The Glass Kitchen

One of my favorite memories of my Dad was when I was about six or seven. Our family had traveled to St. Louis due to my grandmother's sudden serious illness. Since it was during the school year, after a couple of days and being assured my grandmother would recover, we left my mother and younger brother behind, and he and I drove back to Mississippi that weekend.  This was probably the longest amount of time I'd ever spent alone with my Dad to date, and it was unusual to have his full, undivided attention.  I got to sit in the front seat, of course, and I remember stopping at a Stuckey's and his buying me a little packet of novelty toys--the only one I now recall being a little plastic dog that smoked a tiny fake cigarette.  Anyway, we got into Vicksburg around 6:30 or 7:00 that evening, and as this was before we even had a McDonalds, I believe, the only place open was The Glass Kitchen on South Street downtown.  We went in, sat down, and he ordered me a grilled cheese sandwich, telling me he was sure I'd like it (he was right--even today it's probably still my favorite thing in the world to eat, although I don't indulge very often).  I got to pick my drink, so I had a 10 oz bottle of 7-Up. I remember it being the coldest, sweetest drink I'd ever had. 

This first "date" with my Dad remains one of my most favorite memories, not just of him, but of all my memories.  Not only because of his undivided attention for me, but because it was the first time I really paid close attention to HIM.  In fact, I remember feeling a little bit nervous and giddy sitting there in the restaurant, not quite sure what to say or do--like it really was a "first date" with someone you'd just met.  I don't remember what we talked about specifically, but I knew that I didn't want to ever leave.  

It's the only time we ever ate at that restaurant, even though it remained open well into my high school years. I remember returning there myself only once when I had a little part-time job at the bank across the street my senior year.  It still looked the same, with its open kitchen of glass and stainless steel and vinyl booths.  I ordered a grilled cheese and a 7-up, though. 

The photo attached is of Vicksburg artist Daniel Boone's now-famous print of the place--the only image of The Glass Kitchen I could locate anywhere on the internet. I actually also happen to own a copy of the print, which I purchased at the Attic Gallery years ago as a Father's Day gift for my Dad.  He immediately recalled our outing there, and I think was touched by the fact that it had been such a special memory for me, too.  It now sits in my own "retro-style" kitchen...a style choice which I am sure was influenced by my recollection of that place.  

I can't believe it's now been seven years since my Dad passed away. So tomorrow, in honor of that, I think I'm going to treat myself to a grilled cheese sandwich and see if I can't locate a bottle of 7-up to toast my Dad with.  
 

And judge me not

Last week, while trying to prepare for my first big step on what I hope will be a journey to find some peace of mind and healing for myself, the phrase "if I lay bare my soul" kept coming to mind. So like any good 21st centurian, I googled it, and while it (surprisingly) didn't pull up much (only 57 results--really?), most of them were references to a poem written in 2006 by a woman in England on her blog page--which page, incidentally, doesn't have much activity beyond that and a handful of other posts around that same time (much like my own blog page, in fact). Anyway, I was dumstruck by the power of this poem, and since it's National Poetry month, I thought I'd share it.


For me, the phrase "judge me not" really means, at least, "hate me not," and, at most, "love me still." And while I believe this is a core, universal desire we all crave from others, I am beginning to understand that it's a prayer most needed when speaking to myself.

JUDGEMENT
by Suzanne Thorne

If I lay bare my soul
Will you treat me gently
Accept my strengths and weakness
And judge me not.

If I open my heart
Will you see the love, the pain
Accept my fears, my passion
And judge me not.

If I share my mind
Will you listen to all my hopes, my plans
Accept my dreams
And judge me not.

If I show you the real me
Will you want to stay
Accept me for all that I am
And judge me not.

Untold

There's a story trapped within me
It will never be lived, much less even told
It will die with me.

Parts of it try to leak out here and there
Rumors fly, I am sure
But no one's really asking any questions

Some days it simmers and sinks down
Others it rumbles and boils
Rising like a geyser into my brain

I've acted it out hour after hour in my car
I've written it down over and over
But silence is the only audience it can ever hold

Between the lines, I wonder--
Why do secrets need telling,
And never moreso than when they can't be told?

There's nothing sadder than the realization that there's a profound desire within you that you so desperately need to express, but that there's no one there to say it to who won't think of you as a pitiful fool. 

Oh, wait, there is one thing sadder: to have a desire that's so pitifully foolish in the first place.  

Accident

You accidentally called me "beautiful" once, when we were parting

I knew it was a mistake--you'd simply forgotten who you were talking to

But I took it anyway, even though it belonged to someone else

And I wasn't entitled to it--I took it like the thief that I am,

Because I've never come by anyone's adoring gaze honestly

Only beauty begets that sort of knee-jerk, spontaneous admiration

The rest of us must work to earn it through words and deeds

Digging down and forcing all that "inner beauty" to the surface

So that it creates a facade of forged loveliness,

Like an illustration drawn on a plain brown wrapper

You accidentally called me "beautiful" once,

And like any good pickpocket, I took advantage of your carelessness

I snatched it up before you knew you'd left it there, 

Pretending it was meant for me, knowing that it never was

And like that necklace that I took when I was a girl, 

I take it from its secret hiding place and try it on, making believe I deserved it

Facebookitis

Facebook. Ubiquitous, omnipresent...the distillation of our thoughts and feelings in the form of soundbites and snapshots, all poured into the melting pot--the Borg, if you will. All will be assimilated.

The lure of Facebook is the connectedness--the feeling like you are part of something larger than yourself, but within which you are somehow more free to be yourself. Or so it would seem.

 I find myself wanting to "please" the Borg...to present an offering worthy of attention. For this, there are really only three choices: say something witty, say something profound, or say something "universal," i.e., something with which everyone can agree. Of course, there is the newsfeed element, in which we post our major events, our comings and goings, to the public square. But that's its more mundane function. What it really demands of us other than news content is the service of the meme...the ongoing conversation...by contributing little tiny bits of our identity.

I don't post to it nearly as much as many of my friends do...I chime in on far more conversations than I start. And one of the main reasons is the aforesaid pressure to "perform." To create something worthy of the attention of the multitude. The other reason is because the things I really WANT to say...the things I really FEEL, are far too important to be trivialized by broadcasting them to many who are undeserving of my innermost thoughts. The madding crowd both giveth and taketh away...we simultaneously want to please them, to let them all know how witty and profound we can be, while also resenting and fearing the exposure. Facebook is a paradox: it promises a sense of intimacy while providing the cloak of safety in numbers.

There are moments when I am in such need of...something...validation? sympathy?...that I am compelled to open Facebook and compose a status update that reaches out to that universe, seeking a "like" or a comment...the answering back that says, "I hear you...you exist...and I understand you." But I can't seem to say the words, most of the time. Because the words I really want to say are too much...too overwrought...too revealing...too intimate or scary, to say in that forum. So I remain silent. But the lure of it is still overwhelming.

ashleyjuddenfreude

Ashley Judd "slapped the media" this past week for remarks made across several outlets over a 24-hour period after one comment about her face being "puffy" and the speculation that she'd "had work done." In its typical feeding frenzy fashion, other "journalists" picked up on the story and ran with it, leading to numerous unsubstantiated comments from people who'd never met her, including plastic surgeons, without one reporter or media outlet ever contacting Ms. Judd for verification or comment.

Many of the reporters or commentators were women, and therefore the thrust of Ms. Judd's reaction was lamenting the fact that all of this seems to be coming from a place of institutional or societal misogyny--that the patriarchal system, promulgated by both men AND women, creates an environment where women are objectified and devalued for anything other than their physical attributes, and that any "slippage" in that arena is celebrated by other women, ostensibly because this system puts all women in competition with each other for male approval.

She made a lot of salient points, and I tend to agree with most of what she said. However, I think one thing she kind of overlooked which plays a major role in all this is that maybe it's not nearly as much about misogyny, as it is about schadenfreude. I think people in general operate from a place of envy of ANYONE, male or female, who they think is smarter, prettier, richer, more talented, etc., than they are.

This isn't any new idea, this "we build them up so we can tear them down" relationship the pubic has with its celebrities. They do become icons or idols or metaphors larger than their own personal humanity--they are the archtypes on which we hang all of the Homeric and Sophoclean epics and tragedies--the same stories of the fatal flaws retold for our own generation. We project EVERYTHING upon them, reflecting the love-hate relationships we have with ourselves: our dreams of being beautiful and successful, our disappointment when we don't measure up. Which is where the schadenfreude really comes in handy...when we are disappointed with ourselves, we look to find someone or something else to distract us--something to say to us, "well, even the one I THOUGHT had everything, doesn't," and, though it's a shameful thing to admit, it makes us feel a little bit better about ourselves.

So in the context of Ms. Judd's experiences overall this past week or so, I think the picture is a little broader than just the ongoing "male vs. female" battle, but she was correct in calling to task the women that engaged in it--until women stop being complicit in their own degradation, the battle will rage on to their detriment.

But I don't know if that's even really possible--genetically, societally, biologically, anthropologically. We are animals wired for procreation, with a "survival of the fittest" edict encoded into our genes. Even with the vast, multi-faceted landscape that is modern, liberated, enlightened human sexuality, there is, at its core, this primal dance that was designed to bring the smartest and strongest of the species together to ensure its endurance, and we are, in spite of our evolved, self-actualized selves, slaves to our visceral reactions: if something is outwardly, visually pretty, IT ATTRACTS US. WE LIKE IT. We each may have different tastes of what we find most attractive, but there is that "Golden Ratio" that steers our instincts. Some people just ARE more attractive than the others, and, by virtue of that attractiveness, those people draw more attention, and ultimately have more choices and opportunities across the entire spectrum of what comprises a life, which, unfortunately, subjects them to the envy of others.

I guess my point here (or one of them, anyway--I'm admittedly all over the map, as usual), is that if it weren't for the fact that Ashley Judd was remarkably beautiful, intelligent, and talented to begin with, no one would bother to make these comparisons or comments about her. I'm not saying that makes it okay, or that she's fair game because she's a celebrity. But what I AM saying is that for the vast majority of people (like me) who fall just at or below "average" attractiveness/talent/intelligence, it's kind of difficult to raise the banner alongside her. I'm very happy to have her stand up for the cause that people shouldn't be judged by their attractiveness, but that's awfully easy for someone like her to say. And I guess I should be grateful that there are "beautiful" people who care about people like me, and, even moreso, about people so much less fortunate than I am, which she apparently does, as evidenced by her extensive work with numerous human rights causes. That certainly makes her a better person than me.

Which is why, sometimes, we all need a little shadenfreude. Or ashleyjuddenfreude.