We all have a family member or friend who simply loathes confrontation; they loathe it to the point that they will make every effort to avoid it, even if that means saying and doing things that are clearly designed to send a message, but do not rise to the occasion of actually addressing the issue at hand.
This can take several forms:
1.) The Continual Denial
This method of passive-aggression is characterized by a refusal to admit that there is a problem, at all, despite accompanying behaviors up to and including (a.) frequent checking of watches/cell phones in social situations; (b.) refusal to partake in conversation, despite being directly in the middle of all conversing parties; (c.) frequent eye rolling and deep sighing following statements by specific party members; (d.) exhibiting clear displeasure with circumstances, situations, or conversations.
When the passive-aggressor engages in this behavior, they will deny at all costs that anything is, in fact, wrong with them or the situation. Rather than speak up and address a problem, they are content to brood over the problem, allowing it to slowly come to a boil inside of them until they are out of earshot and in the company of someone in whom they can confide.
A favorite of mine involves a party and room temperature:
Good friends of mine were hosting a house party at their apartment, and had invited all of our coworkers and their significant others and friends to attend. A male coworker of mine brought his girlfriend, to whom we all referred as the "frigid bitch," primarily because, in addition to her icy demeanor, she was constantly complaining about the room being too cold.
Throughout the evening, rather than simply ask the hosts to turn up the thermostat to a comfortable level, she would behave in ways that clearly indicated her pending hypothermia - shivering, crossing her arms and rubbing them for warmth, putting on her jacket, and even borrowing her boyfriend's leather coat.
What made this behavior infuriating is that several people, including the three hosts, had asked her if she was cold. Each time she was questioned, she responded that she was fine, despite clearly indicating that she was not. This song and dance was repeated throughout the evening, and rather than simply admit that she was cold and have someone fix the problem, the frigid bitch insisted upon freezing and acting like an asshole. One of the hosts, weary of her passive-aggressive behavior, finally decided he had dealt with her long enough and went to go adjust the thermostat...downward.
You see, rather than deal with her issue with the temperature like an adult and achieve a favorable result, her behavior engendered in both her hosts and peers a feeling of not simple derision, but outright animosity. Instead of attempting to cater to her whims for a warmer climate, the host, fed up with her bitchery, went out of his way to make her even less comfortable, and frankly, I don't blame him. By that point in the evening, I wanted to throw her in an ice bath, if only to lighten the mood a bit.
This type of behavior rarely results in a situation being improved, and more often helps to foment the formation of an angry mob. The people around her did not appreciate her avoidance; the hosts did not appreciate her avoidance; her boyfriend was humiliated by her avoidance (and soon left her to freeze on her own); and she, still unwilling to just fucking admit she was cold, ended up turning several people against her, and wound up alone, in the end.
2.) The Casual Departure
Another form of passive-aggressive behavior involves the exiting of rooms. When faced with a situation or circumstance that is unsatisfactory for the passive-aggressor, instead of voicing their disapproval or dissent, they will simply leave the room, altogether. Often accompanied by feigned stoicism and icy silence, the passive-aggressor's absence will often go unnoticed until such time as someone attempts to ask their opinion, only to find that they have long since left their presence.
A famous example of this involves the cast of The Goonies and their recording of the commentary track for the DVD release of the film.
During the recording session, Sean Astin attempts to reveal to the world for the first time his undying love for Cyndi Lauper. He fails, however, to voice his true feelings as the rest of the cast continues to forge ahead with the commentary, discussing scenes, shots, and experiences during the filming of the movie. Despite several attempts to inject his monologue into the discussion, all of which get trampled upon by the rest of the cast, Sean never gets to reveal his forbidden love. Finding his efforts futile, he gets up ostensibly to use the restroom, exits the room, and never returns to the sound booth. It is not until roughly half-an-hour later that someone notices that he has failed to return, and suggests it is because he didn't get to speak. Unmoved by his show of passive-aggression, the cast continues on as if he was never there.
The problem with this form of passive-aggression is that no one feels sorry for you after you're gone; or, if they do, that concern is overshadowed by their confusion as to why you left in the first place. Nothing gets accomplished, no wrongs get righted, and no slights redressed - you are simply left to stew in your own anger, while everyone else continues to have a good time without you.
In the end, the commentary turned out better for his absence, primarily because he wasn't just nattering on about some inanity about which no one cared.
3.) The Backdoor Aside
Perhaps the most shit stirring form of passive-aggression, The Backdoor Aside involves the telling of dissatisfaction, unhappiness, or distaste to another person closely associated with the intended target in the hopes that said confidante will address the problem for you with your target, without you having to get directly involved.
This bullshit drives me up the fucking wall.
Several coworkers of mine have engaged in this behavior, not just about me, but to me about other people.
An example of this involved a female coworker of mine who had a problem with another employee and, rather than deal with the situation with him face to face like an adult, confided her issues with him to me with the clear intention that I go and resolve the issue for her. Once I had done her bidding, the male coworker confronted her about the issue, she denied having the problem, and he went back to doing what annoyed her in the first place. Afterward, she came up to me and insisted that she was humiliated that I had told him to mind his behavior around her, and now the problem was worse than ever.
The problem? She didn't like it when he attended to her neglected tables by refilling their drinks.
Is this bitch for fucking real???
So, there are several reasons why this behavior drives me up the fucking wall:
(a.) I get put in the middle of it, and there's no reason for me to be there;
(b.) The male coworker thinks that I was making shit up because she denied having an issue with his behavior, and therefore trusts me less as a peer and friend;
(c.) She fails to get the result she desired because of her refusal to admit that his behavior annoyed her;
(d.) The male coworker increased the frequency of this behavior to "show me" that there was never a problem at all, further vexing the female coworker.
This is, perhaps, the least effective way to deal with a problem. I'm sorry that you are too immature to handle your own problems, but frankly, that shit's got to go! Once again, passive-aggressive behavior ends up biting you in the ass and engendered feelings of dislike toward you...so, buck the fuck up, and handle your own fucking problems.
4.) The Shrinking Violet
The Shrinking Violet form of passive-aggression involves an attempt to address an issue, but, when faced with the slightest amount of confrontation, turning in on oneself and allowing the other party to trample all over you. This type of behavior often involves an authority figure of some sort, and generally results in nothing getting accomplished.
A classic example of this involves an ex of mine who, when faced with any type of confrontation, gets so flustered and out of sorts that he is unable to function at all. Afterwards, he feels completely dissatisfied with the outcome, dwells on his inability to resolve the problem, and becomes determined to bitterly endure his fate, never again bringing up the subject to attempt for a better result.
My first encounter with this involved the U.S. Postal Service. When I first moved in with my then-partner, the postman refused to deliver mail to our mailbox because a neighbor was legally parked along the curb in front of where the mailbox was situated. Instead of delivering the mail, the postal employee took the extra time to craft a bitchy letter informing us that he would refuse to provide us with mail services if we insisted upon parking the vehicle in that spot. Never mind the fact that the van in question was not ours, nor that the neighbors had parked it in a legally open spot - the postal worker was simply too lazy to get out of his truck, take the ten to twenty steps required to deposit the post into the box, and reenter the vehicle.
My partner attempted to respond by leaving a response to the effect that the vehicle was not ours, and would he please not penalize us for the neighbors' lack of consideration for his time. This response was met with outright denial, and service continued to be withheld, and notes continued to be left in place of our mail.
Which is where I had to step in...by calling the U.S. Postal Service costumer relations hotline and reporting the worker to them. Within 24 hours, I received a call from the local Postmaster, who attempted to haltingly explain that the workers had a schedule to keep, and that anytime they had to go out of their way to deliver the mail, they received overtime.
I politely informed him that this, unfortunately, was not my problem. Come rain, snow, sleet, or hail, the postman is required, by law, to deliver our mail, unless he is presented with a physical threat to his safety, at which time we must be notified that our service will be interrupted until the problem is addressed. If the postal worker was unable to fulfill this requirement of his job, perhaps, I suggested, he should find another line of work.
After stammering a few apologies, the Postmaster promised to address the issue with his employee, and by the next week, we had a new driver, and uninterrupted deliver of our mail.
My ex's avoidance goes beyond simple issues of mail delivery, and extends to other areas of his life - any type of customer service; restaurant service; medical treatment - every situation in which he should assert himself to ensure a positive net result for all parties involved, his hatred of confrontation ends up stymieing his ability to come out on top. He's gotten better, mind you, but it's still an uphill battle.
(Conclusion)
So, the basic message behind this blog post is the following:
Stop being fucking passive-aggressive. If you want to be successful, learn how to deal with confrontation in a health and, most importantly, adult manner so that you can achieve the results and outcomes you desire. And, if you attempt to be passive-aggressive with me, expect me to not give a fuck about what you want, because if you're not enough of an adult to confront me directly, keep your fucking mouth shut and cut the shit.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
The Worst Part of Moving is Realizing What You've Left Behind
I've spent the past few days packing my belongings and transferring them into the tight space that is my 2005 Pontiac Sunfire, all in the pursuit of Eastward momentum. Those of you who know me personally are aware that I have moved more than my fair share of times - this will be Move #43, and my second move across the country - and several of you have assisted me in the moving process, at one time or another, whether by helping me to pack my belongings, or by stopping in at the last moment to wish me well on my journey.
Some people pack in specific ways that best suit their sensibilities, but over the years, I have managed to pack in one of two ways:
1.) The Panicked Fleeing of an Imagined Fire
There have been several instances in which I haven't so much packed, as much as thrown everything into the car in as haphazard a manner as possible, without concern for where things end up. This type of packing involves only a handful of boxes, several trash bags, and a mad dash to get the fuck up out of a place I very likely hate.
2.) The Contemplative, Meandering Walk Down Memory Lane
This type of packing involves several days, sometimes weeks, of slowly and thoughtfully packing away my life. Every item is placed carefully into its designated container, and loving packed away with the greatest care possible in order to allow me the time to dwell upon both the good and bad memories associated with each object.
For the record, this is the worst possible way to pack.
It wouldn't be so bad, I don't think, if the process weren't fraught with bitterness, joy, and sorrow in equal measure, and towards the end of the ordeal, even the slightest sentimental recollection can send one into a fit of unannounced and uncontrollable weeping.
There are several reasons why I haven't left for my much beloved East Coast, yet, not the least of which involves the abject fear that, in moving away from Los Angeles, I am leaving behind one of the best chapters in my life.
...
(Sorry - that last sentence sent me into a crying jag)
...
Part of why I haven't moved, yet, has to do with money - I needed a weekend for the check to clear my account so I could hit the road without fear of ending up broke along the way. In reality, the check cleared on Saturday morning, and I could've left then...
Except for the fact that I hadn't packed a damn thing.
And so, on Saturday, I began the process of packing up my belongings while we watched Fringe on Amazon Instant View. I could've finished the job on Sunday...
Except that I needed to clean out the car.
So, on Sunday night, I emptied out the car, and said to myself, "Well, I need to vacuum it, before I start stuffing shit into it as tightly as I can." And I could've left on Monday, except...
When I woke up on Monday, I called WVU to reschedule my intake appointment for the Positive Living HIV Clinic, only to realize that I needed to make sure that my meds for May were covered, here in California, first, which sent me on an hour-long odyssey of phone calls between Healthy Way L.A. and AHF to try and get that squared away.
And then, Adam came over for dinner and How I Met Your Mother.
And even at the end of the evening, I tried my best to make excuses to try to stay here longer than need be, only to come up empty for a real reason.
So, here it is - Tuesday, April 16th, 2013 - and I'm finally on my way out the door, at some point, this morning. What made it final, for me was when James came in to say goodbye to me in our normal morning fashion, and he lingered just that few second longer than usual
...
(Another fit of weeping)
...
I went outside to shift boxes around my car to pack my television, and caught him as he rode away on his motorcycle - the same one I helped him walk away from when he crashed in the Angeles National Forest in 2012 - and he gave that two fingered wave goodbye, and away he went...
I tried my best not to linger and allow my sadness to see him go get the best of me, and so I threw myself into the task of loading my television into the backseat...the real moment when you realize that you're truly moving.
From that point forward, little things have triggered my weep-fests, from sorting through sports attire, to searching for my leather vest (which I've yet to find), to sifting through the laundry in the front bedroom, to packing away my myriad surge protectors, to realizing how much I'm going to have to ask James to ship to me (sorry, love).
The thing that keeps going through my head and coming out my mouth as I weep is, "I don't want to leave...I don't want to move..."
Leaving Los Angeles, though it is the personally best thing I could possibly do, feels like my heart is being ripped from my chest and handed to me on a plate. Like an asshole, I've made an imposition upon my former partner, and stayed in his house for well past by welcome. A full year-and-a-half after we separated, I stayed with him, largely because I simply could not afford to get out on my own; and for a year-and-a-half, he tolerated it, even though every cell in his body wanted to chuck me out onto the street.
It took getting fired from my job at Barney's Beanery in Westwood to give me that kick in the ass I needed to make a decision and see it through.
As I begin to wrap up this meandering blog post, I realize that even writing this is a stalling tactic. I still have to shower, take the remaining clothes out of the dryer, and stuff them into the car. There's one more box to pack into the trunk, and my backpack to fill with my most immediately needed belongings, and a thermos to fill with ice and Diet Pepsi for my trip. And I can't forget to take what meds I still have with me, lest my journey be a complete waste of time.
The real reason I don't want to go is that I am filled with anxiety at the thought of driving across the country, again - only, this time, without James to make the journey with me. I'm going alone, and the thought that I am leaving behind the man whom I have loved for nearly four years, and though it's really time for me to go - for us to move on from one another - I want to revel in the comfort of him coming home to watch television, and the two of us being completely indecisive about what to have for dinner and attempting to foist upon the other the decision (I usually end up making it), and the fights, and the laughter, and introducing him to films that were so popular that he has no excuse for having not seen them.
...
(Yet another fit of tears)
...
I want to cuddle the cat, and say goodbye to the dog, knowing that they are unaware that I'm not coming back, this time. I wonder if they actually know that? The cat will eventually be flown out to WV to meet me at my new home, and though I know I'll see him, again, I just want to hold Gremlin and cry for a few minutes before I go.
...
(Again)
...
And, here it is. I think the clothing is finally dry, and I am ready to hop in the shower. Before I do, I'll throw whatever I can still fit into the last container, and shove it into the trunk, make sure the trunk lid can close, and force myself into the shower. I hate this part.
But, it's the right thing to do.
Some people pack in specific ways that best suit their sensibilities, but over the years, I have managed to pack in one of two ways:
1.) The Panicked Fleeing of an Imagined Fire
There have been several instances in which I haven't so much packed, as much as thrown everything into the car in as haphazard a manner as possible, without concern for where things end up. This type of packing involves only a handful of boxes, several trash bags, and a mad dash to get the fuck up out of a place I very likely hate.
2.) The Contemplative, Meandering Walk Down Memory Lane
This type of packing involves several days, sometimes weeks, of slowly and thoughtfully packing away my life. Every item is placed carefully into its designated container, and loving packed away with the greatest care possible in order to allow me the time to dwell upon both the good and bad memories associated with each object.
For the record, this is the worst possible way to pack.
It wouldn't be so bad, I don't think, if the process weren't fraught with bitterness, joy, and sorrow in equal measure, and towards the end of the ordeal, even the slightest sentimental recollection can send one into a fit of unannounced and uncontrollable weeping.
There are several reasons why I haven't left for my much beloved East Coast, yet, not the least of which involves the abject fear that, in moving away from Los Angeles, I am leaving behind one of the best chapters in my life.
...
(Sorry - that last sentence sent me into a crying jag)
...
Part of why I haven't moved, yet, has to do with money - I needed a weekend for the check to clear my account so I could hit the road without fear of ending up broke along the way. In reality, the check cleared on Saturday morning, and I could've left then...
Except for the fact that I hadn't packed a damn thing.
And so, on Saturday, I began the process of packing up my belongings while we watched Fringe on Amazon Instant View. I could've finished the job on Sunday...
Except that I needed to clean out the car.
So, on Sunday night, I emptied out the car, and said to myself, "Well, I need to vacuum it, before I start stuffing shit into it as tightly as I can." And I could've left on Monday, except...
When I woke up on Monday, I called WVU to reschedule my intake appointment for the Positive Living HIV Clinic, only to realize that I needed to make sure that my meds for May were covered, here in California, first, which sent me on an hour-long odyssey of phone calls between Healthy Way L.A. and AHF to try and get that squared away.
And then, Adam came over for dinner and How I Met Your Mother.
And even at the end of the evening, I tried my best to make excuses to try to stay here longer than need be, only to come up empty for a real reason.
So, here it is - Tuesday, April 16th, 2013 - and I'm finally on my way out the door, at some point, this morning. What made it final, for me was when James came in to say goodbye to me in our normal morning fashion, and he lingered just that few second longer than usual
...
(Another fit of weeping)
...
I went outside to shift boxes around my car to pack my television, and caught him as he rode away on his motorcycle - the same one I helped him walk away from when he crashed in the Angeles National Forest in 2012 - and he gave that two fingered wave goodbye, and away he went...
I tried my best not to linger and allow my sadness to see him go get the best of me, and so I threw myself into the task of loading my television into the backseat...the real moment when you realize that you're truly moving.
From that point forward, little things have triggered my weep-fests, from sorting through sports attire, to searching for my leather vest (which I've yet to find), to sifting through the laundry in the front bedroom, to packing away my myriad surge protectors, to realizing how much I'm going to have to ask James to ship to me (sorry, love).
The thing that keeps going through my head and coming out my mouth as I weep is, "I don't want to leave...I don't want to move..."
Leaving Los Angeles, though it is the personally best thing I could possibly do, feels like my heart is being ripped from my chest and handed to me on a plate. Like an asshole, I've made an imposition upon my former partner, and stayed in his house for well past by welcome. A full year-and-a-half after we separated, I stayed with him, largely because I simply could not afford to get out on my own; and for a year-and-a-half, he tolerated it, even though every cell in his body wanted to chuck me out onto the street.
It took getting fired from my job at Barney's Beanery in Westwood to give me that kick in the ass I needed to make a decision and see it through.
As I begin to wrap up this meandering blog post, I realize that even writing this is a stalling tactic. I still have to shower, take the remaining clothes out of the dryer, and stuff them into the car. There's one more box to pack into the trunk, and my backpack to fill with my most immediately needed belongings, and a thermos to fill with ice and Diet Pepsi for my trip. And I can't forget to take what meds I still have with me, lest my journey be a complete waste of time.
The real reason I don't want to go is that I am filled with anxiety at the thought of driving across the country, again - only, this time, without James to make the journey with me. I'm going alone, and the thought that I am leaving behind the man whom I have loved for nearly four years, and though it's really time for me to go - for us to move on from one another - I want to revel in the comfort of him coming home to watch television, and the two of us being completely indecisive about what to have for dinner and attempting to foist upon the other the decision (I usually end up making it), and the fights, and the laughter, and introducing him to films that were so popular that he has no excuse for having not seen them.
...
(Yet another fit of tears)
...
I want to cuddle the cat, and say goodbye to the dog, knowing that they are unaware that I'm not coming back, this time. I wonder if they actually know that? The cat will eventually be flown out to WV to meet me at my new home, and though I know I'll see him, again, I just want to hold Gremlin and cry for a few minutes before I go.
...
(Again)
...
And, here it is. I think the clothing is finally dry, and I am ready to hop in the shower. Before I do, I'll throw whatever I can still fit into the last container, and shove it into the trunk, make sure the trunk lid can close, and force myself into the shower. I hate this part.
But, it's the right thing to do.
Monday, April 8, 2013
The Folly of the Sleepless Children (or How to Profit from Slavery Without Even Trying)
I penned the following short story for a friend of mine who, frustrated with her failed efforts to put her children to bed at night, put out an open call for new bedtime stories. Being a writer, I, of course, rose to the challenge, and quickly put together this very Grimm-esque fairy tale:
There were once two children who would not go to sleep at night. Their mother, frustrated by her own lack of sleep, decided instead to try a different approach:
'Fine,' she exclaimed, 'Do what you will! From this point forward, you can stay up as late as you want to stay up, so long as your lack of sleep in no way negatively impacts what you have to do during the next day.'
The children, thinking that this was a fair deal jumped for joy!
'No more bedtime?" the children asked, amazed at their mother's magnanimity, 'This can't possibly be real!'
'It's very real,' the mother said, smugly. 'But, if your lack of sleep begins to impair your daily performance, the consequences will be dire for you both.'
The children, caught unawares by what they thought had been a deal too good to be true, asked their mother what the consequences would be.
'You think your father and I are mean for making you go to sleep, and maybe we are,' the mother calmly began, 'There are, however, those who profit from children how don't sleep, and frankly, you two cost us more money than you're really worth. So, if your performance starts to lag during the day from your lack of sleep, your father and I have decided to sell you to a Chinese businessman who has shown interest in your workload potential. He thinks you'd make an excellent addition to his sweatshop.'
The children sat in their bed aghast at the thought of being sold to a sweatshop owner in China, but they were confident in their ability to stay awake at night and still be attentive and productive the next day, and so, with little thought, they agreed to their mother's offer.
What folly!
For the first week, the children managed to live up to their part of the bargain. They never went to sleep at night, so much as they eventually passed out from exhaustion, tired from their long days and nights of cavorting, galavanting, and generally bawdy romping.
The second week, however, things began to change for the worse. The children, certain that their mother had been joking about her end of the bargain, continued with their experiment, despite their failure to stay active, attentive, and productive.
And lo and behold, much to their dismay, after the third week of their experiment, the children came home one evening to find that their parents had a visitor - a strange man, dressed in a black cape and a grey suit, with a sharp looking wooden cane and shoes shined so brightly that the glare from the overhead lamp temporarily blinded the children...which was unfortunate, as they failed to see the money exchanging hands.
With little ado, the parents, satisfied with the deal they had struck with the strange and sinister looking man, unceremoniously stripped the children of their nice, store-bought clothes, and outfitted them with the thin, dirty cotton rags they had once used to dust the house and clean the kitchen, each rag sewn together to form two makeshift tunics cinched in the middle with a thin piece of cord. Taken away were the nice, expensive shoes so lovingly selected at the children's shoe store, and the children were left standing in their bare feet on their parents' nicely waxed hardwood floor. Even the glasses given to the eldest child to correct his eyesight were ripped off his face, leaving his vision blurry, so that he couldn't make out the difference between the sinister stranger and his former parents.
The stranger, pleased with his purchase, barked orders at the children in Chinese, but as they were unfamiliar with the language, they stared dumbly at him, and wondered aloud to no one in particular, 'What did he just say?'
Incensed that his two new acquisitions were showing recalcitrance, the stranger brandished his cane and proceeded to beat the children unmercifully, ignoring their screams of agony as he used the cane to herd them out the front door and into the trunk of his limousine.
Their parents, though saddened by the unfortunate sale of their two former children, took yet another opportunity to count the $20,000 paid for each of them, piling the money into neatly stacked and properly faced stacks of $1,000 until they had 40 sets of equally valuable bills spread out across their coffee table.
'Do you think we should have sold the children to that awful, yet generously compensating Chinese businessman,' the father, who had always been the Good Cop asked.
'Perhaps not,' acquiesced the mother, 'But, they had to learn the error of their ways, eventually. Nothing in life is certain; not for any of us. A long, hard slog in an un-air conditioned factory may be the best thing for them. I know that we, certainly, will finally be able to get some sleep, at night.'
The father, initially awestruck by his wife's blunt response, took a few moments to consider her justification of the sale, and eventually took her hand and said, 'That's true. And let's face it, we made out like bandits off this sale! If we'd kept them, we would've had to spend 200 times the amount of money we made off their sale just to raise them and send them to college!'
His wife, and former mother of the two soon-to-be-sleep deprived sweatshop workers, burst out in gleeful laughter at the thought of all the money to be saved from selling off their two largest deficits.
And thus ends the story of the children who wouldn't go to sleep at night, and their parents who, unlike their former children, will get to live happily ever after.
There were once two children who would not go to sleep at night. Their mother, frustrated by her own lack of sleep, decided instead to try a different approach:
'Fine,' she exclaimed, 'Do what you will! From this point forward, you can stay up as late as you want to stay up, so long as your lack of sleep in no way negatively impacts what you have to do during the next day.'
The children, thinking that this was a fair deal jumped for joy!
'No more bedtime?" the children asked, amazed at their mother's magnanimity, 'This can't possibly be real!'
'It's very real,' the mother said, smugly. 'But, if your lack of sleep begins to impair your daily performance, the consequences will be dire for you both.'
The children, caught unawares by what they thought had been a deal too good to be true, asked their mother what the consequences would be.
'You think your father and I are mean for making you go to sleep, and maybe we are,' the mother calmly began, 'There are, however, those who profit from children how don't sleep, and frankly, you two cost us more money than you're really worth. So, if your performance starts to lag during the day from your lack of sleep, your father and I have decided to sell you to a Chinese businessman who has shown interest in your workload potential. He thinks you'd make an excellent addition to his sweatshop.'
The children sat in their bed aghast at the thought of being sold to a sweatshop owner in China, but they were confident in their ability to stay awake at night and still be attentive and productive the next day, and so, with little thought, they agreed to their mother's offer.
What folly!
For the first week, the children managed to live up to their part of the bargain. They never went to sleep at night, so much as they eventually passed out from exhaustion, tired from their long days and nights of cavorting, galavanting, and generally bawdy romping.
The second week, however, things began to change for the worse. The children, certain that their mother had been joking about her end of the bargain, continued with their experiment, despite their failure to stay active, attentive, and productive.
And lo and behold, much to their dismay, after the third week of their experiment, the children came home one evening to find that their parents had a visitor - a strange man, dressed in a black cape and a grey suit, with a sharp looking wooden cane and shoes shined so brightly that the glare from the overhead lamp temporarily blinded the children...which was unfortunate, as they failed to see the money exchanging hands.
With little ado, the parents, satisfied with the deal they had struck with the strange and sinister looking man, unceremoniously stripped the children of their nice, store-bought clothes, and outfitted them with the thin, dirty cotton rags they had once used to dust the house and clean the kitchen, each rag sewn together to form two makeshift tunics cinched in the middle with a thin piece of cord. Taken away were the nice, expensive shoes so lovingly selected at the children's shoe store, and the children were left standing in their bare feet on their parents' nicely waxed hardwood floor. Even the glasses given to the eldest child to correct his eyesight were ripped off his face, leaving his vision blurry, so that he couldn't make out the difference between the sinister stranger and his former parents.
The stranger, pleased with his purchase, barked orders at the children in Chinese, but as they were unfamiliar with the language, they stared dumbly at him, and wondered aloud to no one in particular, 'What did he just say?'
Incensed that his two new acquisitions were showing recalcitrance, the stranger brandished his cane and proceeded to beat the children unmercifully, ignoring their screams of agony as he used the cane to herd them out the front door and into the trunk of his limousine.
Their parents, though saddened by the unfortunate sale of their two former children, took yet another opportunity to count the $20,000 paid for each of them, piling the money into neatly stacked and properly faced stacks of $1,000 until they had 40 sets of equally valuable bills spread out across their coffee table.
'Do you think we should have sold the children to that awful, yet generously compensating Chinese businessman,' the father, who had always been the Good Cop asked.
'Perhaps not,' acquiesced the mother, 'But, they had to learn the error of their ways, eventually. Nothing in life is certain; not for any of us. A long, hard slog in an un-air conditioned factory may be the best thing for them. I know that we, certainly, will finally be able to get some sleep, at night.'
The father, initially awestruck by his wife's blunt response, took a few moments to consider her justification of the sale, and eventually took her hand and said, 'That's true. And let's face it, we made out like bandits off this sale! If we'd kept them, we would've had to spend 200 times the amount of money we made off their sale just to raise them and send them to college!'
His wife, and former mother of the two soon-to-be-sleep deprived sweatshop workers, burst out in gleeful laughter at the thought of all the money to be saved from selling off their two largest deficits.
And thus ends the story of the children who wouldn't go to sleep at night, and their parents who, unlike their former children, will get to live happily ever after.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
You Can't Go Home, Again
There's a somewhat bleak and altogether woeful saying that one "can't go home, again." This adage is interpreted to mean that, once you grow up, going home to revisit your youth will not be as nostalgic as you might wish; that when you go home, everything will have changed so dramatically, that many of your childhood memories will have to remain simply that - remembrances.
For those of us, however, whose lives have been lived in several places, going home, again, isn't really an issue. I, for example, am so used to moving every few years that radical change doesn't really bother me.
But, honestly, why should precipitous change bother us? Who should growing up and seeing things through new eyes - through the lenses of our experiences - cause us so much grief?
Nostalgia is our way of glossing over the horrible parts of our lives. We love to remember the good things about our past, and that's fantastic; but what we often omit are the awful times. There has to be some sort of healthy balance struck in order for us to fully understand the lessons we've gleaned from our trials.
When I went back to Buffalo High School, where my father is still teaching music after nearly thirty years, it struck me as amazing that I never realized how actually small the band room was. Growing up, it always seemed large enough to teach a guard class how to do drop spins and tosses; the back room storage area was always gigantic and cluttered, filled with interesting artifacts of days gone by - strobe lights, old flags, those fantastic 70s & 80s band portraits with each individual in their uniform with their equipment in their own little oval shot; these are the memories I have of that band room, and even though in 2010, it looked so small, dilapidated, and antiquated, those memories remain in that room, cordoned off in my mind with vulcanized rope.
In just under two weeks, I am leaving the Los Angeles area behind, and in doing so, I will leave behind a similar set of memories. The same can be said of those left behind in Ft. Lauderdale, Atlanta, Knoxville, Kingsport, and every other city in which I've all too briefly resided. Those who have lived out most of their lives in only one or two places have the distinct disadvantage of being ill-prepared for dramatic changes, though gradual change in their hometowns goes largely unnoticed. For them, it is all part of the maturation process to which they don't pay attention because they are witness to it.
For me, though, even the smallest changes are apparent. Roads get paved; schools get remodeled and expanded; stadiums get Astrograss (which is the worst thing on EARTH, if you ever have to march on it); shopping centers get built; whole part of the city are razed and rebuilt as high rise apartment buildings. Every former home, to me, is unrecognizable from the time I spent, there.
And that's fine by me.
In moving back to Morgantown (or Morganhole, as we so lovingly refer to it), I don't go with the expectation that I will be reliving the early days of my childhood at my grandparents' houses, or re-drinking myself into the oblivion that was my first attempt at college. Instead, I know that going back, this time, opens up a new world of possibility for me; that I will be in a position to take my expertise and actually do some good in an area of the country that could use my knowledge.
And, if it doesn't all pan out, that way? There's always Boston.
For those of us, however, whose lives have been lived in several places, going home, again, isn't really an issue. I, for example, am so used to moving every few years that radical change doesn't really bother me.
But, honestly, why should precipitous change bother us? Who should growing up and seeing things through new eyes - through the lenses of our experiences - cause us so much grief?
Nostalgia is our way of glossing over the horrible parts of our lives. We love to remember the good things about our past, and that's fantastic; but what we often omit are the awful times. There has to be some sort of healthy balance struck in order for us to fully understand the lessons we've gleaned from our trials.
When I went back to Buffalo High School, where my father is still teaching music after nearly thirty years, it struck me as amazing that I never realized how actually small the band room was. Growing up, it always seemed large enough to teach a guard class how to do drop spins and tosses; the back room storage area was always gigantic and cluttered, filled with interesting artifacts of days gone by - strobe lights, old flags, those fantastic 70s & 80s band portraits with each individual in their uniform with their equipment in their own little oval shot; these are the memories I have of that band room, and even though in 2010, it looked so small, dilapidated, and antiquated, those memories remain in that room, cordoned off in my mind with vulcanized rope.
In just under two weeks, I am leaving the Los Angeles area behind, and in doing so, I will leave behind a similar set of memories. The same can be said of those left behind in Ft. Lauderdale, Atlanta, Knoxville, Kingsport, and every other city in which I've all too briefly resided. Those who have lived out most of their lives in only one or two places have the distinct disadvantage of being ill-prepared for dramatic changes, though gradual change in their hometowns goes largely unnoticed. For them, it is all part of the maturation process to which they don't pay attention because they are witness to it.
For me, though, even the smallest changes are apparent. Roads get paved; schools get remodeled and expanded; stadiums get Astrograss (which is the worst thing on EARTH, if you ever have to march on it); shopping centers get built; whole part of the city are razed and rebuilt as high rise apartment buildings. Every former home, to me, is unrecognizable from the time I spent, there.
And that's fine by me.
In moving back to Morgantown (or Morganhole, as we so lovingly refer to it), I don't go with the expectation that I will be reliving the early days of my childhood at my grandparents' houses, or re-drinking myself into the oblivion that was my first attempt at college. Instead, I know that going back, this time, opens up a new world of possibility for me; that I will be in a position to take my expertise and actually do some good in an area of the country that could use my knowledge.
And, if it doesn't all pan out, that way? There's always Boston.
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