Oh, Charlotte

Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! — I have as much soul as you — and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you.

Aerodynamics of Flight (A Short Story)

Its suddenly dry limbs lay sprawled out unnaturally –as its insides wait to evaporate—the untimely act of a strong child’s foot (with strength a most relative term) brought down to a quick return to sender.  At least she did not torture it.  At least she (acting as God) had mercy.  At least she left it be once she finished-not stopping to play with the death she demonstrated.  She turned around the corner of the brick school with a squeak of her eternally damp purple rubber boots covered in the patterns of bright and lively lady bugs, flying, climbing, alive---hypocrisy at its finest.  Boots that killed one of their own.  Like it was nothing.  Like life is something less for something smaller in stature.  Like we can choose whether to let things be or end everything they are.  And the others just play nearby.  She probably joined them.  It means nothing to her.  With ease and purpose, she put her boot down and with ease she galloped away.  Tomorrow she will not recall it.  In fact, she will never think on it again.

            

 Its leg twitches-then its wing.   A broken wing that hopes it might fly again-a dream crushed nearly as much as its own body.  It has only minutes left-less than that.  The serenade of childhood grows fainter and fainter.  I look up and see fresh faces full of ignorance swinging on devices built by ones who once swung too, who once were just as full of ignorance and by ones who still are just as oblivious.  They played tag and picked up sticks too, in those sacred thirty minutes that never seemed quite long enough to finish the adventure.  The bell always was a disappointment.  But, they would trudge inside nevertheless, struggle to take off their muddy boots and silence themselves as they sat in their desks.  They would think not of the lesson of the hour, but only of what they were planning to do when next the bell chimed. 

             

Right now, the bell should ring.  I cannot watch it shift any longer.  What fight could be left?  It is squashed almost completely.  It might as well be still until the end.  What gives it this motivation to move its limbs, which hang on by fraying strings and struggle?  There is something beautiful in its perseverance though in vain-something strong-something more beautiful than in our own kind.  We possess the tendency to recede and learn our own helplessness.  But this primitive and naïve thing ceases to do so.  With every last moment, it fights to stay.

           

Its wing still flips and flops.  The bell will not beat.  I am glued to this spot.  The others are oblivious:  I see them run and dart without a sound through the sand.  They must not and should not realize that this will be inevitably their fate.  But they should play now, sing now, swing now, and dance now.  Ignorance must be the bliss it pretends to be.  I wish I had it.  I wish I could destroy and feel nothing.  I wish I had no regret.  I wish I did not feel compelled to sit here wishing-offering to give up part of my life for the breath to return to this tempest-torn body.  How silly the others must think I look huddled over the pile of dirt and staring.  I would it were only me.  Its life was only hours, but each moment must make a memory for more than we can imagine.  Is that why she can care less of those that dwell in tiny times, discrediting objects that exist in different decades—thinking they do not use what they are given well?  She would not be able to say that if she saw the same struggle for survival I see-a greatest use for the last moments of its being. 

           

 I cannot imagine what it did during the hours with which it lived.  I can only say it flew.  That must be a most freeing feeling.  Now, it is trapped.  It will never grace the air again-only grace the grave.  But, it flew once.  There is such value in a life that flies at least once.  That is why its wing struggles again for the same phenomena-begging anyone who will listen “let me lift from leaf to leaf, soar from sill to sill, bounce from berry to berry”.  It cannot give up.  There is so much more value in a life that efficiently uses each second; she will do nothing in her life as momentous as this creature she killed as it fights for life(at all moments it fights).  She will succumb to the numbing of the mind and be the opposite of what she destroyed-the most sense she will ever make.  But when it comes her time, she will still beg for hers, as if it were ever important enough to keep and she will believe it is. 

             

The bell rings.

           

I see her weapon covered in those glorious creatures already discarded clumsily on the boot rack.  As I remove mine, I place them neatly opposite hers and enter the chirping room.  The others tell each other the tales they created from their games.  As silence draws over the group, I can see their minds spinning and wondering what next game they will engage in-anxiously waiting for the sound of that chime.  I think only of the creature, most likely defeated in the dirt outside the wall.   

I read the lesson plan and begin.            

Cover Your Mouth When You Cough

Racial Intolerance: An Epidemic

            I was inspired to write this article after a series of closely related events reminded me that racial intolerance is still a serious concern. My discovery of this in people who claim to have faith in a God who promotes acceptance and love for all humanity disturbs me.  This is in deep conflict with the value system they claim to support.  There still exists the outer layer of a bubble that must be popped.  It seems that there are those who have not experienced enough to know the truth quite yet.  

            You do what you know until you know better.  I’ve been told this for years. It is a matter of experience and values with which a person has been brought up that shape how they view the world.  But, it remains an immature state of being to generically accept the value system with which parents or guardians molded you and never question it.  Skepticism in any part of life is healthy.  It may just be that people may not know better yet.  However, it confuses me that still racism exists when people are in contact very frequently with individuals (of different backgrounds) that challenge these ideas they have established in their minds about certain categories of people.  How could these individuals not realize that a real problem is this ignorance and intolerance that they have developed over the years? Living in such a multicultural city, province, country, world, it astounds me that still people use hurtful and negative language about categories of people they’ve never met and are (how many times must they hear it before it truly sinks in?) from the exact same species.

            It isn’t all true what you’ve heard.  We all judge people; categorize individuals.  I’m not going to say that I am the only person who doesn’t label a person as something when I first meet them.  Our brains like to create patterns, discover trends in data and sort like objects.  But, with tolerance, and not writing someone off, there is the possibility for this person to change my opinion about them.  Judgments should not be written in stone or placed on a global scale of recognition.  Even gossip not related to race is something that creates labels on people that one has not met.  This is a case where this healthy level of skepticism does come into play well.  It is better to make your own opinions about people.  Taking people’s warnings is a good idea but proceeding with caution before writing them completely off remains a very viable choice. 

            They aren’t just jokes.  Sometimes, you can't just say "Only kidding" to make everything better.  Whether it pokes at negative or positive stereotypes, racial jokes transfer the idea that this is behaviour that should be continued.  People laugh and reinforce the joke-teller, and through this promotion of ideas stereotypes can be bred.  Even if one doesn’t speak up but just laughs along, the teller of these jokes will engage in this behaviour again and tell this joke again because they’re still getting a positive response; thus spreading these ideas to others.  It seems these joke tellers are people who are unaware and inexperienced with the truth but also relatively not open to the discovery of it.  The label’s glue has dried and there is so much effort in removing it and making another. These people only know what they know.  They can’t be fully blamed.  There is a fear of the unknown predisposed in everyone.  The reason for the comments or remarks must be fear based, as they point to what is unknown.  Let’s be honest: there are scary people in the world.    But, they are not all of the same race/s.  Racial intolerance is something that is reinforced by these jokes, slurs, and discriminatory actions in all labels we place on people.

            Differences are some of the most beautiful things in life.  The social sciences and humanities would be hard-pressed to breathe without this variety.  The variability we experience in our world is a blessing and amazing thing.  However, not getting to know someone before you place judgments is one of the most hateful and ugly acts you can do to who they are as a person.  Nobody likes to be summed up with one word, because no one can be.  We are all so many words big, so many words tall.  That should be remembered.  I don’t in any way want everyone to be the same, but I think we, as a society, should be long since past looking at these differences as negative things.       

Maybe You're Right

Yusuf Islam is very wise:

Now maybe you're right and maybe you're wrong
But I ain't gonna argue with you no more
I've done it for too long.
It was getting so good
Why then, where did it go?
I can't think about it no more tell me if you know.
You were loving me, I was loving you
But now there ain't nothing but regretting
nothing, nothing but regretting everything we do.

I put up with your lies like you put up with mine,
But God knows we should have stopped somewhere,
we could have taken the time,
But time has turned, yes, some call it the end.
So tell me, tell me did you really love me like a friend?

You know you don't have to pretend,
It's all over now
It'll never happen again, no no no,
It'll never happen again,
It won't happen again
Never, never, never, it'll never happen again

So maybe you're right, and maybe you're wrong
But I ain't gonna argue with you no more
I've done it for too long.

Time to Believe

God continues to save my life.  It might just be time to believe.

Lonely Planet

There's nothing on the planet that makes me more sad than seeing people who are alone.  Sometimes, I can almost not bear sitting in a restaurant where I see a person dining by him/herself.  It may be that they are not truly lonely, but the appearance of someone dining alone breaks my heart--it reminds me of how many people are out there longing.  We all push others away, becoming more and more distant as technology and social "codes" isolate us completely.  It is looked on as a big gesture when you call a person on the phone to ask them how they're doing.  It is strange to ask someone out in person.  It is out of line to show up at someone's door for no reason but to see them. 

We're this species that lives and breeds off intimacy, emotional and physical, but yet we keep creating and subscribing to these things that increase our separation from one another.  We text others even when we sit with someone.  We position ourselves on the bus, as far away from others as possible-sometimes standing to avoid eye contact with one another.  We put in our music devices so we don't have to listen to anyone else.  We remain silent and distant from the people around us until it is our turn to leave the vehicle. 

I want more than that from people.  I want people to show up at my house for a surprise visit.  I want to meet new people everywhere I go.  I want the whole LRT to engage in a song of 99 bottles of beer on the wall.  I want someone to call me instead of text me, to send me a letter instead of a Facebook post, to make plans for adventures where we can meet people who want the same things.  I want to find out about someone (about whom I care) from them and not from a status/twitter update.  It seems we've distanced ourselves too much for "big" gestures.   

I want this connection so badly but: I only sometimes talk to the person who looks lonely, only sometimes smile broadly at the woman eating alone in the restaurant, only sometimes talk to people on the bus or train.  But I always listen to the people who talk to me and talk back, and smile back at the people who smile at me in a friendly manner.  I want them to keep it up.  I want them to keep smiling at and chatting with strangers--making even a fraction of a connection.  Because, connections feel good.  There are so many people in the city, in the country, in the world.  I won't ever know them all but I want to know so many-starting with the loneliest.   

The Beginning and the Start of the End

So this is what the city looks like, cold-hearted and broken down.  How long you held out from the bitterness which now consumes you-bitten by the frost that changes every hue of vigor-green to white and every bit of moist joy to dust, flick-flaking it away and spitting it out.  This is what you look like, tired of it here: awakened in the night to find a ceiling, too familiar.  A memory which reminds you of how recent it was when once you were wrapped in the blankets cowering under the bed, crying over a stump of a tree you once remember begging not to forget you, though you forgot it.

The snow held out for almost as long as my sanity.  I felt the pregnant earth, too fertile for November, shake with those same tremors in the night, waiting for the ice-tears of the clouds to brush over her.  I waited.  I could smell the pine-scent of longing screaming through the trees and ripping over the ridges of its own sanity.  It was time.