to quote my good friend Vince, Staff Sergeant US Army. Magnificent bastard that he is
“when a bunch of athletes choose to kneel for the National Anthem
people go fucking crazy
When the Gov’t shuts off the paychecks of soldiers…
Silence…”
https://lindaghill.com/2018/01/21/jusjojan-daily-prompt-january-21st-2018/
I was chatting with a friend on messenger last night. She is yet another addition to the growing list of people I have reconnected with from High School via FB. She is also on a shorter list; people who I have become close friends with that I thought didn’t know I existed in HS. Nancy and I have become great friends through our chats. We talk at least 3 nights per week about our lives now and flashing back to HS. The problem is that I don’t remember being friends with her in HS. I knew her, but don’t remember her ever giving me the time of day. She vividly recalls memories of us, of my offbeat sense of humor and comical antics. I don’t remember any of it. Until last night, I hadn’t brought myself to tell her that. I reluctantly told her that I don’t remember most of it, that I have largely blocked HS out of my mind, that I was an emotional mess and very mixed up. She said, “I never would have guessed that.” I was stunned. How could she not know? I thought everybody knew!
My memories of High School are as pleasant to me as Church in the 80’s is to former Altar Boys in Boston. It makes my ass hurt. I remember HS as a blur of being bullied, cliques, being nonexistent to the fairer sex, having very few friends, an average student, a sullen misfit who longed for school holidays and vacations. I hated getting out of bed in the morning, I truly dreaded going to school. So why do so many people remember me as a fun, independent kid?
The only explanation is that I got it wrong. I clearly didn’t maximize my opportunities. I didn’t see what other people saw. I have accepted my life for what it is and I don’t dwell on the past and I don’t want a do-over, High School was hard enough the first time. But I can’t help but wonder how different my life would be if I were able to correct some critical errors I made in my younger, foolish years.
I carried the weight of HS well into adulthood. I declined invitations to my 10th, 15th, 20th, and 25th HS Reunions. When I declined the 25th, I was asked by the coordinator to give a little quote about what I had been doing. I wrote,
“For years I tried to find myself, then I realized I was me all along.”
I was surprised at how fast I came up with that, it just flowed off the tongue. I stored it for later. Maybe it was a sign that I was beginning to let it go. Inspired by my new clarity, I dug a little deeper and found myself finally able to ask the big question, Is it possible that it was me and not everyone else? That is one of those questions that, even if asked of yourself, is a pretty big Matzo ball if you’re not ready for it. But Bingo, it was me. My entire HS experience sucked because I let it. So what did I learn?
Fight back. Against your situation, against your bullies, against your fears. I was a passive kid. I was an artist, a reader, a lover of music. I didn’t get mad, I retreated to my safe world of drawing album covers and reading books. Had I just once pushed, shoved or punched one of my tormentors I would have at least been left alone. Bullies want it easy. If you make them work for it they back off.
Stick with sports. When I think of it, I dropped off of the baseball team before tryouts were over because of the shit I took from some of the kids. But I was a pretty good baseball player. Now I’ll never know. I dropped out of Soccer because I was being made fun of by guys that I hated. They made fun of my cleats, they were cheap because we didn’t have much money. Instead of fighting back, or just ignoring them I quit. I wasn’t a bad player. I ended up running track. Chalk lines can’t mock you and you’re basically competing with yourself.
Embrace what I was good at. I was a good artist. It got me into college. But it wasn’t cool to be an art major. I was in the band. I love music and I was a good Trumpet player. But like art, being in the band wasn’t cool. What my dumbass former self didn’t realize was that I wasn’t cool either. Who am I trying to impress? And who cares about cool?
Try a little harder. After I was stuffed into my locker for the 100th time in 9th grade I was pretty much done. I became shy and withdrawn. It would affect more than my social life, it also affected my academic life. I didn’t participate in class. I began to be called stupid. I began to believe it. With the exception of classes that I really enjoyed I was a C student. Had I really applied myself I may have done a lot better.
Look at people as people, not at the groups they run with. Cliques, the eternal divider. I now know that the best kids in HS were the ones that got along with everybody. There are “jocks” that hung out with the “computer geeks” and there were “band fags” that played sports and there were “burnouts” that partied with the “jocks”. Life shouldn’t have been so compartmentalized. You can be the same person across multiple groups. I want to believe that the Breakfast Club could be real, that those kids somehow leaped an insurmountable hurdle and would walk into school Monday morning as cross-clique friends.
As I said, it was me. I can’t go back. I don’t want to. What’s in the past is in the past. It doesn’t matter now, only the lessons are intact. They served me well raising my children. I was able to give them sage advice through hard experience and I am so happy that their HS experiences were much better than mine. Had they endured what I had, it would have been much harder for me to make peace with my past.
I did attend my 30th reunion. I walked into this one relatively comfortable in my own skin but extremely nervous. Despite having a kidney transplant 8 months earlier I had been working out a lot and I actually looked in half decent shape but inside I still felt like that awkward, gangly teenager that walked down the halls not making eye contact with the same people that I was about to come face to face with. I walked up to the registration table and was greeted by multiple people who I barely recognized. Apparently, the news of my surgery had gotten around and I was a story. I exchanged pleasantries and went inside. The first person I ran into was my longtime friend Marc. My “sitting in the basement listening to music” buddy. I hadn’t talked to him in 28 years. He was genuinely happy to see me. We went inside and hit the bar. I talked to a few people, other than that the same people who didn’t talk to me in HS didn’t talk to me then as well. But it didn’t matter because the final lesson had occurred to me as I raised a glass with Marc…
It doesn’t matter how many friends you have, it’s the quality of the friendships. Less can be more. Quality over quantity. Seeing Marc made the whole reunion worth it. The rest of it was just facing a dragon. I emerged unscathed.
This is my first installment of what I hope is a series of blogs on the what-ifs of life. Having addressed the topic of “If” in a previous post; “as if”, “if when”, “if only” etc., I realized that there were so many directions I could go.
Once I decided to explore this further, I mulled a bit over where to start. Given my heavy heart today, I will start with
“what if” we never got married?
I saw you yesterday. You look sad. That smile that once lit up a room is nowhere to be seen. Your best friend told me she is worried about you, that you may do something drastic. That’s not your style.
You are stuck on a rough patch. You are largely supporting yourself and our 2 youngest children. Money is tight. I’m not much help. You live with your best friend, the one that you picked over me as your number one many years ago. Despite her generosity in letting you live in her home, and despite your love for her, you have begun to fight with her and you are extremely unhappy. Without the scent of sour grapes on my breath, I ask you; shouldn’t she be the one to talk you off of the ledge? Yet she is calling me to tell me you are not doing well.
This may surprise you, but I never wanted this for you. I hate that you are struggling and I would do anything within my means to make this better for you.
It is bittersweet to think that I actually gave you an out before we began dating. Surely you remember the night we sat in my Mustang, staring at the lights dancing across the pond, just talking. We were about to start dating, openly talking about all of the complexities. I told you that I had personal demons, health issues, and limited earning potential. You didn’t care. You cared so deeply for me, there was so much pressure on me not to hurt you. It was a big step. Simply put, I told you, for your own sake, that I wasn’t good for you. I gave you an out. Do you ever wonder what it would be like if you took it?
Sometimes, when angry at you, I asked myself if anyone else would have married you. That is not to say that it is any great treat to be with me, or that you are not great in many ways. But you are difficult. You have admitted that you are bipolar, yet refuse to seek treatment for it. You are quick to anger, unreasonable and stubborn when you want something, and completely inflexible on some things. It’s fair to wonder how well another man would handle it.
As for me, I was no prize either and not sure I would have ever married. I was broken when we met. Reeling from a breakup, recovering from an accident, on “hiatus” from college and a functional alcoholic. I was stuck in a nowhere job, my vision extended no further than my next day off. Other than the occasional fling with a waitress, I wasn’t dating at all and didn’t want to. If I hadn’t met you for all I know I would still be there. You pushed me to finish school, supported me as I worked full time and carried a full class load. You saw potential in me. You thought I was smart and you believed in me.
Despite your youth, you were a little broken for your age. You had a contemptuous relationship with your mother. She was toxic in her lack of support for you. Despite claiming to have your best interest at heart she criticized all of your choices and no one in your life was ever good enough for you, and let’s face it, for her as well. I swear you married a pizza cook just to get back at her. You still have the same relationship with her today. It has always been a hard thing for me to watch.
Had you married someone else would you have a bigger house? A nicer car? Non-material things like fidelity, passion, honesty, fun, and laughs? We had all of those things once. Having had and lost is surely better than never having at all.
Had I married someone else would I have gone as far in my career? I pushed myself to the top of the heap out of financial necessity. but I still made it much further than I would have ever expected of myself. Or would I still work in the kitchen, stuck in a nowhere job that I didn’t know was nowhere until you pointed it out to me.
I don’t know if you would have had a better life had you not married me. I promised you that I would do the best that I could, but I was never able to assure you that it would be enough. It is of small comfort that I tried.
“What if’s” aside I do know that without our union, the world would be less 4 great children who are destined to do great things. 4 caring, smart, compassionate kids that, like me, are worried about you and want you to pull out of this. Even in divorce, I will never abandon you. Even though you have asked me for nothing in divorce except a promise to help if needed, I will always be there to give you whatever I have to see that you are provided for. “What if’s” aside, we did get married, I did promise to take care of you, and I will always want the best for you.
in an age where celebrity is king
enamored followers form a herd
to look, dress and act like the next big thing
to dress like them
talk like them
echo their opinions
not even remotely aware
that they’ve become minions
Celebrity is merely the act
of being famously famous
it comes from a spotlight
not from any form of truth
I celebrate the regular folk
those who struggle daily
to do the right thing
without fanfare and red carpets
for deep inside each righteous soul
even those that walk in obscurity
is a beacon of true light
burning within
to light up the world
for all to see
or enjoy the night
because darkness is more than just the absence of light
https://lindaghill.com/2018/01/19/jusjojan-daily-prompt-january-19th-2018/
https://lindaghill.com/2018/01/18/jusjojan-daily-prompt-january-18th-2018/
I found a part-time job that I can work without affecting my disability claim. It’s manageable, 2 days a week, no stress and it’s something I love.
I got up at 6 today, my new Thursday routine. I leave early and drive down to MA, about 2 1/2 hours of driving, work Thursday and stay at my buddy Jim’s place Thursday night and drive home after work on Friday. It’s been fun so far.
I came down at 6:20 to find my mother in the kitchen. She can’t just sleep in, she needs to see me off with our ritual morning coffee. “You’re looking chipper this morning, don’t tell me you slept well?” (I never do). I admitted that I did feel good. I was tired from a lack of sleep but I was excited. Excited is a look and feel I haven’t worn in a while.
I bid my mom adieu, stepped out into the arctic blast, started the sled, topped off my washer fluid and I was off. I adjusted my seat, charged my phone and adjusted my rear view mirror. I caught a glimpse of my homely mug in the process and instead of my usual grimace, I smiled. I realized at that moment that Mom was right. I was feeling chipper. I’m feeling like the old me. In short,
For those of you that have read my posts before, you have seen that I have struggled with some significant obstacles. I have openly lamented that I don’t have the fight that I used to. My readers will also know that the “Superman” thing is not a glorified ego or a magnified self-image, it is a character trait. I have always wanted to fix everything, have always acted bulletproof and my refusal to let my illness slow me down was the cape to my illness, aka my Lex Luthor. I have been called Superman as an insult by my wife who thought I was in denial. I have been called Superman by a few lovelies who received a good “Rogering” late in the evening to get another one early in the morning before work (man I wish those days) but most importantly I’ve been called Superman by those who knew I was sick but couldn’t tell. Simply put, I refused to be a sick person.
After this past summer, it’s been harder not to be that sick person. I have been symptomatic in so many ways it became like a game show. “What do we have today behind curtain number 1 Johnny? Ooooh tooo bad it’s swollen legs. No walking for you today!” The next day it’s Gout, Ooooh too bad!” Just one thing after another after another, eventually I hung up my cape.
Even my wife, who I perhaps unfairly, consider to be my ultimate detractor had told me that I had to get the “Old me” back. To get the fight back. It wasn’t there. But lately, I think less about feeling lousy and look forward more to feeling good. I wake up and set goals, I tell my Drs. what I can do, not let them tell me what I can’t. I am thinking about the future, regardless of how long it is, not dwelling on today. I am defining the situation before it defines me. I am not the sick guy until the day after they bury me.
I like this feeling. I’m not just raging against the dying of the light. I’m starting a goddamn revolt.
Every man dies. But not every man lives…
It was a horrible time for me. I lost my best friend, I felt terrible for my father and I worried for our family’s safety. The man was truly unstable. Dark days indeed.
One thing my uncle couldn’t control was that Mike and I went to school together. We managed to hang out at school and occasionally would play basketball at the church near Mike’s house. The get-togethers were rare. It was very frightening for both of us and the opportunities didn’t come up often. I found out many years later that his dad found out about one of our sneaky rendezvous’s and, as promised, beat Mike pretty badly.
Fortunately, and I sound like a really bad person here, 4 years after the infamous 4th of July incident, the bastard came home drunk, attempted to beat his wife, fell on the kitchen floor and died of an aneurysm. I shed zero tears.
Now 14, I was hopeful that it was finally over. I naively thought that both families would come together, the wedge now gone and pick up where we left off. That was not to be. Mike and I resumed our friendship in that we openly spent time together but the rest of the family, with the exception of my aunt, still believed it happened and treated me like the son of the guy who stole from them.
Several years passed and I began to believe that it would likely never get better. Mike and I remained close but just didn’t talk about it. My father resumed his relationship with his sister, who in turn told her children to be respectful. It was still painful for him, I could see him struggling to be comfortable around them. In the house that he grew up in, he felt like a villain. But he was glad to have his sister back.
I would not speak to anyone in that house, other than Mike for years. I didn’t hate them but I was extremely offended that they, anyone for that matter, would really think my father was a thief. So many years after the incident, my father had proved over and over what a decent, honest hard-working man he was. I was offended for him and I resented them. Despite my anger, not seeing them on a regular basis allowed me to keep a lid on it. Out of sight, out of mind.
When I was 22, Mike and I were both still living with our families in town. I had been working a lot of overtime and had finally bought my dream car. A 1988 Mustang GT Convertible. Mike and I loved Mustang’s so I was eager to show it to him. It was a hot August day and I navigated my shiny new car, top down, around the potholes to Mike’s house. I pulled up and one of my older cousins was outside. I asked for Mike, he told me he wasn’t home. “Nice car,” he said flatly. I thanked him and rolled forward to turn around in the driveway. As I did, 2 more of my cousins came out of the house and watched me. As I passed them, slowly to avoid dust, I heard one of them say “there goes the rich kid.” I slammed my brakes and threw it into reverse. Fuck the dust.
I rolled up, put it in Park and got out. “Excuse me, did someone say Rich kid?” They just looked at me. I wasn’t the same scrawny kid they used to toss around. I was now 6 ft and 250 pounds and I was pissed. I asked again. Nothing but contemptuous stares met my fury. That’s when it all became crystal clear to me. It wasn’t just over a coin, they resented my father’s success. I let them have it. I unleashed and showed them a side of me they didn’t know existed. I tore into them for not understanding that my father worked his ass off to not live on this street anymore. He got a job, got into a union, put in overtime, worked side jobs and missed almost every holiday working on broken oil burners for people with no heat. All to buy a house and give his family what he didn’t have growing up. I went on to give them hell about that stupid comment about my car. The car I worked 60 hours a week to buy. Who the fuck did they think they were to call me the “rich kid?” To say that I read them the riot act is an understatement. I flipped them off and got back in my car.
I wouldn’t speak to them again until my father’s funeral 25 years later. I wrote my father’s eulogy. It may be the best thing I’ve ever written. I spoke passionately about how much I admired my dad, what an honest man he was, how he had been hurt by those close to him but always retained his dignity. I stressed his work ethic and his big heart. I wrote of his great success through hard work despite his humble upbringing. I wasn’t able to deliver it myself, I knew that I would be a blubbering mess. I had a hard time listening to the minister read it even though I wrote it. As he read it, I made eye contact with the few cousins that bothered to show up. They were squirming in their seats. I don’t think even I knew until that moment that parts of that eulogy were scathing, brutal truth bombs aimed at them for how they treated him.
At the cemetery, as I knelt on the frozen ground at my father’s grave, one of my cousins patted me on the shoulder and said “I’m glad I came today. “
“I’m glad as well.” As I thought to myself Glad that I will likely never see you again.
My Mom disagrees with me on a lot of what I am talking about. She claims that the cousins were friendly after my Uncle’s death. I’m glad they were to her but I never saw it. Mike himself, on one of the rare occasions that we talked of his father, said that his siblings all believed that my father stole from them.
I’m privileged to still be close to Mike. He annoys the hell out of me sometimes, we have very little in common, but he is a solid guy with a very big heart. The only problem I have with him is that he is a walking reminder of an indignity perpetrated against my father. Normally a forgiving person, on this one the bitterness is still on my tongue. My father lived a great life, despite the headwinds he had to trudge through in his earlier years. He didn’t get the time on earth that he deserved for the work that he invested. To think that so many of those years were spent feeling hurt and wrongly accused angers me to no end. As in so many other aspects of his life…he deserved so much better.
The following post is my most candid to date. I don’t apologize for my language, my anger or my lack of empathy. It is a story that in large part formed the person I am today but it might not be what you are used to seeing from me.
While writing about my cousin Mike yesterday, therapeutic as it was, I triggered myself AGAIN. It seems that whenever I write of family, another incident bubbles to the surface and I have to write about it.
Mike is very important to me, I hope I did him justice in yesterday’s post. He was a major part of my life for many years and I will always have a soft spot for him. He, 1 of my 6 cousins, is the only one I talk to.
Railroad Ave was the street in town that everyone spoke of but rarely walked down. It could have been taken directly out of Steinbeck’s Cannery Row. A small dirt road, littered with giant potholes that resembled small ponds after a rainfall, occupied by the poorest residents of my hometown. The street consisted of some people with menial jobs, and some multiple generations of poverty dwellings. It was not uncommon to see barefoot, filthy children playing on the street with makeshift toys as adults who should be working looked on and drank beers from a dirty cooler parked next to a lawn chair. It wasn’t uncommon to see me there either, on that street was the same house my father grew up in. My aunt and cousins now lived there, 8 of them in a small house with dirt floors and plastic on the windows.
I didn’t care if it was poor, I didn’t even know. I was young and just happy to be with family. My father’s sister and her drunk-ass beater of a husband and my 6 cousins were family. I never thought to compare our houses, I was just a child. Mike was the youngest, he was my best friend. I learned how to play baseball, horseshoes, and basketball on that street. I first rode a bike with no trainers on that street, with Mike, wobbly and barely in control as I averted the massive water-filled potholes. It was a magical time for me until my drunk-ass uncle took it all away from me.
I was ten years old. Our family, per tradition, was spending the 4th of July on Railroad Ave. The cousins and I were doing our thing. Lighting off firecrackers, eating hot dogs, sneaking a peek at cousin John’s dirty books while playing Lynyrd Skynyrd records. Soon we heard yelling and we all ran to the picnic area. I was speechless, my uncle was shoving my father, yelling belligerently at him as my 100-pound mother and aunt tried to separate them. My uncle, spitting mad, screamed at my father to get the hell off of his property or he would get his shotgun. Nor knowing what had happened but not wanting to stick around for the shotgun, I ran to the car behind my mother and father. Of all the things I didn’t know at that moment, I definitely didn’t know what a formative moment that would be in my life.
I would find out that night that my Uncle had accused my father of stealing a rare gold coin from his house. This coin would end up being the focus of much speculation for many years because no one, including his wife, knew of it and it didn’t make sense because he was a nasty drunk who would have sold it for beer money. But all that mattered was that he believed it, and I refused to believe it. My father was an honest man, someone had to believe in him.
My family was reeling from this event. My father, ever the honest man was dumbfounded and, perhaps most importantly, he was hurt. My mother was deeply concerned for him and for me. We would soon find out that my uncle had issued a fatwa of sorts against my Dad. Apparently, his drunk friends swore to kick my father’s ass if they saw him. His family was forbidden to speak with mine and Mike was told specifically that if he and I were seen together he would get a beating. It was so bad at one point that my father had a restraining order against my uncle.
It was a horrible time for me. I lost my best friend, I felt terrible for my father and I worried for our family’s safety. The man was truly unstable. Dark days indeed.
to be continued…
I had the great pleasure of a long phone conversation with a new friend today. We get along so well because we value “real” and are very direct people. What do I mean by direct you ask? If you’re wearing an ugly hat don’t ask us if we like your hat. We should both have tee shirts that read “are you sure you want me to answer that?” You get the point.
We got onto the subject of social media today. We discussed the pitfalls of easy access, the danger of stalkers and trolls, and the evaluation process when accepting or ignoring friend requests. My friend and I mostly agreed on what constitutes a “friend” and we shared some funny and not so funny stories about different people’s attempts to access our little online worlds. As we joked back and forth, once again I triggered myself. I really need to stop doing that.
A few years ago I got a friend request from “Sue”. I didn’t recognize her at first, the last name didn’t ring a bell. When I saw the friends list I saw my cousin Mike and I realized who it was. DELETE. A few days later I got another. DELETE. A few weeks later another. DELETE. My cousin’s ex-wife was not going to infect my Facebook. A few weeks and 2 DELETES later my cousin called. Mind you I hadn’t talked to him in months (long story). He wasn’t calling to say hi, he wanted to know why I wasn’t accepting “Sue’s” friend request. “You’re joking right?”
“Not at all, why.”
“Because we went almost 6 years without speaking because of her. Why would I want to talk to her now?”
“Let it go.” Yeah, not my style. He doesn’t get it, he never will.
It all started in the late 80’s. Mike and his new girlfriend Sue asked me to go to an amusement park in Western, MA (now a Six Flags) with them. I had hung out with them a few times before this, Mike and I were very close so it wasn’t unusual for him to invite me along. Mike was smitten with Sue, me not so much. I found her to be selfish, immature and smothering. But it wasn’t about me, it was his life. He had a wonderful combination of good heart and low self-esteem that predestined him to marry the first girl who touched his dick.
We walked into the entrance of the enormous park, Mike looked really happy. We headed towards the largest attraction only to realize that Sue had dropped off a few yards back. We quickly found her on a bench. She looked miserable. He immediately asked her what was wrong. To which he was met by a “nothing”. He persisted to ask what happened and she continued to not answer him. A “fine” (the dreaded word to any man) would have been a welcome relief. Finally, she got off of the bench and trudged alongside my hapless cousin. I wasn’t playing her bullshit games, I ignored her. Later that day, when Sue was doing some collectible shopping, Mike pulled me aside and said “you’re not going to believe what that was about”
“I’m listening,” I said.
“We walked past a popcorn stand and I didn’t think to stop and get her some.”
Wow, I thought to myself. It’s so much worse than I thought! Always the compassionate one I said “She’s not here right now. Run, don’t walk.”
He thought I was kidding.
We got through that day and many others. He eventually proposed. She, of course, said yes. Mike and I were having drinks a few days later. The waiter had just dropped off a fresh round. Mike watched him walk off, leaned back in his chair, looked at me and asked: “what do you think about Sue?”
“What do you mean, what do I think?” I asked him quizzically. “What does it matter, I’m not marrying her.” I was hoping that I would end it there. I wouldn’t be so lucky.
“Cut the shit. Tell me what you think.”
“Don’t make me say it.”
“Say it.” He leaned in and met my eyes.
“She’s a fucking bitch and she’s going to ruin your life!” I blurted.”Happy?” Instantly relieved yet mad at myself. I was waiting for the punch. We had beaten the snot out of each other more than a few times. Bracing for a table full of drinks and a 185-pound cousin landing in my lap, I instead saw before me a perfectly calm guy.
“I’m sorry Mike, I love ya cuz. I’m just thinking about you. Not trying to be an ass.”
In the end, it didn’t make a difference. They got married, I was an usher. I slept with one of her bridesmaids (the streak was intact). I managed to keep it together until about a year later when I was visiting them and their new baby. Sue was being exceptionally bitchy and demanding of Mike. He was exhausted from trying to please her and care for the baby and she was acting like a petulant child. After watching Mike offer to make her different dinners only to be met with indifference and attitude I spoke up. In not so many words I lashed out at her for treating him so poorly. I may have mentioned something along the lines of “like I called it” which wasn’t helpful. Mike, against the wall, had to make a decision and he chose to throw me out. I welcomed the cold air in my face to the cold air coming from that bitch.
We wouldn’t speak for 6 years, when he divorced her. I had been right, but I wasn’t happy about it. She ruined the guy. Mike and I really aren’t the same but we are friendly. We have rules now, one is we don’t talk about Sue. So when he asked me to accept her friend request it brought back a lot of memories.
This ties in with the social media thing as such. Who do you have on your Facebook? I only have family, school classmates, co-workers past and present and a very select few that mean enough to me to follow their lives. I certainly have no room for someone who threw me out of her house many years ago, nor do I think it’s appropriate for someone else to advocate on her behalf. I would like to think that I have some say in whom I interact with.
I fondly remember sitting in my grandmother’s kitchen when I was a young boy, watching her do her letters. She was extremely structured and she always made sure to make time for the highlight of her day, the mail. When she heard the stuttering engine of the mail truck driving away she would hurry to the mailbox, eagerly hoping for a letter from a relative in California or a friend from High School. More often than not, she would get one. She would then sit down at the little round table in her tiny kitchen, with a steaming cup of tea and excitedly read her mail. She loved to relay to me the adventures of this uncle or aunt or friend or friend of a friend and give me the backstory. I didn’t know any of these people but it was nice to listen to her stories. She would then break out her stationary box, select the proper letter and matching envelope and write a response. That response would be in her mailbox that night, with the flag raised for the mailman to pick up the next day. On average it would take 8-10 days to get a response. This was the way she communicated, if she couldn’t see them in person then it was a letter. She hated the phone. She liked letters, and cards, she could keep them and reread them at a later date. When she died I recovered thousands of letters in her attic. Along with hundreds of letters from my grandfather to her when he was in the Pacific during WWII.
To look back on this now, it is a fond memory but seems as technologically advanced as loading a wooden ship with mail and then sitting in the Widow’s Walk waiting to see sails on the horizon. I can’t imagine the patience it required, but I can relate to the excitement when it arrived.
We have lost that in today’s lightning fast world. This is obviously good and bad. It is good because we need to get certain information quickly and efficiently. But with regards to interpersonal communication, we have lost the excitement and have zero patience. In all of the rush to “shoot a text. fire off an email. Leave me a voicemail, Facebook me, Inbox me, Face-time or Snap Chat each other we have created a culture of immediate gratification. We call it “Ghosting” if someone doesn’t respond immediately as if there is malice or wrongdoing behind it. We misread intentions and tones behind texts which lead to massive misunderstandings and try to express complex emotions with emoji’s. In addition, and perhaps most tragic, is that in all of the abbreviations and cutesy shortcuts we take we’ve lost the ability to actually talk to each other. We are killing our language. It is perhaps fortuitous that our President speaks at a 4th-grade level and in short sentences. Many of us can’t understand a higher level and if we can we lack the attention span and patience to comprehend it.
I fear for those who never learn the complexities and benefits of language skills. Of eye contact. Of the handshake. I cringe for the job applicant that is unable to properly state his worthiness because of a lack of language skills, the knowledge of body language and posture. Things that someone who spends time talking to actual people, not screens, would know about.
My Grandmother read a letter 3 times before she took pen to paper. Her response required careful contemplation. (https://lindaghill.com/2018/01/16/jusjojan-daily-prompt-january-16th-2018/) To not be misread or misunderstood meant as much to her on paper as it did if they were in front of her in her cozy kitchen, at her small table, drinking tea and eating Lorna Doone’s.
At this moment I have 1,129 unread emails in my inbox. I just heard my phone ping repeatedly so I likely have some texts. I hope that there is something in there that will motivate me to make a cup of tea, sit and really contemplate the contents, inspire me to share it with my family, print it out and store it in the attic for enjoyment at a later date. It really is doubtful. I swear, the farther we advance the farther we fall behind.
A message from Dr. King
I had a dream
with the world I shared it
that we’d embrace our difference
not run scared of it
please explain it to me
I have nothing but time
how ending the lives of each other
honors the memory of mine
I fought without fists
anger or spite
I called for equality and love
not to spill into the streets and fight
I reached out in peace
extended my hand
hoping to set an example
that would ring throughout the land
yet still we fight
we hate and we label
to see beyond the color of skin
we seem hopelessly unable
I left this earth 50 years ago
but I still watch from above
as my dream remains just that
in the absence of brotherly love
Come together as one
hatred is cowardice
labeling a man by his skin
does not do him justice
it’s never too late
to right this wrong
may we walk and live hand in hand
that will be my victory song
https://lindaghill.com/2018/01/15/jusjojan-daily-prompt-january-15th-2018/
The Tao of Bill 