People As We Know Them

Well, today was muggy but beautiful. I found myself washing trays this morning and thinking, "I am not even using 10% of my brain capacity doing this." So I began talking with myself, to get some cerebral juices flowing. Incidentally I had quite the conversation with myself, but at one point I got stuck because I couldn't think of what I wanted to say. I was trying to imagine myself as a 90 year old woman, and I was wondering if I would have lost my mind by then. Then I added (to clarify for myself),

"But this is only metaphorically speaking... Is it metaphorical? No... That's not the word I want. What's that one word? I used to say it all the time..." It bugged me and bugged me, until I waylaid one of my managers and he helped me out.

"Hypothetically speaking."

"Thank you so much! Hypothetically speaking."

He looked at me oddly and I continued to humbly wipe trays. Have you ever had that happen to you? Where you just...can't...remember? Or worse - a song is going through your head and you keep humming it and you can't figure out where it's from. That's pretty much the worst thing that can happen to you, because it's easy to explain a word that you can't think of, but it's a lot more humbling to try to hum the song swimming around in your head (especially if you get all the lyrics wrong, and the person just looks at you, like, "O-kay....") I hate that when someone looks at me like I'm wierd. It really is interesting to me, though, how some of the wierdest people in the world consider everybody else wierd. (Hopefully that doesn't come back to bite me-lol.)

Speaking of forgetfulness, my whole family has been asking each other all day, "So, have you heard the news about Brett Favre? You know... how he had is officially last day on Lambeau Field today." Pretty sure I heard that on the radio like twice, and then my mom told me about it as she read it on the internet, and then my dad just asked my mom if she heard the news. What's funnier yet, is that each time I heard it "announced" it was as though each person "announcing it" had breaking news and they were the first to share it. "Did you know..." People make me laugh (which means I have an ongoing affair of amusement with myself).

Did you know that the study of people is called 'anthropology'? I knew that, I just thought I would make sure you did. I should major in 'anthropology' instead of 'journalism'. It's just that I find both the study of people and their effect on the world so interesting, I can't help but write about both. It's not that I'm a young, fresh, wet-behind-the-ears intern who is exhaustingly excited about intricate political affairs. No. I am a person who happens to be young and happens to be interested in the things going on around me. If I happen to live in America, and my country happens to be winning a war in a foreign country, well, then I find that interesting. And... if my coworker begins complaining about a customer, or my mom confesses to me how many chips she ate in one day, well, that's interesting too. (Granted, it get's a little boring if someone talks about how 'good' so and so is. That doesn't interest me. Give me blood, betrayal, and sarcasm any day.)

I think it was yesterday that I was writing something down about myself that was horribly conceited (and I quote), "I marvel that I can both observe and interact with my fellow man so well". That's like ASKING to get jinxed. And, yes, today I was completely uninterested in conversing with customer after customer, saying the same old thing to each uninterested person.

ME: "Hi!" (Said brightly for emphasis), "How you doing?" (Joey style)

THEM: "Yeah, I'm doing good, good. Real good. And you?" (Shutup, and give me my food all ready)

ME: "Well, I'm doing well, thank you. It's a beautiful day!"

THEM: (silence)

ME: "Well, your sandwich will be out in a little bit, but until then you can decide what you would like on your sandwich. Did you know whether you would like to eat here or to go?"

THEM: "Yeah, to go. I'll take (and the rambling ensues)."

See, I've discovered that if I try to save time and say the exact same thing to every customer, not every customer responds the same. You may say that all they want is their sandwich, but that is rarely true. People (myself included) really do want to be treated like they matter. Thus, I must prove my individual ability to make every customers' sandwich... over, and over, and over, and over again. So, I should probably not do what I did today - and totally bomb the whole "I care about you, what can I get for you" customer service thing.

I did see one of my old metivante customers today. That was really pleasant! He was actually nice, AND he asked how I was doing! I had to hurry and go put trays away, but I felt all warm and skippy when I walked. It's really nice to feel loved and cared about.

There. That's my people study. And I conclude that if everybody is just like me, well, they honestly just want people to treat them with respect, treat them with understanding, treat them with something other than a company line, and treat them with love.

Thus, a sandwich made with love still applies. Stop looking at me like I'm wierd.

I hate that, remember?

The Burial

In the early afternoon hours of my Thursday, I desperately needed a refreshing, revitalizing nature walk, and my mind immediately went to the cemetery two blocks from us. So I asked my brother to drop me off there, and from there I snuck under the employees-only fence. As my feet crunch-crunched on the rainy pebbled road, I was consistently afraid I’d be told to leave because I didn’t really have someone to mourn for there. But another part of me was defiant. How dare anyone tell me I can’t mourn a stranger! Better yet, I’m sure there are people who buy cemetery plots for themselves and then go visit them and reflect on how strange it will be when the marble plaques have dates on them. That’s certainly a thing to mourn.

So I set out reflecting on Hillary’s up-coming fate. It is obvious that the Clinton-Euphoria is meeting up with a rainy day this week. The media is eager to predict that Clinton will withdraw her campaign for presidency by the end of this week. The democrats are eager to bury her… and her first man… and her dark past, in order sentence poor Hillary to a life seeped deep in mere citizenship. All so that they may make way for the light of their eyes… the proverbial empty coffin; Barack Obama. The question is, will she continue digging her claws into Obama in order to fight towards an impossible resurrection?

As I walked, I found myself drawn to the freshly dug graves. I am normally fascinated by old graves, but this Thursday, I walked from fresh plot to fresh plot, marveling at how only a year ago some of those people could have been standing there beside me looking down at that plot. One fresh rectangle of dirt made me stand still and come closer, because it was so fresh that it didn’t have a tombstone yet. I felt like almost crying when I saw the loose bouqet of rain-battered flowers laid with care, and little rocks lined up to form a crooked heart on the dirt. I could not think then of the person beneath the ground, but the person who obviously regretted being left above it.

I couldn’t help but wonder then if Obama even has a game plan of what to do if he gets into office. Will he launch out with powerful steps backed up by his baby-steps of experience? Will he rashly continue to talk big and take big confident strides towards whatever liberal agenda he has, and take no thought for the even bigger consequences? See, with Clinton canned, Obama can walk like Hillary never will be able to. Where he walks, we must follow (to a certain extent). Question is, where will he take us? Does he even know? Or will he lean heavily on advisers and let them carry him. Will he gain the right to walk this country towards peace and instead have it carried to destruction? I mean, seriously, how much do we know about him? Not that much. And what we DO know has been suspicious at best. I heard someone say that with Obama’s highly questionable connections, he would not be allowed to join the F.B.I. Speculation? Truth?

On one of the older tomb stones, I read ‘Just 14,351 days old’. It’s intriguing to think of ones’ life as made up of just days instead of years. How would someone break it down if they wanted to say ‘just ### moments old’? If moments were the times that a person truly wanted to live, how many moments would one be made of? Even now I can still feel the electricity of the sun-streaked, rain-dried air. When one really pays attention to ones surroundings, one will see a lot more than ones own problems or conflicts. Try it. You will see the paint chipping on the green gate…duck under it and hear the rustle of a squirrel scurrying higher into the maple tree above you…marvel that this is the time of year that birds of like color chase each other…hear the water draining down the street into the brown sewer grate…almost feel the dull drone of the little air-plane in the sky…smell the splash of lazy flowers and muggy air… The magic is endless. I just had to write about it. Contrasts inspire me. From the angry gray of the sky this morning, to the brilliant, white sunshine of this afternoon… I can’t help but feel more dynamically these changes.

So, Change. Looks like we’re headed straight for it. Will it be subtle? How can it be, when the people demand more? We really are a very demanding country, you know. I was talking to one of my coworkers today, and he said, “Oh, yeah. I’m definitely for Hillary. Nobody likes her because she’s a woman and she’s un-popular. I like her because she’s for gays rights, and she doesn’t say empty things like Obama.”

I found this interesting because I certainly don’t dislike Hillary because she’s a woman and I don’t know anybody who would admit to that. The guy went on to say, “Yeah, I’m really not proud to be an American.”

I must have seemed shocked as I said, “Well, I’m very proud to be an American,” because he stumbled to clarify, “Well, I’m proud to be in this country, it’s just…our government is retarded. I wish we had any other government than our own.”

I eyed him and teased, “Even socialistic communism?”

I was trying to pull out the worst thing I could think of, and was astonished to see him nod and say, “Well, I’m sure that has it’s good points. I think no government at all would be better.”

I raised my eyebrows again, “You would prefer anarchy?”

He shrugged and said, “I don’t know, yeah, I guess. It would be better.”

I wasn’t in the mood for a big debate, so I got my two-bits in by using someone else‘s name. “I think it was John Adams who said ‘If men were angels, no government would be necessary.’ It stands to reason that a government created by men is imperfect because it is governed by men.” I wish I had said all I was thinking.

I wanted to continue, “That’s why we have the justice system, to allow men innocence until they are proven guilty. We have a legislative system to interpret the Constitution and make sure that men are treated equally and fairly. We have an executive system to carry out the laws in order to promote order that keeps law-abiding citizens safe. And if there is a discrepancy in our government, well that’s where the people get to employ their free speech. That’s where we the people call our representatives and demand justice.”

I WANTED to say all that, but it wouldn’t come out because I didn’t want to make an enemy out of the person I would have to make sandwiches all day with. I just don’t understand it! How can people not be proud to be Americans? I am SO proud to be an American. Not because (as my coworker put it), ‘we Americans feel like we have to be better than everyone else and therefore the rest of the world hates us’. I’m proud of America because it has provided me every opportunity to enjoy life. It has given me freedom of religion, safety for my parents and my home, order in my neighborhood, freedom of speech, and freedom to enjoy its beauty and history. I don't envy other people of their countries, because I'm happy where I am. I only want everybody else to be as happy as I am. I am an American. How can I NOT be proud of what I am?

I think back to those tombstones that read ‘World War1’. Those tombstones were on either side of the un-named grave that had the pebbles of a heart. Right at the head of that grave were three flags. In fact, flags were all over the cemetery, but I noticed them especially on that silent grave. The symbol of those flags above the crooked heart of rocks did not mean someone was proud to be a domineering American bigot. It symbolized that that person was proud to be what they were. They were proud to make the most of where they were. They were proud enough of where their family came from that they could be buried side-by-side of veterans who had fought for what made them proud. “Pride” is such an abused word. Pride in America doesn’t mean people are stuck up about their invincible land. It means people are not ashamed of their home. They are not ashamed of the land they dug into and made fertile. They are not ashamed of their ancestors’ spilled blood.

So Obama… are you proud? Who will make us proud? Or have we lost the right to have pride in something? Must we be ashamed of our government, our God, our free voice, our charities in foreign lands, as well as our wars on terrorist grounds?

I hope someday someone can look down on my freshly dug grave and they can marvel at how only a year ago I might have stood beside them and looked down on my plot with them. And they could watch the red-white-and-blue whip in the wind above my grave and know that I was proud of my country both in life and death. I did not rest until I spoke my piece and rested then in peace.

Sometimes you have to run

So Run
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Her breath surfaces in her ears,
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Kicking to be free of traditions’ womb.
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Feet, pound the cobblestones firmly into the street,
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As she runs.
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She roots her hand in her hair,
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And yanks the respective braid from it’s order,
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Like one would yank the drain from a full tub.
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Her name echoing through the silk morning air,
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Is a wrecking ball finding the hip of an old building.
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She runs faster,
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Feeling the pain in her own side,
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As though the wrecking ball is lodged there.
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Sleeping homes sit quietly,
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Watching her, the rabbit in white,
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Scatter from the Mr. McGregor’s of the world,
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While bathed in a dress,
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Much like Princess Diana’s,
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When the flashing smiles and camera’s of the world,
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Witnessed her “I do”.
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So gowned,
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And so broken,
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She fights.
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To flee.
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To breathe.

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