done. We all find some way of dealing with what we consider our inner deficiencies. Some of us paint pictures, write poems, or simply throw dinner parties where we can vent full-force into the faces of our friends and loved ones while serving them lovely casseroles that come with a side order of pent-up frustration. But, maybe that is what blogging does, it helps us to vent and perhaps help others in the process.
Many of my friends are extremely intelligent, kind, and compassionate people, and yet their personal ‘’issues’’ cloud their ability to truly help others in a meaningful way. They haven’t been able to heal because they cannot acknowledge their inner deficiencies. Just as we, collectively as a nation, struggle to let go of intolerance and ignorance in all its forms. But, it always comes back to haunt us when we least expect it.
‘’Are you saying that we should then do nothing until we heal ourselves?’’ my friend Ron asked. While I couldn’t answer him immediately (my mouth was full of the bitter tasting casserole I had served that evening) – I do feel that there is something amiss when people cannot, or will not seek help with their own baggage before they try to help others overcome theirs. How can we help others if we sit around tolerating even coddling our own prejudices as though they were delicacies?
Some of my friends are activists who try to fight the good fight. They mean well, really they do. But when they are off the protest line, they behave in questionable ways. A few of them have some serious issues when it comes to dealing with others in a realistic manner. But they blog! And so do I. Because it feels like ‘’healing’’, a way of using the outer work (consciously, or unconsciously) to mask the difficulty of it all.
So, here is my answer to Ron – No. I do not think that we should all just sit idly while the world spins out of control. We must, and should act. But in ways that make deep, lasting changes. Not just take public actions that look good on the surface while the cauldron bubbles below. Shouldn’t we all be trying to heal ‘’ourselves’’ too, at the same time? We all have a lot of work to do. All of us. We need to balance our intellect and compassion and deal with some truthful self-examination. If we cannot come from a place of real honesty, what good are we to anyone else? Meantime, is anyone ready for dessert?
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