So it´s Advent, a season that, when I was Catholic, I loved a lot. I loved the images of light in the dark, I loved the pre-Christmas songs. I loved the joy of the season, because let´s face it... most of the rest of the liturgical year is about how screwed up and nearly irredemable but for Jesus we all are. Anyway, I can´t call myself truly Catholic anymore, but I want to do something for Advent this year.
If you think about it, Advent is just about light and goodness coming into a dark world. Just think of the imagery... dark, cold night in depraved conditions, and BOOM, there´s a warm, fleshy baby Jesus, and suddenly there´s light in the picture (as if stables had electricity in 0 aD)... light radiating from the baby, light from the heavens to the baby, and everyone´s happy. We all need a little light in the dark places of our lives. Well, I can´t content myself to wait for Jesus... Rilke had a nice quote about the birth pangs of the divine, how we all cumulatively bring God into the world. Basically... we should strive for goodness, realize it will be less than comfortable to bring it into being, and try to bring it in anyway.
So for Advent, I want to do one good deed a day, small or big. And the challenge will be that... I´m in a different country. I can´t predict my days, so I just have to be ready, with a mindset to help. I got started today. I was walking toward the city centre to get some passport photos taken for my visa renewal. On the way, I noticed a woman about my age sitting with her back against a building, covered in a blanket, huddled down in a parka and scarf, begging. I´m as skeptical as the next person about beggars. I wonder... are they doing this just to avoid work? Are they going to go buy alcohol? I don´t like giving money. But on the way back from my photos, I stopped in a grocery store to get some things I needed. On the way back, I handed her half my bread. She thanked me. Obviously I didn´t feel that I´d done anything special. In fact, I felt kinda crappy I couldn´t do more. I always wonder if it´s insulting to be handed a piece of bread. I mean, she´s begging, but still... I don´t think 250 calories is going to make much of a dent in her hunger. Well, I´m not in a position to do much more than that. So that´s why I´m trying to start small, with that which I can do. I know that one act changes very little, but maybe someone saw me and will think to do the same somewhere for someone else. Maybe the girl herself will be inspired to action (I´m aware sometimes there is no action to be taken.). Sometimes you can´t do much to change a situation. That doesn´t mean to ignore it. It takes a city.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Granada
Woke up at 9 am in Granada, freezing in my hostel bed. Went downstairs and was the first to help myself to three bowls of corn flakes, coffee, and orange juice for breakfast. I had to wake up to go get it, but if you know me and my need for calories, you know why it was important for me to go.
We rode in on a bus yesterday about noon. After spending all night on the bus, most of us were hungry, dehydrated, and exhausted. This didn´t stop us from splitting into groups, the first of which went to the Alhambra. I was in the first group, so I went. Our other group goes today. It´s one of those moments I wish I knew more about history. I know it was significant in the cutlure clash between Moors and Catholics in the 1300s and 1400s, but beyond that it´s hard to appreciate the significance without knowing more. Nonetheless, it was truly beautiful and we took a lot of pictures. They will appear online when I am back at my apartment as I haven´t brought my camera cable with me here.
Last night we went on a tapas tour around the city, which was good as we were all starving. Aleks and I wound up with a group of Erasmus mostly from Madrid, so we met some new people. A few girls from Sweden and Switzerland. For once, we weren´t the only ¨rubias¨ running around.
The discoteca that we went to first was ¨OK.¨ I love dancing, but I need someone to dance with. They were playing so much salsa and merengue, and it was killing me because it´s like oh come onnnnnnnnnnn, someone PLEASE know how to do this!!!
Most everyone else went on to a second club, but Aleks and I taxied back early because we were kinda bored and tired with it. Maybe we´ll survive longer tonigt. Anyway, we´re headed out to buy a coat for her and snacks for me. Tour of the city on foot starts at 4.30.
We rode in on a bus yesterday about noon. After spending all night on the bus, most of us were hungry, dehydrated, and exhausted. This didn´t stop us from splitting into groups, the first of which went to the Alhambra. I was in the first group, so I went. Our other group goes today. It´s one of those moments I wish I knew more about history. I know it was significant in the cutlure clash between Moors and Catholics in the 1300s and 1400s, but beyond that it´s hard to appreciate the significance without knowing more. Nonetheless, it was truly beautiful and we took a lot of pictures. They will appear online when I am back at my apartment as I haven´t brought my camera cable with me here.
Last night we went on a tapas tour around the city, which was good as we were all starving. Aleks and I wound up with a group of Erasmus mostly from Madrid, so we met some new people. A few girls from Sweden and Switzerland. For once, we weren´t the only ¨rubias¨ running around.
The discoteca that we went to first was ¨OK.¨ I love dancing, but I need someone to dance with. They were playing so much salsa and merengue, and it was killing me because it´s like oh come onnnnnnnnnnn, someone PLEASE know how to do this!!!
Most everyone else went on to a second club, but Aleks and I taxied back early because we were kinda bored and tired with it. Maybe we´ll survive longer tonigt. Anyway, we´re headed out to buy a coat for her and snacks for me. Tour of the city on foot starts at 4.30.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Midnight sparrow
Another night--
commiserating with the ceiling
who I´ll be in the morning,
which self I´ll leave
slobbering on the pillow.
And the cars that pass by--
they keep going somewhere,
past the cemetery, past the stop light,
past the self they left,
waving in the driveway.
A stranger´s piano music--
measured in kilobytes
instead of common time,
does its best to ease
this dilemma for the night.
But my soul always sliding--
out that window,
where a midnight sparrow chirps,
takes wing, always double
in a world of singularities.
commiserating with the ceiling
who I´ll be in the morning,
which self I´ll leave
slobbering on the pillow.
And the cars that pass by--
they keep going somewhere,
past the cemetery, past the stop light,
past the self they left,
waving in the driveway.
A stranger´s piano music--
measured in kilobytes
instead of common time,
does its best to ease
this dilemma for the night.
But my soul always sliding--
out that window,
where a midnight sparrow chirps,
takes wing, always double
in a world of singularities.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Every morning you wake up...
¨Never give in. Never give in. Never, never, never. In nothing great or small, large or petty, never give in except to convictions of honor and good sense. Never yield to force, never yield to the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy.¨ -Winston Churchill
This quote really resonates with me, because my whole life... I guess I´ve been a bit stubborn on things where I sense an abuse of power or might. I relentlessly petitioned my elementary school teacher for things like excessive demands (as a sixth grader, I tested at a high school senior´s reading level and therefore was only permitted to read books above my maturity level, and I also had to read more than people at lower levels. When I failed to read and test on some one thousand odd pages every month, I had to sit and read in the office, and this happened to several of us), the right to have a Valentine´s Day Party, anything my child self found important.
Now, it´s bigger topics, and I don´t always feel as involved as I could or should be. There´s a lot of protesting going on in my state right now about the Marcellus drilling. I am grateful to those who are protesting and attempting to keep those in charge in check. For my part, however, I haven´t been as involved as I could be maybe. I went to a letter writing event, signed some petitions. On my drive home from Morgantown over the last couple years, I´ve watched the landscape change. What used to be seventy-two miles of the most heart-lifting drive I´ve ever known is now punctuated by drill sites, trucks that are too big for the roads. They´re contaminating our water, ruining our roads, and really... endangering the life of every motorist who uses the road. Like I said, those trucks are just too big. They can´t handle those turns without going left of center, and given all the windy blind turns on Route 7... it´s a death trap. They are talking about putting a plant in close to my home, which would create about two hundred jobs. God knows we need them, but... at what price? I know people are struggling to keep the heat on and food on the table. I´m not too proud to admit that for awhile when my dad´s plant was on strike, we accepted food from a pantry, that the local gym waived our membership fee, that my piano teacher let me come a few times without paying. And I haven´t even felt the brunt of it. I see people I love going without medicine they need, living in the constant anxiety of the heat being shut off, surviving on macaroni and cheese and hot dogs because food that would be more nourishing is too expensive. This is clearly a problem... and not a sob story. I´m talking about people who are willing and able to work, but there just aren´t enough jobs. So this Marcellus drilling plant seems like a good idea, right?... It may be a temporary solution for some people who are on the brink of collapse, but in the long run... it´ll poison our water (and let´s keep in mind that we already can´t eat the fish out of that river), and without water, we´ll eventually be even more bound by this damnable tradition of economic slavery we have in the valley. Our people do back-busting jobs for 12- and 16- hour days, and can still barely make ends meet? Something doesn´t add up here, people...
Then I think about Wall Street and the Occupy movement. I woke up yesterday to news of a police raid happening in the middle of the night. And I think how grateful I am to the people who are there and in the encampments throughout the United States, trying to make a stand for economic justice, because let´s face it... our middle class isn´t just disappearing... it´s already almost entirely gone. The poor are getting poorer while the rich are getting richer. I´m all for a simple life. I don´t need designer tags or long strands of pearls, but I do need to eat, I do need clean water, and I do need enough money to pay rent and medical bills. Anyone working in a free and modern country shouldn´t have to struggle for at least that much. And these protestors are trying to insure that for us. We´ve been talking about the imminence of class warfare for awhile. Well, I think it´s coming... unless enough of us bottom-feeders can link up and actually work together, not punking out when someone comes along and offers to appease us with a few hundred a week... to destroy our own land. Are you kidding me? No, no, no. Because you´re going to get cancer from drinking the water, you´re going to slave away interminable hours of your one and only life, and struggle to make ends meet... to help the enemy.
And on a much smaller scale... people have been telling me forever... Pick your battles, Casie. Well, I do, but it´s just that... every morning you wake up, you´re in for the fight of your life. I feel it in other ways at home, and I fight whenever I´m able. And people tell me to have a beer, relax. But I cannot relax when I feel like people are encroaching on my rights, my independence. The cable company jacks my bill up without warning, I cancel the cable and give them my clear opinion. I´ll figure it out without cable. There are libraries and cafés for internet, and I don´t need to watch TV. I don´t even like it that much. I try to rent a car, but because I´m a week shy of 25, I´m going to have to pay an extra 100 bucks. So I decide, screw it. I´ll drag my junk ass old car to DC. If I break down, I break down. I am told that sometimes I should just accept this sort of thing. I absoultely will not. I know that rules are in place for a reason, statistics namely. However, because I am a good driver and can´t afford the extra price, I refuse to accept this. Someone, somewhere, has to say no. Lately, I´ve been told I´m not going to change a certain situation involving men. I´ve run across a few not-so-charming fellows over here. I´m dancing with my friends, they butt in like they have a right to come enjoy us for the night. I´m at the gym doing my workout, they´re counting my push-ups out loud or trying to swipe the machine I´m using. I´m teaching a friend to swim, they´re piping up like they know better. Just... back off... and I don´t care what´s accepted here or at home. I am not inferior for my sex, and every single time I feel that that´s being challenged, I will stand up to the challenge. I remember my gym class, 8th grade. We were playing wiffle ball of all things. I´d been playing ball for years and wanted to play third base. I didn´t want to stand in the outfield and be bored. In front of the entire class, I was ordered to stand back, go to the outfield. He said girls don´t need to be in the infield, because they´ll get hurt and cry, and her parents will sue him. (Personally, I´d be more worried about a sexual discrimination case.) I stood and explained that I played ball, had taken line drives to my body, and that because I was physically smaller than most males, I had less of a chance of actually being hit by the ball. But this grown man walked up to me and forced me back physically. After class, he employed the help of the high school quarterback to explain to me why women don´t belong in the infield. I informed him I didn´t care what the quarterback thought, slammed the door in his face as hard as I could, and marched off. And I´m not going to stand back here because of my sex either. Period. Would it make my life easier to stand down and go with the flow? Absolutely, but it would make it immensely less bearable as well.
I´m fighting right now for my damn bike of all things. I signed a contract when I moved into these apartments, and nowhere was it mentioned that I couldn´t have my bike in my room. So I´ve been keeping it here in my room. It´s protected from weather and thieves in my room. Then a few nights ago, a man follows me to my room and demands that I take my bike to the common lock-up room. I´m furious, of course, because I´m earning this apartment by teaching for the university, and I´m told I can´t have my bike in here... And where I mentioned above that bottom feeders need to hang together, I felt like he could have so easily just looked the other way. I took it down for him, because I appreciate his position. With the unemployment rate what it is here in Spain, and maybe he has a family to take care of... I get it. Like I said, I took donation food for awhile. But man, was that a hard walk downstairs, knowing I respected him and his position, but that he had none for me. I don´t know how many times I´ve said to people, ¨I didn´t hear that. I didn´t see that.¨ Sometimes the enforcement of rules is really just badgering people out of their rights, especially if the rule isn´t explicitly written down somewhere. So, I could accept it for what it is, and if I was a person who could do that, yeah, my life would be easier. But because I have never been able to overlook an abuse of power in any circumstance, I´m talking with the boss of the apartments about this. I´m explaining that this should have been written down and that I have a right to protect my property, because... I´m angry. Am I screaming in someone´s face and acting like a lunatic? No. There is a way to make your voice heard without acting like an asshole. I don´t always win, but I don´t always lose, either.
A couple days ago I was talking with a girl who was outraged by androgynous hair styles and dress for both men and women, saying that there should be a difference. It´s wrong, she said, just wrong. Didn´t I agree? I told her I didn´t. I told her why, calmly, rationally... but I didn´t gloss it over, either. And you know what? She (and she´s an opinionated woman) said, maybe you´re right. I hadn´t thought about it like that.
I´ve been hearing a lot here about how people from the US are a bunch of imperialists. No, it´s not everyone saying that, but enough that I´m concerned. Am I proud of everything my country´s every done? Absolutely not. We have our dark periods in history like any other country. But what really gets my blood boiling is when I hear someone say we´re all imperialists, because... like I discussed above, that´s not the case. There are probably some in the government who would like to dominate the entire world by force. But I don´t believe that´s true of the majority, and it´s certainly not true of the common person, not true of the poor person who would love for the tyranny to stop so he could just feel secure that food and healthcare would be there. So when my lit professor started in on some German girls yesterday for eating in class (in Spain, this is very disrespectul), I was already getting irritated. I felt like it would have been so easy for him to wait until after class or to walk up to them and address them more subtly. He chose to put them on display and humiliate them. He said it was like putting your feet up on the table, which was very American... suddenly he remembered he had an American student in the class, and asked me if he wasn´t right. I had no chance to take the edge out of my voice, and I let him know very clearly, that no, it was a very rude thing to do. Sure, some people may do it in their homes, but in a classroom, never. Everyone began to laugh. I think they were a little shocked, because this professor really enjoys throwing his weight around over his students. I could list several examples, but it would distract from my point. I wasn´t glaring at him because I hate him. I was glaring because if I didn´t focus, I was going to explode. I wake up in the morning and read about my people being beaten with police batons and being sprayed with pepper spray in the middle of the night, and then I´m supposed to agree with a humiliating rhetorical question about them? He could tell I was upset, and after class he waited for me. He said he didn´t mean to bother anyone. I guess that was his best attempt at an apology, even though it wasn´t an apology. I didn´t know what to say. I basically said, ok, and I understand. What am I going to say?... Oh, that´s alright? Ugh. I plan to go talk to him privately next week, not to make waves, I want to say I´m sorry for not being able to hear him when he was talking to me after class. Because I am. I am all for fighting the good fight, but I am also for mercy. If someone attempts to address the issue, I like to at least be able to hear them. I don´t have to say it´s OK, but it is possible to forgive without approving what has occurred.
There are simply some things that I can´t just ¨go with the flow¨ on.
If you´re discriminating based on sex or gender, I´ll challenge you.
If you´re discriminating based on race, I´ll challenge you.
If you´re discriminating based on creed, I´ll challenge you.
If you´re discriminating based on nationality, I´ll challenge you.
If you are trying to take away my personal rights or saying things that indicate you would like to take away someone else´s rights, I will challenge you.
Now, that sounds like someone who´s all fists and no heart. But I assure you, it is of the utmost importance to forgive, to be gentle. Challenging someone for holding unfair ideas doesn´t mean you don´t love the person. It just means... you refuse to let them go on discrimintating in your presence, at least without a fight.
I´ll never be someone who can let these things go. So I´ll fight every day. I feel better about fighting every day and having moments of anger or frustration than I would about seeing wrongs going on and doing nothing about it. Sometimes you have to put on your big girl panties and have at it.
This is disorganized. I´m talking about ten things at once. The point is, whether in the macro or the micro, it is important that we all challenge injustice and stand up to it.
This quote really resonates with me, because my whole life... I guess I´ve been a bit stubborn on things where I sense an abuse of power or might. I relentlessly petitioned my elementary school teacher for things like excessive demands (as a sixth grader, I tested at a high school senior´s reading level and therefore was only permitted to read books above my maturity level, and I also had to read more than people at lower levels. When I failed to read and test on some one thousand odd pages every month, I had to sit and read in the office, and this happened to several of us), the right to have a Valentine´s Day Party, anything my child self found important.
Now, it´s bigger topics, and I don´t always feel as involved as I could or should be. There´s a lot of protesting going on in my state right now about the Marcellus drilling. I am grateful to those who are protesting and attempting to keep those in charge in check. For my part, however, I haven´t been as involved as I could be maybe. I went to a letter writing event, signed some petitions. On my drive home from Morgantown over the last couple years, I´ve watched the landscape change. What used to be seventy-two miles of the most heart-lifting drive I´ve ever known is now punctuated by drill sites, trucks that are too big for the roads. They´re contaminating our water, ruining our roads, and really... endangering the life of every motorist who uses the road. Like I said, those trucks are just too big. They can´t handle those turns without going left of center, and given all the windy blind turns on Route 7... it´s a death trap. They are talking about putting a plant in close to my home, which would create about two hundred jobs. God knows we need them, but... at what price? I know people are struggling to keep the heat on and food on the table. I´m not too proud to admit that for awhile when my dad´s plant was on strike, we accepted food from a pantry, that the local gym waived our membership fee, that my piano teacher let me come a few times without paying. And I haven´t even felt the brunt of it. I see people I love going without medicine they need, living in the constant anxiety of the heat being shut off, surviving on macaroni and cheese and hot dogs because food that would be more nourishing is too expensive. This is clearly a problem... and not a sob story. I´m talking about people who are willing and able to work, but there just aren´t enough jobs. So this Marcellus drilling plant seems like a good idea, right?... It may be a temporary solution for some people who are on the brink of collapse, but in the long run... it´ll poison our water (and let´s keep in mind that we already can´t eat the fish out of that river), and without water, we´ll eventually be even more bound by this damnable tradition of economic slavery we have in the valley. Our people do back-busting jobs for 12- and 16- hour days, and can still barely make ends meet? Something doesn´t add up here, people...
Then I think about Wall Street and the Occupy movement. I woke up yesterday to news of a police raid happening in the middle of the night. And I think how grateful I am to the people who are there and in the encampments throughout the United States, trying to make a stand for economic justice, because let´s face it... our middle class isn´t just disappearing... it´s already almost entirely gone. The poor are getting poorer while the rich are getting richer. I´m all for a simple life. I don´t need designer tags or long strands of pearls, but I do need to eat, I do need clean water, and I do need enough money to pay rent and medical bills. Anyone working in a free and modern country shouldn´t have to struggle for at least that much. And these protestors are trying to insure that for us. We´ve been talking about the imminence of class warfare for awhile. Well, I think it´s coming... unless enough of us bottom-feeders can link up and actually work together, not punking out when someone comes along and offers to appease us with a few hundred a week... to destroy our own land. Are you kidding me? No, no, no. Because you´re going to get cancer from drinking the water, you´re going to slave away interminable hours of your one and only life, and struggle to make ends meet... to help the enemy.
And on a much smaller scale... people have been telling me forever... Pick your battles, Casie. Well, I do, but it´s just that... every morning you wake up, you´re in for the fight of your life. I feel it in other ways at home, and I fight whenever I´m able. And people tell me to have a beer, relax. But I cannot relax when I feel like people are encroaching on my rights, my independence. The cable company jacks my bill up without warning, I cancel the cable and give them my clear opinion. I´ll figure it out without cable. There are libraries and cafés for internet, and I don´t need to watch TV. I don´t even like it that much. I try to rent a car, but because I´m a week shy of 25, I´m going to have to pay an extra 100 bucks. So I decide, screw it. I´ll drag my junk ass old car to DC. If I break down, I break down. I am told that sometimes I should just accept this sort of thing. I absoultely will not. I know that rules are in place for a reason, statistics namely. However, because I am a good driver and can´t afford the extra price, I refuse to accept this. Someone, somewhere, has to say no. Lately, I´ve been told I´m not going to change a certain situation involving men. I´ve run across a few not-so-charming fellows over here. I´m dancing with my friends, they butt in like they have a right to come enjoy us for the night. I´m at the gym doing my workout, they´re counting my push-ups out loud or trying to swipe the machine I´m using. I´m teaching a friend to swim, they´re piping up like they know better. Just... back off... and I don´t care what´s accepted here or at home. I am not inferior for my sex, and every single time I feel that that´s being challenged, I will stand up to the challenge. I remember my gym class, 8th grade. We were playing wiffle ball of all things. I´d been playing ball for years and wanted to play third base. I didn´t want to stand in the outfield and be bored. In front of the entire class, I was ordered to stand back, go to the outfield. He said girls don´t need to be in the infield, because they´ll get hurt and cry, and her parents will sue him. (Personally, I´d be more worried about a sexual discrimination case.) I stood and explained that I played ball, had taken line drives to my body, and that because I was physically smaller than most males, I had less of a chance of actually being hit by the ball. But this grown man walked up to me and forced me back physically. After class, he employed the help of the high school quarterback to explain to me why women don´t belong in the infield. I informed him I didn´t care what the quarterback thought, slammed the door in his face as hard as I could, and marched off. And I´m not going to stand back here because of my sex either. Period. Would it make my life easier to stand down and go with the flow? Absolutely, but it would make it immensely less bearable as well.
I´m fighting right now for my damn bike of all things. I signed a contract when I moved into these apartments, and nowhere was it mentioned that I couldn´t have my bike in my room. So I´ve been keeping it here in my room. It´s protected from weather and thieves in my room. Then a few nights ago, a man follows me to my room and demands that I take my bike to the common lock-up room. I´m furious, of course, because I´m earning this apartment by teaching for the university, and I´m told I can´t have my bike in here... And where I mentioned above that bottom feeders need to hang together, I felt like he could have so easily just looked the other way. I took it down for him, because I appreciate his position. With the unemployment rate what it is here in Spain, and maybe he has a family to take care of... I get it. Like I said, I took donation food for awhile. But man, was that a hard walk downstairs, knowing I respected him and his position, but that he had none for me. I don´t know how many times I´ve said to people, ¨I didn´t hear that. I didn´t see that.¨ Sometimes the enforcement of rules is really just badgering people out of their rights, especially if the rule isn´t explicitly written down somewhere. So, I could accept it for what it is, and if I was a person who could do that, yeah, my life would be easier. But because I have never been able to overlook an abuse of power in any circumstance, I´m talking with the boss of the apartments about this. I´m explaining that this should have been written down and that I have a right to protect my property, because... I´m angry. Am I screaming in someone´s face and acting like a lunatic? No. There is a way to make your voice heard without acting like an asshole. I don´t always win, but I don´t always lose, either.
A couple days ago I was talking with a girl who was outraged by androgynous hair styles and dress for both men and women, saying that there should be a difference. It´s wrong, she said, just wrong. Didn´t I agree? I told her I didn´t. I told her why, calmly, rationally... but I didn´t gloss it over, either. And you know what? She (and she´s an opinionated woman) said, maybe you´re right. I hadn´t thought about it like that.
I´ve been hearing a lot here about how people from the US are a bunch of imperialists. No, it´s not everyone saying that, but enough that I´m concerned. Am I proud of everything my country´s every done? Absolutely not. We have our dark periods in history like any other country. But what really gets my blood boiling is when I hear someone say we´re all imperialists, because... like I discussed above, that´s not the case. There are probably some in the government who would like to dominate the entire world by force. But I don´t believe that´s true of the majority, and it´s certainly not true of the common person, not true of the poor person who would love for the tyranny to stop so he could just feel secure that food and healthcare would be there. So when my lit professor started in on some German girls yesterday for eating in class (in Spain, this is very disrespectul), I was already getting irritated. I felt like it would have been so easy for him to wait until after class or to walk up to them and address them more subtly. He chose to put them on display and humiliate them. He said it was like putting your feet up on the table, which was very American... suddenly he remembered he had an American student in the class, and asked me if he wasn´t right. I had no chance to take the edge out of my voice, and I let him know very clearly, that no, it was a very rude thing to do. Sure, some people may do it in their homes, but in a classroom, never. Everyone began to laugh. I think they were a little shocked, because this professor really enjoys throwing his weight around over his students. I could list several examples, but it would distract from my point. I wasn´t glaring at him because I hate him. I was glaring because if I didn´t focus, I was going to explode. I wake up in the morning and read about my people being beaten with police batons and being sprayed with pepper spray in the middle of the night, and then I´m supposed to agree with a humiliating rhetorical question about them? He could tell I was upset, and after class he waited for me. He said he didn´t mean to bother anyone. I guess that was his best attempt at an apology, even though it wasn´t an apology. I didn´t know what to say. I basically said, ok, and I understand. What am I going to say?... Oh, that´s alright? Ugh. I plan to go talk to him privately next week, not to make waves, I want to say I´m sorry for not being able to hear him when he was talking to me after class. Because I am. I am all for fighting the good fight, but I am also for mercy. If someone attempts to address the issue, I like to at least be able to hear them. I don´t have to say it´s OK, but it is possible to forgive without approving what has occurred.
There are simply some things that I can´t just ¨go with the flow¨ on.
If you´re discriminating based on sex or gender, I´ll challenge you.
If you´re discriminating based on race, I´ll challenge you.
If you´re discriminating based on creed, I´ll challenge you.
If you´re discriminating based on nationality, I´ll challenge you.
If you are trying to take away my personal rights or saying things that indicate you would like to take away someone else´s rights, I will challenge you.
Now, that sounds like someone who´s all fists and no heart. But I assure you, it is of the utmost importance to forgive, to be gentle. Challenging someone for holding unfair ideas doesn´t mean you don´t love the person. It just means... you refuse to let them go on discrimintating in your presence, at least without a fight.
I´ll never be someone who can let these things go. So I´ll fight every day. I feel better about fighting every day and having moments of anger or frustration than I would about seeing wrongs going on and doing nothing about it. Sometimes you have to put on your big girl panties and have at it.
This is disorganized. I´m talking about ten things at once. The point is, whether in the macro or the micro, it is important that we all challenge injustice and stand up to it.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
The Night I Accidentally Became a Rebellious Hippy
It´s that awkward moment... when you realize what you thought was going to be a chill bikeride with a friend and several of his... turns out to be a 200-people strong manifestation for cyclists´ rights.
On Friday night, I hopped on my bike (after carrying it down the stairs and sneaking as quickly and smoothly out the front door as possible because they give me crap for keeping my bike inside here) and began pedaling against the wind toward the city centre, La Plaza Mayor. I was going to meet a friend, as he´d asked me to join him and some of his friends on a bike tour through the town. I thought that sounded like an acceptable and welcome alternative to the endless nights of partying in clubs, so I said yes. As I wove through a chaotic swarm of pedestrians in the plaza, I saw a small group of cyclists starting to form. Their bikes were adorned with flashing lights, and I asked myself, is this a parade?
My friend wasn´t there when I arrived, so I sat at the base of a statue and called him up. He was running late, so I sat there on the statue watching more and more bikes with flashing lights arrive. I started to get the clue that this wasn´t just a casual group of friends. When my friend finally showed up, he joined me at the statue, and I asked him why there were so many people and what this was all about. He informed me that there were so many people because it was the organization´s tenth anniversary. I asked what organization, and he told me it was the organization that fights for the rights of cyclists in Valladolid. ¨Oh, so I´m part of a fight now?¨ I asked. He laughed and responded in the affirmative but said that tonight wasn´t really about anything. OK. He also said that riding your bike in the street is illegal, and that riding without those flashing lights at night is also illegal. Cool. This is when I realized I was going to spend the evening breaking laws, in a foreign country, without a passport on hand, as part of a manifestation (that we called a party so that the cops wouldn´t get upset). People were wearing wigs and flying flags on the backs of their bikes. Most people had bells on their bikes that they were ringing, and one guy even had a boombox strapped to the back of his bike. No, this was not going to attract any attention at all. I was going to slide right under the radar.
Ten minutes later, we´re stopped at a red light. My friend and I are up at the front of the pack, and behind us are about 200 other cyclists, filling both lanes of traffic, blocking cars. Drivers behind us are going crazy, and the guy beside me wearing two hats and mascara is blowing a whistle. People are waving at us and clapping. Some just stare on, confused. Nope, we have gained no attention. Green light. Go.
I didn´t think to wear gloves. Not only were my hands cold, but everytime I moved my hands against the handlebars, I could feel it tingling all the way up to my elbows. I thought this might not be a good sign. I kept pedaling.
Also, I´m claustrophobic. Even when I ride bikes with John, I usually demand that we ride single file with two bikes´ distance between us. Now, here I am in a hoard of bell-ringing, whistle-blowing, screaming, fist thrusting protesters, all on bikes, crammed together about as close as the Tour de France riders... and I´m just riding along taking pictures of the new parts of the city I´m seeing as I go. I´m thinking how cool this is that everyone´s all pals and helping stand up for bikers´ rights.
Honestly, while it might seem a minor issue, if we´re going to make the leap from cars to non-motorized transit, bikes are the way to go. They´re faster than walking, and in crowded cities, they´re also faster than cars... that´s true even in Morgantown... but when motorists don´t respect you and you don´t have a legal right to be on the road, and when pedestrians don´t respect you and you have to share their sidewalks... well, the situation could just be improved. How about a narrow lane tagged onto the sidewalk? I know in Morgantown it´s technially not permissible to ride your bike on the sidewalk. However, motorists go past angrily shouting at you to do so, but then if you do get on the sidewalk... with the hills and turns and all... if you run into a pedestrian and have to dodge into the street to get out of their way, well, that could be your life. And when the motorists say mean things to me like that, all I can think is, I´m out here using my legs while you spike the price of gasoline (obviously it´s not that simple, I realize). Instead of blowing your horn at me and shouting inflammatory remarks, you should be waiting for me at the top of this hill with a bag of cookies. Of course, there are times when it is more practical to go in a car, but let´s knock the road rage down a little and not risk cyclists´ lives because following them for one street might make us one minute later to wherever we´re going. If you want cyclists off the roads, join the fight and help them get a safe space of their own.
Take home point: You may want to get the details of events before agreeing to participate in them. It´s not that I would have said no; I just would have brought my passport along, just in case... because when those cops threw on their lights behind us, I was nervous. I was relieved, as I could tell many others were, also, when they drove on past. Sometimes when you think you´re going for a little bike ride, you are going on a protest. That´s OK. Just keep pedaling.
(Also, if you want to see more pictures of the event, they are available on my facebook profile, in the album titled Valladolid. At this point, they are the last 7 pictures in the album.)
Thursday, November 3, 2011
The Woeful Tale of a Wayward Library Patron
Well, after twenty years of abusing libraries, I have finally learned my lesson.
It was raining today. I´d been running, showered. I was enjoying my disgusting cup of instant coffee as much as one CAN enjoy a disgusting cup of instant coffee, and chuckling to myself at the blatant sarcasm of John Locke in his essay ¨On Human Understanding.¨ I was taking notes, preparing to write a response essay to it later. I got tired, took a nap, went to school, and then I went to the library...
I informed the librarian I´d forgotten to bring the book back due to the recent short vacation. I supposed there would be a penalty. I´m used to paying fines for my library books, as I never bring them back on time. Frankly, it´s frequently cheaper to pay the fine than it is to drive back to the library and turn in the book. Well, this man did not want my money. No. What he wanted was the FULL REVOCATION of my library privileges until a period of two days for every one day the book was late had passed. The horror! I was planning to go home with that book tonight and make myself some rooibos chamomile tea and continue reading. But the book was physically removed from my hands. I felt violated. My evening plans, my weekend plans, had just been pulled out of my hands. All I could do was stand there pathetically asking, ¨Seriously?¨
And that´s when I realized... this is what they needed to do to get me to bring my books back all those years. I have transgressed at every library I have ever patronized. I have acquired something of a record. My books are always returned late or damaged. To further exemplify my point, I will tell you of some perversions of library usage that will make you shudder.
Age 5. My parents both worked full time jobs. Mom was all day shift. Dad was a shiftworker. So I stayed at my grandma´s house a lot. Luckily for me, she lived close to the Paden City Public Library. I flippantly charged through the neighbor´s yards and church parking lots instead of using the streets on my way to the library. Sometimes I even snuck out without telling my grandma where I was going. Yeah, I was a hard roller like that. I couldn´t be distracted from my goal, which was to get to the library, march defiantly to the empty plastic gallon jug painted to look like a face with a mouth, out of which came recycled grocery bags. I would then greedily fill the bag with eight books, which was the library´s maximum and storm back to my grandmother´s house. She always wanted to know how many books I had, because my mother had instructed me not to get so many anymore since I always lost them. I lied, of course, and ran away and hid the books. When my mother came to pick me up from my grandmother´s house at the end of the day, I would wait until they were engrossed in conversation and run to the van as fast as I could to hide the books under the seats so she wouldn´t catch on to my disobedience. Four weeks later, though, she´d get a call from the librarian, who unfortuately also went to our church. (I had to be reminded of my crimes while looking at Jesus every Sunday.) Suddenly, my mother was standing in the doorway of my bedroom. ¨Casie, I just got a call from the library.¨ My five-year-old brain was racing, searching for lies and excuses before I could remember if I even had any books from the library. Oh, but there was the corner of ¨Frog and Toad Together¨ peeking out at me from under the bed, and I knew I was sunk. I´ve never been a good liar, perhaps due to the overwhelming panic I always feel at being caught at something, or perhaps due to the guilt only a helplessly repeat offender of library crimes such as myself could possibly ever know. Seeing the guilt spread across my face, my mother, who could sometimes be decent despite her efforts to cap my avarice for more and more library books, would enter what appeared to be a teddy bear, doll baby, and random stuffed animal drunken orgy, and help me search for the books. We figured 6 outta 8 wasn´t bad, and she´d take me to the library, make me walk in with my sack full, but not as full as it should have been, of books, and hand them to the library, explaining that I still had to check my backpack, cubby at school, and grandma´s house for the remaining two. For awhile I´d be embarrassed. I´d be sorry for the lack of Wet´n´Wild nail polish that I bought every week with my allowance, which was now being withheld to pay off my library debt. I´d go home, clean my room, try to convince my parents I could be trusted with library books again and to reinstate my allowance, but within days I would inevitably be back to my old tricks. ¨Mam-maw, me and Erica are going to the library, OK?... No, I won´t get more than three.. YES!!! I promise!!!¨ I was sincere, of course. What sort of sociopathic kindergartener could lie to her dear, sweet Mam-maw? But when I got to the library I was like a gambling addict in a casino. I fought myself hard. I laid all the books I wanted to take home with me out on a table and commiserated for MINUTES over which ones I would check out. I knew I couldn´t show up with eight again, not that soon, but maybe, no... surely, my compassionate grandmother would understand that I could not possibly leave these extra two behind. If I did, someone else might have them checked out when I came to look for them again. And then I´d come back a few weeks later, and SOMEONE ELSE would have them. Good God- this could go on FOREVER! Yes, my Mam-maw would understand.
By the fourth grade, I had yet to change my ways. Two of my great passions at that age were riding in the back of my dad´s truck and reading the Little House on the Prairie series. So one day I was just riding in the back of the truck, reading my book, when suddenly I felt the bump and tumble of the gravel driveway. CHIPS AHOY! If I didn´t get inside soon my little sister would beat me to them! So I jumped from the bed of the truck and sprinted in the house, forgetting all about my book. My dad was on the midnight shift that night. At about 11:45, just as he should have been arriving at the plant, it began to rain. I worried for my book. I thought about telling my mother, maybe we had time to drive up the river and rescue my book before it was ruined. It had a laminated library cover, so that should offer some protection, right? But I couldn´t expose my shame, or more accurately, terror. So half an hour later, I forgot all about it, went to bed, and woke the next morning with not a single thought of my lost book. That book stayed there for two months. The school librarian asked me about it when it was three weeks overdue, but by this time I´d forgotten about the truck incident and therefore spent hours searching for it at all my relatives´ houses and in the VORTEX OF HELL, which was my bedroom. One day I was just wallering around on the floor watching the morning sitcoms on TBS when my mom walked in the living room. ¨I found your book,¨ she stated flatly and smilelessly. ¨What book?¨ She held it up for me, soggy and moldy. I took it to the school librarian the next day after failed attempts at resucitating it with a blowdryer. She gave me a dirty look, made me pay 10 dollars in damages... I shudder to think how many bottles of Wet´n´Wild I had to sacrifice to pay that one off... but she STILL let me have more books.
I didn´t get better in high school. My report card was withheld more than once due to overdue library books or outstanding fines. In college, I failed to return movies and books on time, and when I did return them, they were frequently coffee stained. I always set the books on the return table and walked away as quickly as possible. Frankly, I was embarrassed of myself by that age. I could hear scolding librarians´ voices in my head: Overdue... again?! Coffee stains?! Do you really have NO respect for this library??? Every time I took a book a home, I promised myself... THIS time, I´d bring it back on time, I´d keep it clean, I wouldn´t dog ear the pages, I wouldn´t dig my nail into the pages as I followed along in the text. THIS time I was gonna get my shit together. It didn´t matter that I LOVED libraries, the overwhelming smell of musty pages every time I walked in the door, the fact that this was one institution I could actually get on board with, one that let me read books for FREE... I even sometimes donated my old books to try to burn off some old bad library karma... I just couldn´t get it together.
Then tonight I realized... if they wanted their books back, on time and undamaged, all they had to do was refuse to let me have any more. As I stood there in shock with no more book, I was completely bereft. Nothing was going to make this better, not another book, not learning my lesson, and definitely not the damn DIGITAL version! From here on out, I will be a good library patron (I hope). I will return my books undamaged (insofar as I am capable) and on time (if I remember).
(Parts of this may have been embellished. Or maybe I´m just saying that to save face... you decide.)
It was raining today. I´d been running, showered. I was enjoying my disgusting cup of instant coffee as much as one CAN enjoy a disgusting cup of instant coffee, and chuckling to myself at the blatant sarcasm of John Locke in his essay ¨On Human Understanding.¨ I was taking notes, preparing to write a response essay to it later. I got tired, took a nap, went to school, and then I went to the library...
I informed the librarian I´d forgotten to bring the book back due to the recent short vacation. I supposed there would be a penalty. I´m used to paying fines for my library books, as I never bring them back on time. Frankly, it´s frequently cheaper to pay the fine than it is to drive back to the library and turn in the book. Well, this man did not want my money. No. What he wanted was the FULL REVOCATION of my library privileges until a period of two days for every one day the book was late had passed. The horror! I was planning to go home with that book tonight and make myself some rooibos chamomile tea and continue reading. But the book was physically removed from my hands. I felt violated. My evening plans, my weekend plans, had just been pulled out of my hands. All I could do was stand there pathetically asking, ¨Seriously?¨
And that´s when I realized... this is what they needed to do to get me to bring my books back all those years. I have transgressed at every library I have ever patronized. I have acquired something of a record. My books are always returned late or damaged. To further exemplify my point, I will tell you of some perversions of library usage that will make you shudder.
Age 5. My parents both worked full time jobs. Mom was all day shift. Dad was a shiftworker. So I stayed at my grandma´s house a lot. Luckily for me, she lived close to the Paden City Public Library. I flippantly charged through the neighbor´s yards and church parking lots instead of using the streets on my way to the library. Sometimes I even snuck out without telling my grandma where I was going. Yeah, I was a hard roller like that. I couldn´t be distracted from my goal, which was to get to the library, march defiantly to the empty plastic gallon jug painted to look like a face with a mouth, out of which came recycled grocery bags. I would then greedily fill the bag with eight books, which was the library´s maximum and storm back to my grandmother´s house. She always wanted to know how many books I had, because my mother had instructed me not to get so many anymore since I always lost them. I lied, of course, and ran away and hid the books. When my mother came to pick me up from my grandmother´s house at the end of the day, I would wait until they were engrossed in conversation and run to the van as fast as I could to hide the books under the seats so she wouldn´t catch on to my disobedience. Four weeks later, though, she´d get a call from the librarian, who unfortuately also went to our church. (I had to be reminded of my crimes while looking at Jesus every Sunday.) Suddenly, my mother was standing in the doorway of my bedroom. ¨Casie, I just got a call from the library.¨ My five-year-old brain was racing, searching for lies and excuses before I could remember if I even had any books from the library. Oh, but there was the corner of ¨Frog and Toad Together¨ peeking out at me from under the bed, and I knew I was sunk. I´ve never been a good liar, perhaps due to the overwhelming panic I always feel at being caught at something, or perhaps due to the guilt only a helplessly repeat offender of library crimes such as myself could possibly ever know. Seeing the guilt spread across my face, my mother, who could sometimes be decent despite her efforts to cap my avarice for more and more library books, would enter what appeared to be a teddy bear, doll baby, and random stuffed animal drunken orgy, and help me search for the books. We figured 6 outta 8 wasn´t bad, and she´d take me to the library, make me walk in with my sack full, but not as full as it should have been, of books, and hand them to the library, explaining that I still had to check my backpack, cubby at school, and grandma´s house for the remaining two. For awhile I´d be embarrassed. I´d be sorry for the lack of Wet´n´Wild nail polish that I bought every week with my allowance, which was now being withheld to pay off my library debt. I´d go home, clean my room, try to convince my parents I could be trusted with library books again and to reinstate my allowance, but within days I would inevitably be back to my old tricks. ¨Mam-maw, me and Erica are going to the library, OK?... No, I won´t get more than three.. YES!!! I promise!!!¨ I was sincere, of course. What sort of sociopathic kindergartener could lie to her dear, sweet Mam-maw? But when I got to the library I was like a gambling addict in a casino. I fought myself hard. I laid all the books I wanted to take home with me out on a table and commiserated for MINUTES over which ones I would check out. I knew I couldn´t show up with eight again, not that soon, but maybe, no... surely, my compassionate grandmother would understand that I could not possibly leave these extra two behind. If I did, someone else might have them checked out when I came to look for them again. And then I´d come back a few weeks later, and SOMEONE ELSE would have them. Good God- this could go on FOREVER! Yes, my Mam-maw would understand.
By the fourth grade, I had yet to change my ways. Two of my great passions at that age were riding in the back of my dad´s truck and reading the Little House on the Prairie series. So one day I was just riding in the back of the truck, reading my book, when suddenly I felt the bump and tumble of the gravel driveway. CHIPS AHOY! If I didn´t get inside soon my little sister would beat me to them! So I jumped from the bed of the truck and sprinted in the house, forgetting all about my book. My dad was on the midnight shift that night. At about 11:45, just as he should have been arriving at the plant, it began to rain. I worried for my book. I thought about telling my mother, maybe we had time to drive up the river and rescue my book before it was ruined. It had a laminated library cover, so that should offer some protection, right? But I couldn´t expose my shame, or more accurately, terror. So half an hour later, I forgot all about it, went to bed, and woke the next morning with not a single thought of my lost book. That book stayed there for two months. The school librarian asked me about it when it was three weeks overdue, but by this time I´d forgotten about the truck incident and therefore spent hours searching for it at all my relatives´ houses and in the VORTEX OF HELL, which was my bedroom. One day I was just wallering around on the floor watching the morning sitcoms on TBS when my mom walked in the living room. ¨I found your book,¨ she stated flatly and smilelessly. ¨What book?¨ She held it up for me, soggy and moldy. I took it to the school librarian the next day after failed attempts at resucitating it with a blowdryer. She gave me a dirty look, made me pay 10 dollars in damages... I shudder to think how many bottles of Wet´n´Wild I had to sacrifice to pay that one off... but she STILL let me have more books.
I didn´t get better in high school. My report card was withheld more than once due to overdue library books or outstanding fines. In college, I failed to return movies and books on time, and when I did return them, they were frequently coffee stained. I always set the books on the return table and walked away as quickly as possible. Frankly, I was embarrassed of myself by that age. I could hear scolding librarians´ voices in my head: Overdue... again?! Coffee stains?! Do you really have NO respect for this library??? Every time I took a book a home, I promised myself... THIS time, I´d bring it back on time, I´d keep it clean, I wouldn´t dog ear the pages, I wouldn´t dig my nail into the pages as I followed along in the text. THIS time I was gonna get my shit together. It didn´t matter that I LOVED libraries, the overwhelming smell of musty pages every time I walked in the door, the fact that this was one institution I could actually get on board with, one that let me read books for FREE... I even sometimes donated my old books to try to burn off some old bad library karma... I just couldn´t get it together.
Then tonight I realized... if they wanted their books back, on time and undamaged, all they had to do was refuse to let me have any more. As I stood there in shock with no more book, I was completely bereft. Nothing was going to make this better, not another book, not learning my lesson, and definitely not the damn DIGITAL version! From here on out, I will be a good library patron (I hope). I will return my books undamaged (insofar as I am capable) and on time (if I remember).
(Parts of this may have been embellished. Or maybe I´m just saying that to save face... you decide.)
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