This past weekend, we went to Disney and came to the conclusion that our son is a tremendous flirt. He is not just friendly, he’s an eight month old flirt. He bats eyelashes, smiles, acts all charming and then starts acting coy once he knows his audience is in the palm of his hand. His behavior, in my opinion, is a far cry from the normal cutenesss that eight month olds foist on unsuspecting victims.
So, Tariq and I started discussing how this might play into his teenage personality. Because that’s who we are… big picture people.
I said flippantly, I hope this isn’t going to be a huge problem and he doesn’t try to be some cheesy gel covered Casanova when he’s sixteen.
My husband said, He better not. He better be a decent human being that respects women, or I’ll <something that may or may not warrant a call from child services>.
I love that about my husband. That his rules are the same. A daughter is not required to exhibit any more modesty, decency or self respect than a son. This is a big deal. It’s a testament to the way a man should raise a son and a daughter.
Too many times, I see people excuse sloppiness, bad manners, promiscuity or just plain hyperactive behavior citing that, well, he’s a boy, so it’s OK.
No, it’s not OK.
I understand and accept that gender and sex play important roles in child behavior, and I even accept that we must take into account that these factors exist when disciplining our kids.
Still, a value is a value, and if it’s important for your daughter, then it’s important for your son. In fact, I would go so far as to say that if you cannot raise your son to follow the rules that you may intend to impose on your daughters, then said values are flawed.
He can be a boy and have self respect and respect others.
He can be a boy and put things back where he picked them up.
He can be a boy and make his bed and wash his hands.
He can be a boy and not hit or fight or curse.
He can be a boy and still think about how what he says or does makes other people feel.
He can be a boy and be kind to people and have good manners.
These are not gender specific.
Of course, the boy, per Tariq’s rules, is still not allowed to play with any of his sister’s dolls, but, at least Tariq expects his son to behave within an equal set of parameters as his sister as defined by our personal family values.
It seems that no matter where we go as a family, a trip to some sort of museum always lands on the itinerary. I think I have more to do with that than I would like to admit, but I keep telling myself that my husband is secure enough in his masculinity to stare at abstract art for a few minutes and act like it means something to him.
Anyway.
Back in January, we went to Savannah, which many of you may know is a very “artsy” place. While we were there, we took the kids (yes, even the infant) to the Jepson Center. In our defense, they have a great little kid’s section that does a wonderful job of illustrating not only the mechanics of art, but its relevance in our every day lives.
N. and I have great conversations on these little museum trips. Like, the following:
“Hey, N., look at this one, this is by an artist from France.”
“What’s France?”
“A country.”
“What’s a country?”
“A place where people who speak the same language, eat the same kinds of food and wear the same kinds of clothes live together.”
“So. America is not a country.”
“No, America is a country. Actually, it’s the United States of…”
“But people dress different from each other here. And they eat different foods. And they look different,”
“Yeah, well, America is kind of special like that.”
“Oh, we’re better because we’re special.”
This is the point in the conversation where I flash forward twenty years and see my daughter holding up a poster with the words, “If you don’t love America, get the hell out” MINUS the sense of irony.
“Um, no…”
“Oh, we’re worse than France…”
“NO WAY… we’re just…”
“Where is France, Mama?”
“In Europe.”
“What’s Europe?”
“A continent.”
“What’s a continent?”
This is the point in the conversation where other patrons of the museum start staring at me.
“A continent is a big piece of land that different countries are a part of… like, we live in North America.”
“Oh, they named the continent after us.”
“Um. Yes. No. Wait… I don’t know…”
“DID THEY NAME THE CONTINENT AFTER US OR NOT?”
“I DON’T KNOW.”
This is the point in the conversation where the other patrons of the museum start laughing at me.
“Who made continents?”
“Well, Allah made continents.”
“Why?”
“Because, you know, he could… and, I guess, so people could live on them, so, um, we would have a place to live.”
This is a place in the conversation where I foolishly assume that I have (a) dodged a major bullet and (b) ended the conversation.
“Why did he want people to live on them?”
“So, we could follow his plan, you know, so we could do things like take care of each other and …”
“What did he make the continents out of?”
“Rocks…”
“How did he make the rocks stick together?”
This is the point in the conversation where the other patrons start pitying me.
“I…uh, that’s a great question… we should ask….”
“He used Play-Doh.”
“No, I don’t think…”
“Yes… YES! He used Play-Doh. Brown play-doh, so we couldn’t see it.”
“N., I don’t think God used Play-Doh to stick rocks together to make continents.”
“Yes, he did. I was there.”
“Oh, you were there? Really?” I say this with way more sarcasm than is appropriate when addressing a four year old.
“Yes, it was before you were born,”
“I was born before you.”
“It was when I was up in heaven, you weren’t there, I saw him use Play Doh to stick the rocks together…”
“Come on, honey, you didn’t…”
“I WAS THERE, IT WAS BEFORE YOU WERE BORN, I SAW HIM DO IT.”
This is the point in the conversation where the other patrons begin handing me cards with the names of psychiatrists on them. Or affirming their belief that those people from over there are just born extremists, aren’t they…
“Okay, fine. Look this painting is of a flower.”
“What’s a flower…”
This is the point in the conversation where I wish I had just taken her to the Magic Kingdom instead.
On the other side of this nation, a man lives in a state that I have never visited.
This man and I, we have never looked into each other’s eyes and smiled at a secret joke that only close friends share. We’ve never talked on the phone, or had dinner together with our families. We’ve never stopped by each other’s places for a cup of coffee or offered to watch each other’s children.
Still, we are friends. Not close in the way that most people define “close,” of course.
Every few days, we take the time to read about each other’s lives, offer support when needed and encouragement when appropriate. This is what binds us. And this, in my mind, is enough for a friendship to be real.
Jason’s life, in so many ways, is a lot like mine.
We have spouses.
We have children.
We have siblings.
We have responsibilities, obligations, joy, laughter and a strong sense of treating other people with kindness and compassion.
We are also different in many ways. Most of those ways don’t matter to me, save that they might actually make me like Jason a little more.
There is one difference between the two of us, though, that does matter to me.
As a general rule, I try to put myself in other people’s shoes all the time.
How would I feel? What would I do if I were this person? How would I want another person to support me?
In this case, I am not comfortable doing this.
But, I will.
Because Jason is my friend, and that’s what friends do for one another.
If I had lost my mother to breast cancer over a decade ago, I would miss her every single day until the day I died.
I would push back tears every single time I had to mention her to someone.
I would wish with all my might that she were here to watch my kids graduate from high school, college, maybe even see them get married.
I would feel inadequate when I tried to describe who she was to my children who had never met her.
I would feel anger, guilt and unbearable sadness.
I would become a person who had to try to be happy because my mother’s absence would make something that should feel natural feel just that more forced.
I would wonder why this had to happen.
I would want to know how I could have stopped this.
I would look around for ways that I could stop this from happening to other women, to other families.
I would begin to understand that one of the best ways to stop this from happening again to someone else, maybe even to my own daughter, would be to support an organization like this.
I would commit myself to helping this organization.
In general, the assumption exists that the documentation of a national history, including ours, takes place in a magical clean room, free of politics, bias and philosophy.
Not entirely true.
What you read or believe about the Civil War, for example, is not only based upon actual events but also upon the way people chose to remember those events.
If you live in Boston or Pittsburgh, we might talk about the struggle to free a nation from the legacy of human bondage and to reiterate the “united” in United States. If you live in Baton Rouge or Nashville, we might talk about a struggle to maintain states’ rights and the sad victory of an expansive Federal government.
The irony is, of course, that we’re all talking about the same thing, and that we’re all sort of right.
History does not unfold in a clean room nor does its writing.
The why of it does not surprise me, though the how is still a little difficult to digest. It is my firm belief, for example, that no matter how liberal a historian or an economist might be, they are far more qualified to pontificate on the meaning and unfolding of American history than say, a dentist.
A subscription to the History Channel does not a historian make.
I pass both an elementary school and a middle school on the way home from dropping N. off. On that particular drive yesterday, I thought about how this piece of news has transformed history (at least as it is taught in Texas) into an entity that is now a complete function of power. Power has always played a role in the teaching of history, of course, but in Texas, it is shining ever more brightly.
The most disturbing element of this issue is that the people who should be doing the revising are being dismissed because of their supposed politics.
And, really, you’re telling me that there is not one single conservative economist or historian in our entire country? This, of course, implies that anyone who reads books or decides to dedicate their life to studying economics or history must by the simple virtue of a false caricature of their colleague’s overarching politics be a Commie, America hating, atheist.
Is it just me or is this the adult version of sticking someone’s head in the toilet or pantsing them in the cafeteria?
Textbook reform seems benign, especially in light of what feels like the near cataclysmic events we’re experiencing on a global level.
Still, how many of those middle school and high school kids are going to go on to read more nuanced treatments of our national history? Very few. The majority of their knowledge will be formulated upon a corpus of knowledge that has been offered to them by their primary and secondary school textbooks.
Do people understand that these textbooks will tell our children more than just the history of our nation, but that they will, in fact, be the framework within which they define who we are as a people? These textbooks will influence how our children envision their role on this planet, not to mention perhaps even how they decide to vote when they’re old enough.
This reform is not, should not, and must not be the domain of politicians.
Whether or not I agree with these reforms is beyond the scope of my post, though I look forward to hearing your thoughts about them.
My real concern lies with the fact that no economists or historians were involved, according to the New York Times, in any of the revisions.
A group of politicians just rewrote our children’s history books.
I don’t really care whether they live on the left or the right of the spectrum.
I am unusually thick skinned when it comes to things deemed offensive. I don’t get upset over terrorist jokes or slurpie innuendo. If the joke is funny, I have no problem laughing.
That said, non-Indian people of the world, you need to know that merely mimicking an Indian accent is not funny.
Furthermore, IF what you’re actually saying or doing is not stand alone funny, it’s just stupid.
“Apu” from The Simpson’s is funny because what he says is highlighted by the accent.
“Hello, how are you?” in an Indian accent and then laughing, though? Is neither clever nor as remotely hilarious as you might think.
And mimicking an Indian accent to someone whose parents or husband has a similar accent is both ignorant and rude. Oh my goodness, I cannot even begin to count the number of times this has happened to me.
Disagree?
Let’s drive this point home in an unexpected way.
A few years ago, I was at a restaurant with a bunch of Indian friends. Unlike me, none of them were born here, so they spoke accented English, although most of their accents were very slight. One of the women at the table was relating a conversation with one of her American co-workers. When this Indian woman repeated her co-worker’s words, she slipped into an attempt to speak English like an American.
Only, she’s not American, so it played as a bad impression of American accented English. Apparently, we Americans obnoxiously drop “g’s” all over the place and our “a’s” are said with our mouths open entirely too wide.
Being the only person at the table who spoke American accented English, frankly, I was embarrassed by it. I listened quietly to her do this accent which by virtue of subtext was a mockery of the way I spoke and realized if the tables were turned, I would have offended everyone at that table. Worse, there was no joke. The accent was supposed to be the joke.
The way I talk was the butt of her joke.
Nice.
Why don’t you just make fun of the fact that I wore glasses in the second grade while you’re at it, lady?
So, let me repeat, the accent is not the joke. The words actually have to be funny, or one runs the risk of looking like an ignorant and slightly racist jerk.
And, apparently, the folks who run the marketing department over at Metro PCS are ignorant and slightly racist jerks.
Seriously, the only way this could be more insulting to my heritage is if it were two white guys with brown shoe polish smeared on their faces.
(Facebook readers will have to click through to my blog to see this ridiculous commercial).
