A New "ism"

Travel with me to the 1980's...a time of big hair, abundant neon, and words  like "rad" "neato" and "tubular".  Picture little girl me:  7 years old, with long, shiny blond hair (that adult me wishes I still posessed) and an innocent child mind.  Ok, got the setting in your head?  Here's the story:

In second grade, or was it third?  I forget.  I will go with third.  Okay.  In third grade, we had a pen pal program.  (Yes, that's when snail mail was the only option for long distance written communication.)We were each assigned pen pals from schools far away.  I had two pen pals, because I liked to write so much.  Their names were Jenny and Olivia.

I decided that Olivia, because she had an elegant & beautiful name, was my favorite pen pal.  She would get the best-ever letters.  And Jenny...well, I'd write her nice things, I suppose, but Olivia would receive my best adjectives.  And that's how things went.

Until I received their school photos.

Olivia's picture did not reveal a princess-looking girl, as her name made her sound, but a homely little girl.  How shocking! 
 
And Jenny, whose common name was posessed by half the girls in my school, looked princess-y.  So immediately, without even consciously making the decision, Jenny became my favorite pen pal.

This was the first time in my life that I became aware of lookism.  (Although I did not know the name of it then.)  I was a raging, 7 year old looksist.

Fast forward time to the present.  I now know what the term "lookism" means, and I see it all around me.  On Fox News channel, where the female journalists must look like pageant contenstants, and the male journalists may look like trolls.  In movies, where there are VERY few roles written for women over 40.  In politics, where women candidates are scruntized for their looks and the male candidates' looks are rarely mentioned.  It's everywhere.

But the place where looksism resides that bothers me the most.....is within my own heart. 

Research reveals that mothers of attractive infants respond to their babies' cries quicker than do mothers of unattractive infants.  So even in the tenderest, most devoted of relationships, looksism resides.

How I wish it were not so!  I want to pluck lookism from my heart.  I want to pluck it from humanity's heart.  But it seems hard-wired into us.  Is there an antedote to this infirmity?

I believe there is.  It is LOVE.  Love is the ultimate beautifier!

Love is what makes us look at a family member whose body is wasting from cancer, and see beauty.  Love is what makes us view a freshly born, sticky with body fluid baby and see beauty.  Love is what makes a couple married 60 years look into each other's wrinkled faces and see beauty.  LOVE.

I cannot, wish as I might, cure the world of looksism.  I cannot even cure the lookism in my own heart.  But I believe that it can be crowded out---- with love.

a humble suggestion for the world

When I was 25, single, and prospect-less, I was asked by someone (who did not know me well) "Why don't you have a boyfriend?"  to which I replied something false, light-hearted and socially-expected.

 What it seemed to me the asker was saying was "Why are you such a weirdo and when are you going to stop being a weirdo?'

 Perhaps the asker meant nothing of the kind.  Perhaps the asker's intent was simply to make pleasant conversation.  But I did not enjoy this question.

I have noticed that I am not the only single person to get asked this question.  (And please note that my single status changed 8 years ago.) 

 I have noticed that married people often get asked "So when are you having kids?"  And then those with a child get asked this one that currently makes me cringe: "So when are you having another?" 

I choose to believe that most people, when asking these questions, are simply trying to make conversation, and are not trying to be invasive or hurtful.  But that belief helps me only to tolerate the questions, not enjoy them.

Here is my proposal:  unless you know a person on a deep level, please do not ask these questions!  To demonstrate why, imagine these scenarios with me:

"So why don't you have a boyfriend?" asked to the woman who has been continuously cheated on and treated horribly, and can't find a decent guy.

"So when are you going to have a kid?"  asked to the woman who has tried to for years and can't conceive, or maybe just had a miscarriage.

"So when are you going to have another kid?"  asked to a woman who knows from her first experience that bearing a child is medically dangerous.

Twice this week, I was asked by people who did not know me well when I would be having a second child.  These were seemingly very nice people, and I believe their intentions were good.  But these questions cause me pain.  I do not want to be asked them.  I do not want to be placed in the socially awkward position of answering them, or of making up a trite, cheerful, insincere answer. 

So I wish, I wish, that conversationalists would avoid these questions!  There are plenty of others to ask that will be far less likely to cause pain.  I offer these suggestions:

What do you like to do for fun?

Who is inspirational to you and why?

Tell me about your loved ones.

Now hear me well:  I say all of this humbly, with the acknowlegment that I have probably inflicted pain on someone unintentionally by asking a chitchat question.  I am human.  We all are.  I am simply offering a suggestion of what I wish others would do, so that less people would be hurt.

And hear me well one final time:  I welcome personal questions from those who know me well, love me, have a history with me, and have been supportive of me.  You may ask.  You have earned that right.  Because I know that you will respond to my honest answer with love and concern.  I know that if I cry in front of you, it's okay. 

But if I just met you, or you know only surface things about me, dont ask these questions.  There are plenty of other fun questions to ask that will help you get to know me, and then maybe someday we will be friends close enough to ask the deeper questions.

Rant over.

Detours

When I was five, my life's goal was to become a florist.  When I was 12, I announced to one of my best friends that I was going to marry a certain young man named Steve.  When I was 15, I realized I knew everything and told my sister this news.  When I was 16, I decided to get a guitar and become super skilled at playing it.  When I was 18, I decided to become a counselor.  When I was 22, I decided to become an actress.  When I was 24, I announced to my family that I had the spiritual call of life long singleness.  When I was 28, I decided to be a counselor.  Again.  When I was 30, my womb started crying out, and I decided I needed 2 babies, a boy and a girl, spaced exactly 2 years apart.

Those were my decisions. 

Here are the outcomes:

I never, ever worked in the floral industry.  The friend I told about my future marriage to Steve was the one who actually married Steve.  I officially do not know everything, or even close. (Although I do know the chorus to "Gold Digger" by Kanye West, and yes, I can rap it for you.)  I got a guitar and ended up selling it without ever skillfully playing it.  I became a counselor.  I became an actress.  I started dating Scott several months after the big singleness announcement.  I had just one baby, and she is now 3 and sibling-less.

Detours.

The point is this: I make plans.  Which is fine.  But God, the great and good in-charge One, can override my plans.  And sometimes His ideas are better, ya know?

He's a gentleman, I believe.  He gives me free will to make choices, and I try to make
decent ones.  But ultimately, just like that road crew on rt. 23 in Leola that extended my work commute today, He can decide if my chosen path needs a detour.

 His detours are often quite scenic.

carrying the pink, ruffly banner

I come from a long line of girlie-girls.  And when I say long, I mean maybe 4.  But still.  It's in my genetics!

Hard-wired into my brain is the love of ruffles.  Not the chips, although the cheddar and sour cream flavor is delightful.  No, I am referring to frills! Lace! Pink!  Tea parties, Jane Austen, unicorns, glitter, make up, nail polish, rainbows, hair bows, jewelery, kitty cats, ballet tutus, and what not!  I simply cannot get enough of that stuff!  I don't know why.  It is just how it is.  How I am.

And God, in His infinite sovereign benevolence, gave me not only a girlie mom and a girlie sister, but also a girlie daughter.  My soul swells with joy!  To exemplify the girliness of said daughter, yesterday she saw a shoe commericial on TV and squealed at the sight of high heels.  Upon which my husband declared "she is her mother's daughter".

But here is where, dear reader, you must realize a truth about girlie girls:  we are not characatures! For example, I love to be dirty.  I love to go camping.  In a tent.  (Would I prefer my tent to be pink?  Of course.  But have not seen one yet.)  I despise cleaning my house.  Husband mostly does that.  I love really messy buffalo wings, tacos, and football food. ( Just the food.  Without the sport part.)  I love to laugh loudly.  I want to go on adventures.  (Just not lead them.)  I have lots and lots of opinions.  And I am intelligent.

But the most irksome stereotype, one that I have applied to myself at times even, is that girlie girls are not strong.  THIS DOES NOT HAVE TO BE TRUE.  Just like the Puffs that adorn my nightstand, girlie girls can be soft, gentle, comforting, yet strong enough to deal with the snot life blows at us.  (See?  Wasn't snot an ungirlie thing to say?  Surprised you!)

And while I am on this particular soapbox, is is not easy to pigeon hole all categories of people?  To assume they possess a certain list of qualities simply because they qualify for a certain type?  I think yes.  I fall into this thinking, I confess.  But I don't want to.  I want to view each human being as a unique, never before encountered creature.  One that has never been and never again will be duplicated.  Therein, I believe, lies acceptance, appreciation, and LOVE.

Says the girl in the ruffly blue polka dotted jammies.

The wrong century?

British period dramas.  I adore those movies!  Give me hoop skirts, gowns, and bonnets.  Give me manors, castles, and moors.  Give me afternoon teas, letter readings, balls, and musical soirees.  And above all, give me poetic, articulate, intelligent language!

My affinity for these types of movies (and novels) has raised this wonderment:  perhaps I was born in the wrong century?  (That would also explain my disdain for driving and my lack of tech-y skills.)  Perhaps I was dropped into history in 1976, when the correct time address should have been 1876.  Perhaps I would have flourished then, and would have felt like a fish in the ocean instead of a fish in a plasic cup at a carnival.

When I envision myself in 1800's England, I am wearing an exquisite gown of palest silk.  I have just sipped a perfect cup of Earl Grey while discussing the evening's upcoming ball.  And said ball will include a long curving staircase, of which a dashing suitor will be waiting at the bottom.  He will request all the dances on my dance card, but I will need to refuse due my mistaking his principle and character for pompousness.  Several months later, after 5 articulate, impassioned conversations, all confusion will be cleared up and he will, of course, offer his hand in marriage.  His grand manor, called Sturbridge Downs, awaits us, as does a life of refined fulfillment.

Pleasant, yes?  I think so.

Until I remind myself of a few easy-to-overlook facts.

Like the fact the I always assume I would have been aristocracy, when most Brits of my preferred century were impoverished sufferers.

And the fact that I, as a woman, would have been denied an education, a career, the right to vote, the right to own property, and the dignity of being considered more than a decorative object who bears babies.

Add to that this prevailing belief, summed up so well on my lastest obession "Downton Abbey":  "When you are single you do not have an opinion, and when you marry, your husband will tell you what your opinion is."

Um.  Okay.  That changes things a bit.

I have a master's degree.  I have had 2 different careers that have fulfilled me.  I got married because I wanted to, to a man I loved and was compatible with.  I had a child because I wanted to.  My name is on the deed to my house.  I vote.  It is considered socially acceptable for me to state my opinions and thoughts, and even expected that I will. 

(On top of all this, I have cool make up.  Inconsequential, perhaps, but very fun and very enhancing to a woman of little pigment. Just another blessing I would have been denied in my preferred century.)

So in summary, is there a part of my heart that longs for a time and culture I'll never know?  Yes.  A small part.  But the greater part of my heart is grateful, so grateful, that of all the places and times God could have dropped me into existence, He chose this age and this country.  Oprah has said that those of us women born in this age and this country are the luckiest women in history, and I heartily concur with that!

And I'll content myself by filling up that small, yearning part of my heart with movies....

Gabba yearning

Today while watching "Yo Gabba Gabba" with my sweet 3 year old, it hit me: a yearning.

No, it was not for DJ Lance Rock.  Although I am sure some women find spindly-limbed black men with fuzzy orange hats appealing.

It was a yearning for a world I do not live in.

See, on Yo Gabba Gabba, as on all preschool shows, gentleness reigns.  So does cooperation, kindness, fun, optimism, courtesy, and lots of singing and dancing.  On top of that, problems will simply and assuredly be solved by the end of the 23 minute program.

Utopia.

As I watched the characters on YGG  respond to each other with enthusiasm that only comes from never experiencing pain, I pondered.  When will my daughter discover that some people are unkind?  Even cruel?  My heart shudders at the thought. 

And then I thought of my own natural friendliness, which I have toned down over the years in an effort to avoid cold responses.

I yearn, I long for a world like Gabba Land.  For an optimistic, gentle world.  I will take Blue's Clue's, Angelina Ballerina, Sesame Street, Thomas, Dora, Diego, the Backyardigans, and yes, I will even take Barney.  Just feed me with kindness!

It takes just a short while for preschool gentility to fade away.  TV shows and movies for the elementary school set, from what I have observed, are full of snarky & sassy talk, bullying, and adults portrayed as buffoons.  How quickly the emphasis of innocent enthusiasm, consideration for others, and gentleness evaporates!

Some would say that's preparation for "real world".

I don't want the real world. I endure it because I must, but I yearn for something purer. 

Someday, which will be the day I see my Daddy again, I will know the fullness of purity.  But until then, I will not stifle my yearning.  I will cherish every glimpse of kindness, gentleness, enthusiasm, respect, and happiness that I find.

Even if it comes from Yo Gabba Gabba.

Cinnamon Jumbles

Cinnamon Jumbles.

That was the name of the first recipe I ever made.  It produced soft, cake-y vanilla cookies with a cinnamon & sugar crust.  Simple cookies.  Simple preparation.  But significant in my life.

Why?  Because that first baking experience, at about age 7, began a life long passion for preparing and eating food.  And more importantly, those Cinnamon Jumbles taught me how food can cement and deepen relationships.

You see, my Grandma taught me how to make those cookies.  Her name was Rebecca Helena Fisher--my mom's mom.  Grandma was a thin, gentle, and feminine woman.  Everything about her was kind--her soft voice, her attentiveness, her laugh.  Her hands were soft, yet skilled.  She was an excellent seamstress and a good cook.  A hard worker who partially raised 3 children by herself in an era when single moms were unheard of.  She loved life, loved people, loved pretty things, and loved to travel.

And she loved me.

I loved her back.  It was easy to do.

It's been almost 20 years since Grandma left the earth.  I think of her from time to time, and when I do, the strongest memory is that of her lovingly teaching me to make Cinnamon Jumbles.  That was our thing.  Our bonding activity.  We enjoyed the activity, and we enjoyed each other in the midst of it.

To me, food is relational.  It beckons families to spend an hour or two together.  It summons girlfriends to dump their hearts onto a table along with some tea and cake.  It calls generations to use their hands in common effort to produce a result that will not only gladden, but also nourish.  It sings to the younger as the older teach lessons and traditions. 

Today, with my 3 year old daughter on a stool beside me, I followed a recipe.  It wasn't Cinnamon Jumbles, for that recipe has been unfortunately lost.  (Plus, my tastes have refined over the years....Would I even like them today?)    It was angel food cupcakes with strawberry buttercream frosting.  Matching aprons were worn.  Powdered sugar flew.  Beaters were licked.  Lessons were taught.

And love was deepened.

Thank you, Rebecca Helena Fisher--Grandma--for Cinnamon Jumbles, and all they have come to mean to me.