Friday, February 15, 2013

Cruel intentions

We all have those standout moments in school, the kind that either make you are break you or put a carcass around your neck and toughen you up. I had so many, from first grade, right on up. Some felt like Olympic gold -- bases loaded, we're up by one, I've thrown two strikes and three balls...bam strike three; on to the tournament. Others felt like tuberculosis. They were those cruel moments where, as a kid, I couldn't breathe because of my lack of ability to handle the meanness of my peers. And they were f***ing mean. None of this anti-bullying campaign when I was growing up. It felt like kill or be killed, even in the cruddy confines of our tiny, run-down elementary school.

First, of course, were the teeth. I've always had big teeth. It's a family trait, supposedly they are charming now. But then, my god, a day didn't go by that somebody, usually the same somebody and his cronies, would make a nasty comment about my teeth. Of course, the first time it happened, I was floored. And hurt, and couldn't come up with a response. I had no idea that others found me ugly. My grandmother seemed to think I was pretty cute, my teachers never said anything about my teeth. It probably didn't help that I was taller than any other human being in class, skinny as a rail, and pretty smart.

By sixth grade, the teeth thing was nothing new. I just let it roll of my back, or worse yet, would say something more cutting. Something like "At least I can fix my teeth. There's no hope for your brain, SPED." Yeah, it was that low. The kid(s) who pricked at my confidence were the very same who were taken out of class for special help with reading and math. An eye for an eye, right? I had my tough skin now. And when the braces finally came off the first week of ninth grade, I thought for sure that I was totally fixed. That the taunting was over. I was golden, right?

Cruel illusions. Really. We had all melded into our unbroken groups by that point. I tried to mingle among the pods of "types." I had my athlete friends (I played three sports for awhile, then finally knocked it down to softball, lifting and a shitload of hiking); my theater friends (Shakespeare productions and a few high school musicals); my work friends who were older and taught me how to make a killer penne, play chess, and love good wine (and roll a joint behind the French cafe I worked at); my family friends. But no matter how many alliances there were, no matter how many bonfires and whiskey flasks surrounded us, there was always, at the most unsuspecting moments, some kind of useless cruelty that went along with the whole culture. Even my close friends, my "peeps", who had all pretty much outgrown me by a foot, called me "Shortround." I just learned to deal with it. It even made me laugh at some point. Sure, sure, Shortround. No problem. I just ploughed ahead, kept up with the grades, and the sports, and the jobs, and prayed that I'd make it out alive. Ugly, it seems, but alive.

Things went well. Sort of. Nobody minded me in college. In fact, it seemed that I drew quite a crowd (of mostly men) in my 20s. I had no idea why, what with the big teeth and all. Even after I had my daughter, there was no sudden drop off in dates and phone calls. On the eve of my wedding, I was teaching high school and the younger (like way younger) brother of a former nasty classmate of mine congratulated me.

"Yeah, I told my brother that you were getting married and he just couldn't believe it," he said, defensive on my behalf. "He couldn't believe that someone would marry YOU. I told him you were an awesome teacher," he blushed. "And really pretty."

"Thanks," I said, the wind knocked right out of my bridezilla sails.

But then I got to thinking. That mean, nasty boy. I remember him. He was a short little troll of misery that walked around berating everyone and everything, but we let him do it. A good student, sure. A star wrestler, yup. But, in the end he was a dick. And all I could think was, well, I'm glad I'm not marrying him.

I wonder if anyone every married that a**hole?

I'm not above it. None of us are. There's still a little bit of that terrified, beat up, awkward kid in me yet. It's a bitter solace I take in seeing some of the people from those days. Some of them are fat. Some of them are alone. Some have kids and jobs, some don't. Some drink, some have criminal records, some finally grew up, some didn't.

We all made it somehow, but just barely. It's an ugly business. The silver lining...success? Good looks? A solid marriage? Kids? I wish I could know for sure.

For the record, on the eve of my 36th birthday, I'm pretty thrilled about my big shiny teeth. The better to smile on my even shinier kids. Who will knock your kids right out of the water with their gorgeous brilliance.

Na, na, na--meanies.


Monday, February 4, 2013

The Problem With Power Booty

First, let me reassure you that I know that there are people all over the world who are starving. And that this may, on first glance, seem like a frivolous commentary on our equally frivolous culture (we can warm our asses on our car seats for godssake), but somewhere in here is a bigger issue. A grander scale that needs investigating. I should preface this by saying I don't have all the answers. If I did, this blog would be history.

The Halftime Show. Yes, I'll start there. I promised my darling, yet brutally over-tired children that they could watch Beyonce perform before they brushed their teeth and hit the sheets. I sat down with them, but not too close because Lucian's breath smelled oddly of hot dogs, although he doesn't even like/eat hot dogs. It's one of those mysteries I have no desire to solve. Anyway, back to halftime. There is the bodacious Beyonce with her long Rapunzel-esque locks, surrounded by leather bedecked dancers and a ring of actual flame (from propane tanks, as Lucian noted). We watched her sing and swing and widen her eyes so big I thought, for a moment, that I was watching some kind of vaudeville throw back and not a decadant American diva. Actually, to be honest, there wasn't much singing. More booty-shaking and hip grinding than anything else. My son left the room, saying the dance was "disgusting" and he didn't want to watch a bunch of women "in bathing suits, doing that weird dance." My more pop-savvy daughter stared on in disbelief.

"I'm really going to have to rethink how I feel about Beyonce," was her hesitant response.

It sounds like a scene from the Flanders' household. You know, the Evangelical neighbors of the debauched Simpsons? But, sadly, we are not the Flanders. And this halftime show was no joke. I am not a conservative woman, not by any stretch of any leotard or bustier. Basically, I follow the French (as in 1920s French, not the current terrifying conservative, racist, anti-immigration French government) line of thinking. Topless beach, no problem. Sex orgies, sure if that's your thing, girl power, black power -- yes, yes, yes -- all cool. But I couldn't shake the feeling, as I was watching all that leather and, well, lace, bopping around, that we (and Beyonce) have hit a strange low in our collective culture. She really didn't sing that much, and the real flames didn't fool me. And the set list, utterly confusing (at least the five minutes she did sing). My daughter and I felt a little glimmer of hope when she started singing "Independent Woman (or is it Women?)." That's a song we got. She sang the refrain, we rocked out for about five seconds, high on the empowerment (The shoes on my feet, I bought 'em, the rock I'm rockin'...yeah, that's right). But not two minutes later, she sings, while bouncing (everything) in a Playboy meets Tron unitard, "If you liked it then you shoulda put a ring on it..."

But wait a minute...I thought you were independent and you could buy your own ring. No problem, right?

Anna turned to me, her brows knitted together. "I don't get it," she said, and left the room. A little disappointed it seems.

Me neither, babe. I don't get it anymore. Why weren't the Rolling Stones half-naked (blech!) when they performed the halftime? Or at least wearing jock straps or some ridiculous outfit? Because people would've gone ballistic at how weird and disgusting and pandering it was. But yet Madonna sports a friggin' Cuban bathing suit, Beyonce wears lingerie (mind you, this is the same woman who was the epitome of class at the presidential inauguration, the same woman who rocked the national anthem dressed to the nines) and all of us are standing around scratching our heads.

My conclusion, the message is simple: Be what they want you to be when they want you to be it. More bang for the buck.

The problem, we don't know what any of our leaders and role models and celebrities stand for anymore. It's a minute by minute, candle in the wind, fake it 'til you make it (or make money) kinda thing. Very few people seem to start solid and stay solid. I can't imagine not knowing where Nina Simone stood on segregation. Or wondering what George Carlin thought about the human race as a whole. Ha. It all seems so impermanent.

And frankly, unsexy. Yeah, you heard me. I know sexy can sell anything. And there's nothing sexier than Aretha Franklin singing "Ave Maria" in a blood red ball gown, every word weighted and every note beautiful. And let's not forget a few of those words, about the Virgin herself, "Tis thou canst save amid despair."

Thou. Amid despair. No need for fishnets or flamethrowers. Thou. A poverty-stricken, pregnant, unmarried mother. That's as real as it gets. I'm not saying you should go out and start preaching the gospel, but for us, for us women especially, it's essential to make the message clear, strong, and pretty goddamn eternal for all those little eyes that are looking up and wondering when someone else is gonna put a ring on their finger and make them worth something.