Exposure Equals Tolerance

I just read a horrible article about a boy being bullied because he was, or appeared to act, homosexual.

I recently had a conversation with our copper, who guards our credit union, and I asked him about gang activity in Indianapolis. He gave me a lot more information than I really wanted to know. His perspective and his experience was enlightening. So many of the gang recruits are joining because they are protecting their racial territory. You don't see as many of the black gangs killing others as you do the black versus Hispanic situation. Then throw in poverty, ignorance, drugs, absent parents ... well, don't get me started.

When I was a young girl, dancing was my life. My sport of choice. I was also involved in community theater. At Butler/Jordan College of Music, my primary instructor was Mr. Copeland. He was as flamboyant and stereotypical as any gay man could be. I loved him madly. (My Dad used to refer to him as "Mrs. Copeland" just to annoy me but truly, my Dad doesn't have a prejudiced bone in his body.)

Mr. Copeland wanted me to attend many, many classes. It made me better and I think he liked having his "pet" students around. My parents couldn't afford 7-10 classes a week so he decided on a creative solution. I would be a demonstrator. (For those of you without dance experience, that's the person that stands in front of the class and demonstrates the move or the steps that the instructor expects everyone to do.)

I did this for years! The other demonstrator was a black girl, my age. We became fast friends. Some of my happiest memories are hanging with her between classes or the many times we were in the same show. I did not even notice that she was black and I don't think she really cared that I was white. We were friends.

In my feeble mind, bigotry equals ignorance. And, I am tired of it. I know, or have friends, or have coworkers, or have relatives who:

are black,
are Hispanic,
are gay,
are rednecks,
are ignorant,
are snobs,
are crazy.

Somehow, I manage to like, love or at least tolerate them all.

Just Beneath the Surface

Some people are stoic. Or good actors. Or totally in control of their emotions. I am not a member of any of these clubs.

Regardless of the emotion, I have no control. I have broken into hysterical giggling at church and even had a couple of Mary Tyler Moore moments at funerals. During the children's portion of worship last Sunday, one of our boys developed an amazing fascination with his genitals.

And I can cry for no reason or every reason. The best thing about showers is the ability to cry and no one can hear you. I cry at touching commercials or songs that remind me of fun times, bad times, people I miss, etc. That commercial with the dogs in shelters sends me running for the Puffs.

Today is my 47th birthday. As much as all my Facebook friends think I'm hung up on the age, I'm not. In a weird way, I like my age. I'm certainly proud of my accomplishments and old enough to know I've lived (so far) an extremely blessed life.

When my stepson (I HATE calling him that!) was little, we would say our prayers. When we would get to the "God bless so and so and so and so" he would be so exhausted just trying to get through the list. I cherish that memory and I hope he does too. I also hope he still says his own version of that prayer. His statement to me, "I have so many people that love me" resonates with me today. Cards, Facebook notes and more have made my day.

Vanity is supposed to be wrong and I guess it is. Where do we draw the line? Am I not supposed to notice that I've aged 10 years in the last year and 1/2?

I've laughed today. I've cried in the shower -- mainly because of one email that reminded me of what was. Every emotion has reared its beautiful and ugly head.

It's my birthday and I'm embracing the emotions.

The House that Built Me

The wonderful thing about country music is the stories. Heartache, mischief, loves gone wrong, etc.

Miranda Lambert's latest, The House That Built Me, is my new fave. How does she know this much about me?

Here are some snippets:

I used to do my homework in that little room.
My favorite dog is buried in your back yard.

And the best part is the chorus:

If you'll just let me in, I swear I'll leave ... with nothing but a memory.

She needs to be in her childhood home. Touch the walls, feel the aura, put a hand on the concrete.

I'm in touch with this. My life fell apart and guess where I ran?

I'm long past the time that I should've moved on. Call it lazy or call it crazy ... I don't know.

I will move on. I will redefine the life I need for myself. But right now, I'm indulging a need. I put my head on a pillow, say my prayers and take great comfort in returning to the house that built me.

Looking Back; Looking Forward

There's nothing wrong with walking along memory lane. It adds perspective and let's face it -- it's fun. But lately, I am trapped on that street. Time may not heal things but it's supposed to add perspective. I'm not sure about that either. With me, it's much easier to get wrapped up in the good times, the easier times, the days that I thought all was right with the world.

This is why we have girlfriends.

And parents. And dogs.

Did I mention I had a date last night with the love of my life? The man I have shared most of my adult life with and the man who is capable of evoking every emotion and feeling with a glance or a touch...

Scary stuff for the faint of heart.

I recently plopped myself in my minister's office. I pretended to talk about committee stuff for a while until I gathered the courage to ask him (again!) for guidance about my marriage and impending divorce. Like all talented and well-schooled counselors, he was useless. I believe he said, "You're looking for me to tell you what to do and I can't do that." (He's not useless -- that was a joke!)

What he said, and it resonated, was this:
"You've already made your decision. You just need to act on it."

Yes, I do know it's time to look to the future. I may never love another man the way I loved this one.

But who knows? Maybe some really good stuff is out there once I choose to look forward.

Rocking in Memories

Don't we all have the fantasy of kicking back in old age? Rocking next to someone we love? Sharing memories and sharing stories.

The thing that gets me about the rocking chair fantasy is I don't want to sit beside someone who doesn't share my history. I don't want to learn his stories; I want to know them by heart. I want to interrupt and say, "No, it wasn't New Orleans; it was Las Vegas." I don't want to tell someone that I was once younger and cuter and smart and capable. I want someone who remembers when I was all of those things.

You're probably thinking that I'm melancholy and muddled in memories because my divorce is progressing. You would be correct.

Just because my divorce is the right thing doesn't make it hurt less.

Whose Truth?

"Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth ...?"

How many times have we all heard this phrase?

Recently I watched a documentary about eyewitness testimony. Most juries put a lot of stock in it. Turns out, it's not quite as reliable as people believe. In the passionate quest for justice, the brain can be a fickle beast. Before DNA testing, eyewitness identification was often the overwhelming evidence that convicted the accused.

Is it possible that sometimes the truth is just a story we've told ourselves so often it has become the truth in our minds? Is there such a thing as the absolute truth?

My opinion is my truth. But, I know it's fallible. My memories of events are my truth. But, I've often been challenged and even (gasp!) proven wrong.

There's something noble about the pursuit of truth. But I'm going to remind myself that it often depends on your point of view.

"Truth is beautiful, without doubt; but so are lies."
Ralph Waldo Emerson