What Pulls Us Apart
copyright © 2008 Betsy L. Angert. BeThink.org
It was a cool Fall evening in South Florida. The breeze was gentle; the sunset glorious. As I approached the intersection where, each weekend I stand in support of peace and tranquility, I did as I do when at this crossroad. I placed my arm out the window. My digits were extended and formed the symbol associated with serenity. When I am in a vehicle, at the locale commonly considered the Peace Corner I work to preserve the intent of my Saturday mission. I strive to advance awareness for the notion, this nation remains at war. Soldiers are slaughtered far from the shores of home sweet home. Civilians, in their native country continue to lose their lives for a want of war. I crave global harmony and will work to restore some sense of civility worldwide. However, as I sat silently in contemplation cries of "Country First" startled me.
The divisiveness that has become pervasive during this political season smacked me in the face. Shaken, I turned to see where the words of contempt might have come from. There they stood, two young boys, perhaps eleven years of age stood on the sidewalk with homemade signs in hand. "McCain Palin" was painted on a poster. Smaller type, difficult to read from even a short distance, said more. I might pretend to portend what the words were meant to communicate. However, I rather not assume. I can only describe what was said and done as the seconds on the street turned into minutes.
As others had done when they passed me with my peaceful placard for oh so many years, I expressed my belief in a manner that might be visible to these youthful demonstrators. I reached for my Obama sign, which is neatly tucked between my windshield and the dashboard. I held the glossy rectangular navy blue sticker up, my arm stretched beyond the side of the automobile. The near Middle School age gents immediately saw my marker and exclaimed. "He is a Muslim!"
I calmly cried, "No, he is not. Barack Obama is a Christian." "However," I continued, even if he were as you seem to believe, why would that matter?" " Do you really wish to be intolerant of other religions?" "What of our rights as afforded by the United States Constitution?" Perhaps as one who taught Junior High School students for so long, an invitation to discuss seemed ideal to me. These young people, not familiar with me, and my love of open and reverent conversations were intent on repeating the rhetoric they likely heard in their homes.
I could not help but wonder would the words Communist, Socialist, or terrorist, pass through the lips of these lads. Might one boy or the other tell me as drivers had days ago when I stood on the corner in vigil for peace, "Barack Obama is Black"? My mind raced as I reflected upon the two chaps. I realized the issues important to them were those the elders they loved had discussed at length. Human as the young men were they knew what they knew. The adolescents were taught to think as the adults important in their lives did. We all do, at least initially.
I remembered a tale I frequently told pupils in the past. In my own life, I later understood, when I was young I was unaware of the infinite options and opportunities to think, say, do, and feel, in ways that were uncommon in my family. I could not imagine what was novel to me. If questioned I would defend my beliefs; however, unlike these preteens I did not dismiss a request for thoughtfulness. A want for greater wisdom was instilled in me from the first. I learned to desire discussions. Fury in my family seemed a futile emotion. It brought more wrath and offered little promise for peace.
However, my relatives did not raise these miniature men. Perhaps that explains why the pair of youthful McCain/Palin supporters began to rant and rage. They chided me for the size of my sign. The littler than full-grown lads laughed as they pointed to a banner firmly planted, permanently into the ground. Behind them was a monstrous sign, perhaps eight-feet wide and six feet high. The words McCain Palin stood strident for all passer-bys to see. On a background, so dark as to appear near black, the white letters screamed support for the Republican ticket.
The boys shrieked; "I cannot even see your sign." "It is so small," the two shouted. I did not react. The language the boys used morphed into a lexicon I will not utter, even when distressed. After moments when I avoided actual engagement; although I did not put my Obama sign down, I decided to speak again. "Love and peace," I proclaimed. I was quickly told there would be none of that. A slew of statements not to be repeated spewed from the mouths of babes. I was stunned, not by the venom but by the similarities and contrast.
While I waited for the light to turn green, I found myself lost in reveries.
As a child, also at the age of eleven or possibly twelve, I first began on my path as an activist, an advocate for people, regardless of race, color, creed, or religion. My civic maturity was intellectually realized through acceptance. I was taught not merely to tolerate others; I learned to embrace all. Amongst my lessons, diversity is as significantly wondrous as similarities. These were our family values. More importantly, the skill that was honed in my parents' home was listening.
My Mom and Dad helped me to understand that if I chose to hear what another believed, I could grow wiser. Together, communities are greater when the commonweal is the central concern. Fundamentally, my family believed, all individuals believe in love and goodness. "All men [and women, children too] are created equal.
Perhaps that is why, while in Middle School my family participated in a civil rights march. I was invited to join them. Years earlier, at the age of five, I became interested in politics. As my parents engaged in the most animated discussion I had ever witnessed, I learned of elections.
I grew aware of the emotional impact an economic issues and the impact these could have on a vote. Education, the environment, war, and peace all played a part in ballot decisions. At the kitchen table, as I sat and listened to the lively talk on topics that related to every aspect of life, I realized the power of everyday people. All Americans who vote shape our society. I also understood that those to little to cast a ballot had influence.
Mothers and fathers often jest, "My children learn what I never did." Proud papas revel in the knowledge a son or daughter shares. Modest Mamas marvel when their offspring offer informed opinions. In my youth, I may not have realized the words I uttered as a student enrolled in school were of interest to my Mom and Dad. What I saw and felt taught them. As I talked aloud, my parents learned. We chatted. The child was a mentor. Caregivers were counselors. Each gained and received a greater education from the other.
The difference between my experience and what I witnessed at the intersection was in my family, peace was promoted. A reciprocal reverence was advanced. A word such as "Muslim," a person's religion, was not considered a source for a slight.
I was not encouraged to slam or damn another being, not one who stood before me, or one who wished to serve the public. Indeed, behavior than might demean or dismiss another being was sincerely discouraged.
As a child, I was taught to believe competitive temperaments are counter productive. Characteristics that could be classified as cutthroat were considered childish, aggressive, and contrary to the traits that might create peace. Calmness was considered the pinnacle path. In my family, communication was thought to be the greatest travel, that is, next to thinking.
Even in election season, I learned at the knees of Mommy and Daddy; empathy is the best educator. I wondered. What had these young men experienced in their homes?
Would their mothers and fathers be pleased as they heard their brood proclaim prejudice statements from the pavement, "Barack Obama is a Muslim." Might the Moms or Dads of these chaps be indignant at the discordant idea of "Country First?" Would they rather the children cry in concord, "We, the people, are the change we can believe in." Likely not. Progeny are the products of parents.
If we teach the children to chastise, they will. Offspring trained to offend others do. Those tutored to act defensively often deliver dubious dictums. Fear fills the spirits of those who were not treated with abundant respect. Apprehension is frequently expressed as anger.
Concerned communication gives birth to calm and care. If we edify praise, as well as unity and peace, our offspring will practice kindheartedness. When mothers and fathers teach attentiveness and acceptance, the children will acquire comparable customs. Elders who choose to listen and learn from and with their progeny teach little ones to do the same.
Perchance what divides our country is not political parties, religious practices, color, or creed. What fractures America is the manner in which we parent our children.
Posted by Betsy L. Angert on October 20, 2008 at 09:00 PM in Adult Influence on Children, Americana, Children, Communities, Communities and Communication , Compassion, Conflict, Complex, Elections, Empathy and Evolution, Family, Functioning, Fables, Fear | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Dalliance Defined
copyright © 2008 Betsy L. Angert. BeThink.org
For me, it all began near a week ago. There was no word of it on the Nightly News. Nightline offered no interviews. Articles did not appear in popular, or prized periodicals. Even the National Enquirer had no exclusive accounts. Bloggers did mot blast me with rumors of what might have been. The story, while sensational, did warrant banner headlines. After all, neither person was as widely known as former Presidential aspirant John Edwards is. The woman may or may not have had a history that would titillate many a reader. I know not whether this thirty or forty-ish female was the mother of what the media would wish to label a "love child." I feel certain that her name is not Rielle Hunter or Lisa Druck. She is not the fictional character, Alison Poole. She was but a real person looking for love, as was he, in a parking lot.
I am not sure whether this is the first time, I have seen this particular pair. Often, over many years, before or after my daily swim in a public pool, I gaze upon a couple of cars positioned far on the fringe of the city acreage. The automobiles are not always the ones I saw days earlier. However, the coupes are consistently stationed at the farthest edge of the property. Each vehicle is expensive, a late model sedan, sports car, chassis, or coach, and always, the two will occupy spaces adjacent to the other. This time, the cars were identifiable; perhaps because, I was closer to the area reserved for lovers.
On this hot summer day, when I initially arrived at the commons, I sought shade for the "Silver Sweetness," or what others might think of as my vehicle. My swim is long. I thought it would be nice if my metal friend could be to be cool and comfortable as I stroked through the water. After, my dip in the pool, I returned to the parking lot. It was time to travel back home. As I approached my automobile, and saw the man and woman outside what, in that moment I thought might be their respective automobiles, I could not help but think they did not desire as I had. Noticeably, the pair had other priorities.
Unlike on other occasions over the many years, when cars were tightly closed as they sat alone on the edge of the lot, on this day no single car steamed from within. The windows in each of the two ostensibly joined vehicles were dry and clear. On this day, I observed the automobiles parked in "the spot" did not appear to be unoccupied for hours. Instead of the usual sight, cryptic cars, I witnessed people "in love."
They couple cooed, and warmly chortled in a public parking lot. The duet may have defined dalliance. The two whose cars sat empty, embraced as they leaned up against the side of what I later learned was the fellow's top-of-the-line BMW. Bavarian Motor Works can craft quite a coupe and this chap, apparently, had crafted quite a practice, medical I assume as I considered his attire. I think the automobile may have been an M6 convertible. If it was a lower priced model, the vehicle was certainly not near the bottom of the product-line. The sleek, streamline steel blue frame and navy canvas top were truly fine, speaking as one, who, as a child was a connoisseur of cars.
The gent, who wore hospital scrubs, and the woman, well-coiffed, in her casual and professionally tailored clothing, wanted more of their moment than I did of mine. I craved only protection from a blistering sun, for my metal companion. I sought a place to park and a swim, nothing more. It seemed my desires were far less significant than those of the twosome.
Bodily thirst and secrecy appeared to be their priority; at least that is what I surmised. Dalliance, in that moment was delicious. I could think of no other reason for two, so completely entangled, to escape the sanctity of home, or office and meet in a parking lot.
They had not come to swim. Bathing suits were not worn or stored in bags visible at their side. The two did not stroll. Nor did they travel away from the automobiles intent that they might swing rackets in the nearby tennis court. As I walked to the Silver Sweetness, and tried not to watch, I realized I was distracted, less so with their "actions" than my reaction.
I wondered; was this encounter a celebration of love. When people experience each other fully, hugs and kisses can be quite delightful. Was this one of these special, spontaneous, moments? It did not seem as such.
The flirtatious energy did not suggest that the two were formally intertwined forever. The playfulness did not express itself as familiarity frequently does; or at least what I witnessed was not as my experience when in a solid, secure, stable, and serene relationship. I felt a sense of ambiguity, awkwardness, or anxiety in the motions of this man and woman. Perchance, I interpreted what I saw incorrectly. I am willing to be wrong and admittedly, frequently, what I assume is in error.
Hence, I was haunted by the questions I felt a need to ask, but knew I could not. Were the two married or even emotionally, intimately involved? Perchance. Was this a tryst, an affair, an adventure, or excitement for those who yearned for exuberant enthusiasm in at least one avenue of life? I knew not, and did not dwell on what might be for either of these individuals. What I observed reminded me of times when I was infatuated, involved, or otherwise engaged.
The chestnut-haired woman smiled ever so broadly. She gazed into his eyes longingly, and held on to his body tightly. The long and lean man looked at the voluptuous frame of his female friend and visibly responded to her buxom body. The fellow looked into her face. Yet, he appeared to focus more on what he felt. He cupped her buttocks in his hands. Even from a distance, I could see his eyes darted to and from her ample bosom. The two laughed as they caressed each other's bulk.
As minutes passed, and I came closer, I pondered. Why would a couple comfortable in their relationship come to a public park only to stand together, smile, and smack lips, or rumps? I could think of no reason for such an adventure. Nonetheless, I acknowledge the truth of the adage, 'Different strokes for different folks.' I trust I cannot quarrel with what entertains another.
I looked away content in the knowledge that I could never know what is real for this couple or any persons. We are all so unique. I struggle to grasp what is within me, let alone presume to know what might be true for these two.
I continued on to my car. I chose to enjoy the day and my own doings, just as this duo did. Soon after, I had the sense the "friends," or "lovers" saw me. I felt four eyes upon me. I tried not to notice their glare. Yet, I recognized the energy had changed.
The mirth melted. The time for enchantment faded. The satisfaction expressed in smiles and soft giggles fell into silence. I had not meant to disturb them. Perhaps, their now evident need to dash had nothing to do with me. The time for afternoon-delights may have naturally come to an end. I know not. I was only certain I did not wish to intrude or be the cause of an abrupt closure.
I entered the Silver Sweetness and started the engine. I hoped that my anticipated exit might settle the minds of the two who now seemed hurried. As I placed the car [oh, how I hate to use that word when I describe the metal baby that has been so good to me] in gear, I looked out the windshield and saw that my move to leave had not eased the minds of this duet.
I reminded myself, what they do is not my choice. I cannot please, appease, affect, or alter individuals that I do not communicate with. I must accept that their actions are separate from me, although I felt a need to apologize. I did not wish to disturb. I could not say "I am sorry." That would have been more odd than any engagement they or I imagined.
Nonetheless. Through the corner of my eye, I observed the woman quickly slip into her Lexus roadster. Once snug in the single front seat of her pearl white luxury automobile, she placed the vehicle in gear and backed out. She drove a few feet to where her beau stood, and thoughtfully spoke a swift good-bye. Then, she sped off.
I decided not to follow her lead, and left more slowly. I did not wish to travel too near or flee too soon. I felt a strange need to give the woman her space. I placed a bottle of water to my mouth, and drank a bit. After, I departed. As I drove away, I wondered would the fellow follow.
The road from the community park to the main avenue is a long one. It may be half a mile long. As I turned onto the back boulevard, I saw the pearl-white Lexus coupe was long gone. Far off into the distance, I saw the woman was about to enter the main street. The chap never appeared in my rear-view mirror. Only thoughts of what had occurred were visible.
I thought of the times in my life when I was immersed in infatuation. Thoughts of another could fill an entire day, weeks, months and even years. I recall how I might do what I did not desire or delay more meaningful activities. More than once, in retrospect, I pondered what might have been if my head and heart were one.
How many hours had I wasted as I sought love and settled for lust? As I journeyed home, my mind was filled with the folly of intimacy and how often, when in a whirlwind relationship, people to do not really relate. They take no time to meditate. Most couples barely deliberate. Sincere discussions can be a distraction when individuals just want to do it!
Often, I realize depth in a love liaison is void. Conversation can be vacuous. Veracity is too often vacant. The vigor and vitality felt is vast, more so than any authenticity. What passes for passion is frequently fantasy. The illusion is fantastic, and the involvement is just for fun.
I think of what I have heard from men and women alike when they speak of past loves, or even those they bed in the present. So often, in retrospect, a man once intent on an adventure such as I observed, will muse.
"When she wasn't out at nightclubs, she was taking acting classes. We dated for only a few months, but in that period, I spent a lot of time with her and her friends, whose behavior intrigued and appalled me to such an extent that I ended up basing a novel on the experience," [he] recalled.
Indeed, only today a chap I am acquainted with described the woman he once hugged, kissed, and met away from the office, or his home as "an ostensibly jaded, cocaine-addled, sexually voracious 20 [30-40-50 . . .] year-old." As he spoke, I wondered of his former female friend. I wondered; what might this lovely lady have said of him? Would she say of the man who stood before me, "He is a cute and conservative chap whose . . .
idea of wild is argyle socks. [The once wondrous woman could also soundly state] But it's okay, I like straight guys, I'd never go out with anybody who's as irresponsible as me. Most of the guys I know have really high-powered jobs and make up for lost time when they're not in the office. The Beserk After Work Club. I seem to attract them in a big way, all these boys in Paul Stuart suits with six-figure salaries and hellfire on a dimmer switch in their eyes."
Perhaps, the inamorata, who many would define as traditional, a conventional sort might conclude when with friends she trusts, "Men. I've never met any. They're all boys. I wish I didn't want them so much . . . I hate being alone, but when I wake up in some guy's bed . . . and he's snoring like a garbage truck, I go - let me out of here."
Each of us can only imagine of others, and consider our own truths. What motivates us, moves us, and what is in the minds of those of us whose story does not appear on the Nightly News. When we dash towards and dither in a relationship that takes more time than it might be worth, what are our thoughts.
My own experience tells me, in each of my close encounters, I avoided, as much, if not more than I approached. Sex was perhaps easier than a cherished connection. In serious conversations with many, I have discovered my interactions and I are not as rare as people may wish to propend. Dalliance is not quite the dream we would wish it to be.
A gent is often more comfortable with a sweetie he can spoon, than one who he might wish to wed. Gals may prefer to engage with men they rather not marry. For some the excitement entices; for others convenience is cool. A few express concern they cannot find the one and only. These individuals sing, "If you cannot be with the one you love, love the one you are with."
No matter what those of us who do not make the news say or do, I suspect each of us can wonder; what might an observer say of our escapades, our affairs, the excursions we make to the park, the hotel room, or any of the other out of the way places we go. Our exploits are yet to be exploited. Might we inquire, could we take the scrutiny we often impose upon others. I know I could not. In truth, as I observed the couple in my community, I could think only of me. What had my "love" life been and why?
The Power of Passion Perused . . .
Posted by Betsy L. Angert on August 11, 2008 at 01:00 PM in Approval or Love, Art of Loving, Have or Be, Compassion, Conflict, Complex, Emotional Decisions, Emotional Intelligence, Looking at Life, Looking for Love | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Fight The Smears; Silence is Not Golden
copyright © 2008 Betsy L. Angert. BeThink.org
Today, change has come. Contrary to the reality that has filled centuries of history, a Presidential candidate has chosen to Fight the Smears. Barack Obama, a man whose first name is defined as my own, "blessed," has opened a door. He has unlocked a window. Thankfully, the propitious aspirant has risen above supposed ceilings. Presidential hopeful Obama has endorsed a principle that I discovered as a child. Secrets are the source of sorrow.
Barack Obama's campaign revealed a Web site this morning entitled "Fight the Smears" -- aimed at, . . . beating back misinformation, half truths or downright lies being spread about the Democratic nominee via television, the Web, radio and, most pervasively, e-mail."The Obama campaign isn't going to let dishonest smears spread across the Internet unanswered," explained campaign spokesman Tommy Vietor.
Intentional slander causes great pain. Individuals who malign advance untold misery. Only the truth can set any of us free. However, few wish to speak of what they know. Most repeat the proverb, "Ignorance is bliss." Yet, in life, we may realize, when we are quiet, gospel is often fleeting.
Americans witness an amplified effect of silence each election year. What was intentionally withheld and accidentally revealed, or what was not explained well in advance to the electorate reverberates as it rolls through the press. Barack Obama understood this before he began his Presidential bid, or possibly, he did what was his habit.. In his biographical accounts, Dreams From My Father and The Audacity of Hope, the Senator honestly revealed some of what might have been considered character flaws. Perchance, he only exposed the ways one works through a rite of passage.
My Mom, a wondrous woman who believes, we must "never suffer" would have been impressed by a man who freely disclosures as Barack Obama has. I feel certain Senator Obama's mother was pleased with the person she raised to be real. Perhaps, Barack Obama's parent helped him to muse as my Mom did for me when she said, "In some families there are skeletons in the closet. In our home, there are no spaces in which to store the bones." In my life, people speak of what is in a moment. Myths do not become accepted as legends. I have come to recognize, forever is fluid when people are free to be.
In homes such as mine, no one need tiptoe around the torrid tales. Topics are not taboo. I experience when people are authentic in word and deed, individuals feel safe, secure, and serene. They trust that discussions are endless. Disagreements do not end a relationship; they begin an evolution. I know this to my core. I have lived it for a lifetime. Friends, who were less familiar with what always was in my family, through me, have come to appreciate secrets need not be.
I had and will forever have faith that no one is supremely correct. Nor are any of us mistaken. The only blunder, I believe, is a purposeful intent to cause pain. I do not think conversations injure, or at least dialogues need not do harm. However, for some this is the objective. In an election season, the people see what is contrary to the standard in my family. It seems the plan is to persistently penetrate any semblance of sympathy for a defined opponent. Conversations amongst candidates are not compassionate. Even constituents bicker brutally. Countrywide everyone speaks of a desire for peace, while they consciously war.
For me, disagreements are fine. They need not be feuds. In my mind, heart, body, and soul, chatter does not equate to conclusions. Talk is the catalyst for what is, in my life, eternal, slow change.
Perchance, if we as a nation truly wish to create a fertile future the manner in which we speak, and our expectation for what needs to be in an exchange or an election must be altered. However, if that is to occur we must acknowledge, transformation comes from within individuals.
With access to information, ah, what a mind can do. Malleable psyche morphs in ways we cannot see and in moments that may not make sense to any of us. Frequently, I have observed hearts melt when we share "stories" serenely.
Each of us may have an effect on another; however, we cannot know what that might be. Thus, we speak and hope we are heard. We listen; if we are open, we learn what we never imagined. Perhaps, the "blessed" Barack Obama, was instructed at his Mom's knee just as the "blessed one" Betsy was. What might be awkward, if not addressed, will forge a feeling of deep distress.
I was taught to endorse the adage, "Silence is Not golden." Indeed, I discovered, without words, people can only assume. Assumptions are often erroneous. At times, so too are our thoughts. Yet, we may wish to believe what is real for us is obvious., even if odious, and inaccurate.
Hence, I, as a human, one in a species that is bit too emotional for my taste, when given divergent information, initially, may become defensive. Nonetheless, I know I will forever reflect on every word another offers. I suspect others do as well. My belief is that this theory has spurred the Fight the Smears campaign.
Over time, and with or without further discussions, I may evolve to a place not entered before. I love the enlightenment that grows with empathy. Thus, I participate endlessly. I seek wisdom wherever it may be. I am convinced, knowledge is everywhere. Erudition will empower me. Ellen, my dear sweet compeer encourages me to have courage in my convictions.
Ellen and I are good friends and have been for well over a decade. We are extremely open with each other. Authentic honesty that does no harm is a habit of mine, and one she adopted unexpectedly in time. Given that all is discussed candidly, and with great care for the other, each of trusts we will not be declined an opportunity to speak. Smears will not be forthcoming. What is said in person will not be awkwardly courteous. Reciprocal reverence is sincere.
Nonetheless, or perhaps, because we are genuine with each other, disputes occur. Politically, we are as far apart as two persons might be. In an election year, needless to say, we can expect other emotive outbursts. A recent one was animated, just as our agreements are. Our earlier interchange illustrates what I believe and why I welcome a focus on the smears.
In my life, as I shared earlier, when people address misinformation, misunderstandings, or mysteries much can be revealed and resolved. Ellen and I, in our relationship, exemplify what is possible when people endorse a policy of "no secrets."
Days ago, each of us was excited as we discussed our sense of political truths. When our voracious vocal analysis ended, some might have thought venom was the cause. It was not. Shuns did not give rise to a sudden silence Essentially, all was postponed, for each of us was late for an appointment.
Ellen had no doubt that we would chat again. She knows very well, I do not leave conversations behind. Nor does she with me. Neither of us would hide from a possible conflict. History helps us to know this would not be our last quarrel. When one is so far from another politically; yet, so close when principles are practiced, certainly there will be quibbles. Nonetheless, these will likely progress as calmly as this one did, or as others have.
One or the other of us will call, write, or come over. Neither of us will avoid the subject that may have been the source of sore feelings. Perchance, in our personal lives, diplomacy is a practical policy. Ellen and I will chat of what occurred. We will speak of why we said and did as was done. All the while we will warmly express how much we value the other, even the opinions we might think odd.
Again, we will reassure each other. There are no facts. Every individual has faith in what they think accurate. Ellen, I, any individual has a unique perspective. Those who think as we do, dependent on the policy, principle, or practice, do not share our history and a particular point of view. Others will reach a conclusion upon reflection, as will we, which could be you or me. What each being evaluates is envisioned through a personal lens. Eyes and emotions are our sieves.
Ellen and I know to our core, my history is not hers. Her experiences are not mine. Our backgrounds and experiences are dissimilar. The effect of every encounter will be internalized differently. Nonetheless, or indeed, each of us is the change we can believe in.
A broad focus on a shared Fight against Smears, may help to create a community that truly cares. A site that teaches us how the world might function if everyone is open, may serve to keep the peace.
It is for this reason I applaud Barack Obama and those who seek specifics from the source. Granted, Barack and Michelle Obama will not have a chance to look into the eyes of every American. They will not be able to touch the hand or the heart of all citizens in the world. Time will not allow for personal introductions and interchanges. Nonetheless, I believe it is important to begin a practice void in most homes and absent on the campaign trail.
I have faith that if we face the rancor that resonates when misinformation becomes the message, we all will be better off.
Humans appreciate, people will prattle incessantly. Words will be whispered down the lane. Labels will linger if left out in the cold, or locked in a closet and hermetically sealed. However, if we, the persons who are the subject of the silliness that passes for truth, share what is real for us, people may listen, or at least in my life they have.
As I shared, for me, love is the only absolute. It is a challenge to love someone we do not genuinely know. I thank Barack Obama for removing the veil that too often in public forum obscures veracity.
I experience, if we wish to be trusted, we must trust that others desire to know us as we are. I am grateful, Barack Obama is willing to share truth with us. To speak to slurs and slights is to fight for the peace that has never bee part of a political campaign.
Open dialogue is the change I believe in. I appreciate the invitation to talk. I think, together, we can Fight the Smears, challenge affronts, and enter into a world of empathy.
References for the fight . . .
Posted by Betsy L. Angert on June 12, 2008 at 07:01 PM in Approval or Love, Compassion, Conflict, Complex, Elections, Emotional Intelligence, Empathy and Evolution, Lies, Life, A Forward Motion, Light. Darkness., Looking at Life | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack
Calm Communicators Unite Us. Cruel Commanders Divide Us
copyright © 2008 Betsy L. Angert. BeThink.org
Americans are at odds. As a nation, we are splintered. The parts do not function as a whole. Some wish to control and command. Others prefer to work for the common good. As we stand, we are a country divided.
The most recent Internal Revenue Service data, shows one percent of Americans received twenty-one and two-tenths [21.2] percent of all personal income. In 2005, fifty [50] percent of the people in this nation, those who have long struggled to survive, earned twelve and eight-tenths [12.8] percent of all wages and salaries. In the United States, dollars earned split the population. Wealth is not all that separates us.
Color causes schisms. Citizens live in regions of the country labeled Red, or Blue. Brownish immigrants, with or without papers, are relegated to reside in neighborhoods far from the affluent or influential, even when authentic assimilation is meant to be an option. Frequently Black Americans are housed in communities where opportunities are few. When persons of various hues intermingle with the massive pinkish population, in the United States, the people of color are alienated.
Were Americans do physically unite, they would likely remain segregated. Americans subtly separate themselves from those they loathe, and form the people they love. Few ever consider what they do to create a rift. In America, demeanors, the way in which we communicate, divides us.
In this nation, a large portion of the population is frequently aggressive, abusive, and antagonistic. Those they encounter, the not obnoxious or toxic ones, accommodate, appease, appear unaffected, or remain anxious when in the company of the people who believe the best way to appear authoritative is to dictate what needs to be done, by whom, when, where, and why.
At times, the public is able to openly observe and discuss abuse, but usually, only when it is evident in the extreme. Banner headlines may scream a need to attend to what, for the most part remains hidden. Neglect, Abuse Seen in 90, 000 Infants. However, mostly Americans demonstrate their angst in manners identified as normal. No one speaks of what is standard. Perchance, the reason is, in the States reactive behaviors, which reveal annoyance, are so common as to be customary.
Daily, in periodicals we read of what we would wish to think is not traditional, but may be. The accounts scream to us. Citizens in this country think it outrageous when they realize. In Chicago, youth violence is increasingly prevalent. Twenty-two [22] students were slain in this heartland city so far this year. Our fellow country men remark, 'This sort of thing occurs only among 'those people.' Surely, the rest of us are sane and serene. 'The average American would not strike out in such a manner.' People say, 'Weaponry is for outlaws,' or at least, mechanical arsenals are meant only to combat a political enemy. Those who reside in the United States never imagine that "they" would use a gun in anger, or lash out when with a friend. Few consider how frequently they attack those they say they are fond of.
When words are the weapon of choice, and blood is not spilled, most in this country think no harm is done. War and wounds are what we see on the battlefields, and mostly abroad. In this country, life is calm.
We read of skirmishes elsewhere daily. Americans witness what occurs in the Persian Gulf. Iraqi deaths are on the rise regardless of the Americans attempt to Surge and subvert the violence. Now, that is awful. Thankfully, this nation is not torn apart by war.
Few ponder the fact that these excessive examples illustrate and amplify what is apparent in American homes. People pounce easily and often. We cruelly criticize and intentionally drive a wedge between unions. We conquer; and in America, we destroy.
In this country, enemies are thought to be around every corner. We publicly rant and rage when we refer to people of another race or religion. Privately, many are punitive towards those who reside in our homes. When we look upon those the "commanders" consider beloved, we see differences, and ignore similarities. He is wrong; I am right. She is flawed. "I am perfect." Spite is right. Malice is might. Vindictiveness is used to undermine viciousness. In many American homes, tit for tat is the acceptable.
Those in authority, "Tsk, tsk," the ones who they would wish to weaken. Children are infrequently given information about the consequences of their choices. Calm and complete communication is too often a rarity in our abodes. Rather than work to create cohesive communities within a household, parents and their progeny dictate, and divide.
Adults learn their aggressive manners in childhood. A slight from a toddler's first teachers cuts to the core. Terse comments, a tease, or a taunt directed at a teen does not simply slide off the back of one scarred by a lifetime of verbal slashes. Adults do not deflect digs; some have merely learned how to present the appearance of being unaffected by an oral assault. In truth, "Sticks and stone may break my bones, and names hurt me more than a physical attack might." Many may relate to a common event and decide this is not my business.
As I was leaving gym one morning, I overheard a mother berating her daughter for refusing to put her face in the water during a toddlers' swim class. "You're such a little coward," she told the sobbing child -- who could not have been more than three years old. "It's the same every week. You always make your daddy and me ashamed. Sometimes I can't believe you're really my daughter."Although my stomach churned with rage on the child's behalf, I said nothing. After all, I rationalized, the mother would just tell me to mind my own business. But I had no doubt that what I had witnessed was in many ways as bad as a brutal beating. It was emotional child abuse.
"The bruises don't show on the outside, so there are no statistics on how many children are victims," says Dr. Elizabeth Watkins, chief of pediatric primary care at St. Luke's-Roosevelt Hospital Center in New York City. "But anyone who works with children knows that the problem is widespread."
University of Minnesota psychologist Byron Egeland, who has conducted extensive studies on parenting and early-childhood development, says the effects of emotional child abuse may be at least as devastating as those of physical abuse. Research conducted by Egeland and his colleagues suggests that emotionally abused children suffer an even greater decline in mental and psychological development as they grow older than do physically abused children.
This abated state does not necessarily translate to an academic deficit. Often times, persons who were beaten down emotionally excel in their physical and intellectual endeavors. Countless adults, who were verbally assaulted as children, believe that the cruelty and callousness they endured, has made them stronger. People in older bodies show no physical blemishes. A mature member of society is not noticeably bruised or disfigured. Most middle-aged grown-ups, those once exposed to such exploitation have learned to hide the scars. Hurt hearts do not inhibit intellectual growth; nor do the effects of verbal and emotional injuries restrict achievements. As a tot, a teen, or an individual in his or her golden years, a person harmed by words can thrive and triumph. The attitude is, "I will show them!" The thought that provokes our success is, "I will do well. Then, they will [finally] love me."
The truth is mean Mom's and dismissive Dad's do love their offspring. They simply do not know how to show it. Too often, we do as was done to us. As adults, we become the people our parents were. While we may have abhorred mother or father's behavior, it is what we know. We grow to be as those who taught us were.
At birth, we learn of what we despise most. In our parents dwelling, as tots, we become acquainted with insults, invectives, and insolence. The invisible barbs are experienced as a barrage of bullets; each pierces the flesh. Mothers mock us. Fathers jeer. Brothers and sisters, bully. In our earliest years, we begin to think of when and how we can leave the company of those who say they treasure us. In time, as children we decide the best defense is a good offense. Hence, we become equally odious, angry, and ambitious. Often adults, who were verbally abused as children, when they speak of their parents, state, "They did the best they could." Indeed, perfectionist parents do what they believe is best, and they expect their progeny to do better.
In ambitious middle-class families, one of the most common forms of emotional abuse is the denigration of any achievement that falls short of perfection, such as when a child is punished for bringing home a B instead of an A. Jeree Pawl, director of the Infant-Parent Program at San Francisco General Hospital, observes that "perfectionist" parents may display irrational expectations.
After a time, Mom and Dad no longer need to express what they expect; children know what is necessary. In fact, a young person will demand more of him or herself than either parent ever did. In our youth, we become self-critical. Our parents likely did not disparage us as well as we demean ourselves. Each day, we improve. We can deliver venom more vigorously than Mom or Dad ever did. Persons, who were the victims of verbal mistreatment in their youth, inflict the same sarcastic and sardonic on them selves as they age.
The use of hurtful declarations becomes a habit. Spoken stabs pull a person down. Those not stated aloud do us in with greater force. The voice within is perhaps more furious than the one separate from self. Our self-assessments are as a cancerous virus. Merciless messages kill. Yet, no one notices the cause or effects of the illness. Too many Americans share the symptoms; hence, the pain is standard.
Parental verbal abuse may wound children's psyches so deeply that the effects remain apparent in young adulthood. Such abuse may wreak psychological havoc greater than that caused by physical abuse.With an M.B.A. degree under her belt, 24-year-old "Jaime" (not her real name) should have glowing job prospects in Chicago. But she harbors memories that erode her self-confidence and make her bristle with anger—memories of her father shouting at her, during drunken rages, that she was ugly and of little value.
Indeed, verbal abuse during childhood can scar people deeply, a new study suggests. It was headed by Martin Teicher, M.D., Ph.D., director of the Developmental Biopsychiatry Research Program at McLean Hospital, which is affiliated with Harvard Medical School. Results were published in the June American Journal of Psychiatry.Although the injurious effects of child physical and sexual abuse have been the subject of considerable inquiry, not much attention has been paid to the possibly noxious effects of verbal abuse on children.
People attend to what they see. The battered hearts, the wounded souls are not visible to the eye; although the effects of these are apparent if we wish to see them. Researchers studied and discovered what lies just beneath the surface.
People who were verbally abused had 1.6 times as many symptoms of depression and anxiety as those who had not been verbally abused and were twice as likely to have suffered a mood or anxiety disorder over their lifetime, according to psychology Professor Natalie Sachs-Ericsson, the study's lead author."We must try to educate parents about the long-term effects of verbal abuse on their children," Sachs-Ericsson said. "The old saying about sticks and stones was wrong. Names will forever hurt you."
Moms and Dads wield words as weapons daily. An innocent and sweet child may be saddened by what is said to them. Frequently, a lad or a lass, who has come to expect the worse is fretful, frightened, or apprehensive when near those who vocally attack. After a time, a child turned teen, may appear angry, as an adult resigned, acquiescent when with Mom or Dad. Still, the pain seeps out. It spills onto all the injured individual encounters.
The cycle starts subtly. It is all so subterranean. How often is a child told, "You need to take responsibility"? Yet, how frequently does neither guardian seems to accept that they play a part in what occurred in their own lives. After a night on the town, too much food, and an abundance of alcoholic beverages, Dad may bellow, "Stay out of my way today if you know what's good for you." Then, as if to inform his brood, father would offer, "I'm in a bad mood." Daddy does not wish to be liable for his own limitations. Thus, if he was under duress, or hassled, surely, someone else must be to blame.
It is a "me against the world" mentality. Those who command and seek control, the power they did not feel they had in their youth, see themselves as separate from the others. Hence, the great divide.
Mom may be no different from Dad. This sweet, soft-spoken woman, a mother committed to her children often commented, "My life would have been perfect if it were not for you." She would then say, "Get out of my sight; you are a bad boy, a hateful, ungrateful girl." Then, moments later, Mommy would say how much she loved you, or I. Life and love, as a child, and later as an adult can be caustic, chaotic, and troublesome, even if we emerge confidently. Either parent can do the damage. Both can build the barriers that teach one of the brood to be boldly brazen.
Weeks ago, Americans watched an esteemed achiever, a Presidential aspirant, vent wrathful words. The statements made echoed in every American household. On television and radio airwaves we heard, "Shame on you. “It is time you (act in a manner) consistent with your messages in public. That is what I expect from you. (L)et's have a debate about your tactics and your behavior . . ." Only days prior, we, as a nation, were moved by the magnanimous words, "(Y)ou know, no matter what happens in this contest -- and I am honored, I am honored to be here with [the same person who was slammed two days later.] I am absolutely honored." Hours before the homage was delivered in a face-to-face encounter, the self-proclaimed "fighter" raged, she was ready. The person she humiliated after offering a sincere homage was not. Then, in a fit of anger, this eloquent and accomplished adult exclaimed to her audience, "Let's get real."
On an occasion or two, the New York Senator states if she and her adversary worked as one, all dreams would come true. Quickly, Hillary Rodham Clinton reminds us that the same individual who she thinks praiseworthy is incompetent. He cannot command; nor is he qualified. The waling wounded Clinton claims the man who might steal her win is but a "child." She demeans his experience while she exaggerates her own. In a breath, the scared child, now a grown Senator, cries out. The former First Lady, who continues to carry the weight of a world built on pain within her, tells us the man who angers her is eloquent, admirable, and yet, inadequate.
One day this wise woman is passive or polite; then in the next moment she is aggressive and antagonistic. As Hillary Clinton speaks of Uniting the States, creating a cohesive Democratic Party, she works to divide these entities. She loves her country, her challenger, and her community; yet . . .
The push-pull of these love-hate relationships may remind us of what too many of us as children and adults experience in our family homes. In the "United" States, division, derision, declarations that divide a union are natural. Most accept the conventions that have been familiar throughout their lives. Few are disturbed by the divisiveness a Presidential candidate puts forth. Perchance, the American people relate. Might we consider the climate that was the candidate's childhood, her history, and the truth that fashioned her family?
The couple fought. In 1926, Dorothy's father filed for divorce, claiming that his wife had hit him in the face and scratched him on three separate occasions, according to Cook County records. In a March 1927 court hearing, Della Howell's own sister accused her of abusing her husband and abandoning her two daughters."She had a violent temper and flew at him in a rage, and would fight him," testified the sister, Frances Czeslawski.
Della Howell did not show up to contest the divorce -- she could not be found by subpoena servers. Dorothy's father was given custody. But, either unwilling or unable to take care of his daughters, he put them on the train to California, where his parents, Edwin Howell Sr. and Emma Howell, had moved a few years previously. . . .
The grandparents were ill-prepared to raise Dorothy and her sister, Isabelle.
Edwin Howell Sr. had emigrated from Wales. He worked as a machinist in an auto plant and as a laborer for the Alhambra street department, according to Alhambra city directories from the time. He mostly left the girls' care to his wife.
Emma Howell was a strict woman who wore black Victorian dresses and discouraged visitors and parties. Once, discovering that Dorothy had gone trick-or-treating on Halloween, she ordered her confined to her room for a year except for school.
"Her grandmother was a severe and arbitrary disciplinarian who berated her constantly, and her grandfather all but ignored her," Clinton wrote. . .
"Once I asked my mother why she went back to Chicago," Clinton wrote in "Living History." The answer? "'I'd hoped so hard that my mother would love me that I had to take the chance and find out,' she told me. 'When she didn't, I had nowhere else to go.'
Too many of us can recall a time when we wanted to be appreciated, admired, accepted by those who brought us into the world, or taught us to be the best we could be. Even when those we care for harm us, we still crave their adoration. A child who feels less than cherished will try harder. Humans will do whatever they believe they must do in hopes that someday, they will be treasured by their first teachers, the people they call family.
Hillary was the best student among her siblings, the one who took her parents' lessons most seriously. . .Hugh Rodham, unlike many other fathers of his era, raised his daughter to be ambitious. When she brought home straight A's, Rodham would say, "Well, Hillary, that must be an easy school you go to," she [Presidential hopeful, Hillary Clinton] wrote. . .
Hugh Rodham took thrift to even greater heights than many survivors of the Depression. If Hillary, Hugh Jr., or Tony left the cap off the toothpaste, he would toss it out the window and send the child to search for it. An allowance was out of the question. "I feed you, don't I?" she remembers him saying.
Clinton speaks of her father admiringly, but . . . no one disputes his gruffness. "He was character building, like our winters in Chicago," Ebeling, Clinton's best friend, said. . . .
He was "highly opinionated, to put it mildly," [Hillary] Clinton wrote. "We all accommodated his pronouncements . . .
Hilary is as many warriors in society are. She expects the electorate to tolerate her brusque, sometimes demeaning, statements, just as she accepted much of what her father said. If the people wish to argue with the aspirant, as occasionally she did with her dear Dad, Clinton thinks that is fine. After all, she is a fighter. She knows how to win. Just as Hugh Rodham did when he felt his children were uncontrollable, the dictatorial, decidedly aggressive decider known as Dad escalated the argument. "You are with me or against me" is a common refrain among those who command cruelly.
Many progeny adapt to parents who can be punitive. After a time, offspring learn, the boundaries that divide them are best when they remain as invisible, just as the wounds on the heart are. Children convince themselves, they are strong. They are in control. As long as they go along to get along all will be well, and it will be, until the next emotional upheaval. Even then, those who scream and demean will be fine, for what they experience is familiar.
I offer a personal anecdote, one that helped me to understand the divide that exists among us in America. There are the "fighters" well-trained to battle, and the peacemakers, those who talk in tones that are more tranquil.
I realized this only in recent years. A time ago, after I had lived on this glorious green Earth for more than three decades I thought I understood people. I experienced much in my lifetime. As a child, I settled in the suburbs, the city, and the country. In my earliest years may family had all the fineries. We were exceptionally wealthy. Then, there was the divorce. My Mommy, new Daddy a sister, and I were extremely poor when I was in Elementary School. Eventually we evolved into Middle Class. I felt as though we were average.
At seventeen years of age, I declared my independence. I left home, lived on my own, and struggled to earn enough money to survive. I inhabited neighborhoods not thought to be safe. My knowledge of life and it's various styles, I believed was expansive.
Then, it occurred. I met a man. Immediately, I knew I loved him. I had never been easily impressed. Romantic relationships were not part of my repertoire. This person, I perceived as beyond special. I admired him, and I intensely appreciated him. This gentleman was brilliant. He was very successful. He smiled ever so warmly. Until . . . suddenly, he yelled. The wrath was intended for me. As Gary excitedly expressed his disgust, his face was flush. His eyes and veins were bulging. This cherished chap was agitated, accusatory, and exceptionally anxious. To this day, I know not why. I have asked. Yet, an explanation was not forthcoming.
As Gary ranted and raged, I stood frozen, as a deer in headlights. I was stunned. In my whole life, no one had ever yelled at me, or so I thought, previous to that day. There was one other occasion.
That narrative aside, as Gary and I stood face to face, as he screamed and shrieked, he articulated the assertion, "You are having a tantrum." I marveled. I am a calm person. As a child, I was just as serene. In my entire life, I did not recall being explosive. As I observed Gary and listened to his words, I was uncertain which aspect of this encounter was more amazing to me, his conduct, or his contention. After, the damn or dam broke, he seemed free of his agitation. I was anxious, although still silent. I knew not what to say or do. What had I witnessed? What did it mean? How did I feel about it?
In time, I did learn as Hillary Clinton, and others whose hearts are hurt by words, do. I could choose to tolerate the brusque and debasing language. I could choose to appease, to please, or to patronize. However, I also understood no matter what I decided to do, there would be consequences. There would always be a chasm between Gary and I. I would never fully feel comfortable, for I did not know what might bring on another brutal belch of bitterness.
I walked on eggshells, and he, with all his hollering, hoped to secure the impression that he walked on water. I came to discover that Gary had been challenged all his life. His parents were the purveyors of agenda after agenda. As a child he had felt as he now teaches others to feel, as though he was and is less than. Gary was told too often, he was not good enough, smart enough; he was wrong. If Gary received an excellent evaluation in class, he too was meet with the remark similar to the ones the New York Senator heard in her youth. "Well, that subject is just too simple." "An "A" grade is not good enough."
Dissect a heart. Dismember a sweet spirit. It is the American way, divide and conquer. In a competitive society, where cruelty is common, most everyone will suffer, so that the few spoiled souls can feel, even if only for a moment, that they have succeeded. Sadly, their triumph is our demise.
Gary, Hillary, and too many we encounter have become so familiar with belligerent behaviors they no longer think there are other ways to work with people.
I was raised in a family where no one yells. To say I am jarred by loud aggressive rants is to understate what I feel. For a time, I team-taught with an instructor deemed superior. This person won District-wide awards. I understood why when I assessed the curriculum this teacher originated. Yet, this individual chastised students vociferously and with ample abandon. When in a rage, this educator's voice traveled throughout the building. I literally jumped in fright on more than one occasion.
Even without the volume, this teacher's words could cut like a knife. When the venom was directed at me, I froze. I am extremely sensitive to the lexis. The phrases this instructor used were not part of my reality. Our philosophies on life were disparate. Yet, I truly enjoyed this individual when the conversation was amiable. When jovial, the professor was a delight. Indeed, this person often was happy and genuinely fun.
When a scream was heard through the walls, students and I would react. Some smiled. A few laughed nervously. Others and I were startled. We cringed. When the world was again calm, quietly, throughout the room, discussions emerged. The demeanor of this academic was the topic. Talk of the teacher was approached tenderly. As I listened, I learned. If a person grows up in a home where one particular approach to life is normal, they learn to accept and appreciate that manner of expression. People who were taught to expect verbal lashings, as Hillary Clinton noted, learn to accommodate or accept.
If cruel criticisms were common in a home; howls were considered to be a sign, someone cares, painful as that might be. Those never exposed to love that did not hurt could not imagine the possibility. Tis a sad state in this union, when those we treasure most are the ones we whip to a pulp with words. A country divided cannot stand.
Perchance it is time to truly discuss what divides America. Dollars and legal documents are not divisive. Paper does not have the power to pull us apart. Race cannot physically separate us. In nature, every hue is a significant part of the whole. Religion does not cause a rift between neighbors. A philosophy can only teach us. Principles do not reach into our souls and cause us to slice and dice. It is we who control the chaos that drives a wedge between our brethren and we.
Might Americans come together at home and on every avenue? From Wall Street to Main Street let us speak kindly to each other. Let us teach the children well.
Perhaps, it is time to tell those you share a life with that you revere them without reservations. If we choose to use words that consistently show we care for those we love, perhaps, peace will have a chance. If our words were to mirror our stated beliefs, possibly, money would have no power, color could do no harm, and religious principles would be evident in our every expression. Please, imagine and work to give birth to what for too long was thought impossible. Let us live in an America, united in more than name only.
Sources, Scars, Screams in a divided society . . .
Posted by Betsy L. Angert on April 4, 2008 at 08:00 AM in Abuse, Aggression, Americana, Approval or Love, Art of Loving, Have or Be, Children, Compassion, Conflict, Complex, Dreams Live and Die , Emotional Decisions, Emotional Intelligence, Empathy and Evolution, Family, Functioning, Fables | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Homage to Lawrence King. Teach Tolerance To Adults and Children
copyright © 2008 Betsy L. Angert. BeThink.org
It was February 14, 2008, Valentine's Day. Love was in the air. However, the expressions of appreciation offered were mournful. Doctors informed the family and his friends, Lawrence King, 15, was removed from life support. Two days earlier, young Larry was in the computer lab at E. O. Green Junior High in Oxnard, California. He sat with 24 other students when Brandon McInerney walked into the room with a gun. The armed classmate, fourteen-years of age, approached Lawrence with intent. Brandon aimed his weapon, pulled the trigger, and shot Lawrence in the head. Without hesitation, the shooter ran from the building. Circumstances led observers and police officers to conclude the act was intentional, calculated, and a conscious choice. Brandon committed what is commonly defined as a "hate crime."
Students were locked in classrooms. Grief and disbelief filled the air. Adults tried to calm the children. Teens tried to cope. Peers were befuddled. Pupils sought information and shared what they knew. After the event, fingers flew across cellular telephone keypads. Text messages were sent and received from schoolroom to schoolroom. The words were, "Brandon McInerney did the deed." 'Not Brandon McInerney, No way.'
"Brandon wouldn't do this," eighth-grader Jessica Lee remembers thinking. "He's a good kid. It can't be Brandon."But some at the Oxnard junior high school had seen Larry, 15, teased by students in the weeks before the shooting for being gay and wearing high-heeled boots and makeup. Some witnessed confrontations between Larry and Brandon, with Larry teasing Brandon and saying he liked him.
Family members and friends described Larry as a sweet, artistic boy who loved to sing and didn't understand why people reacted negatively to him.
Brandon, 14, a tall, athletic eighth-grader, was described by friends and acquaintances as a mellow, focused kid, but one who wouldn't back down in a confrontation.
Brandon had learned his lessons well. He learned to feel deeply. Indifference was not part of his repertoire, intolerance was. Perhaps from within the womb, he began his education. Those who in an act of love came together to give birth to Brandon, apparently knew nothing more than volatile loathing. Perchance, Brandon's mother, Kendra and his father, William were raised to love or hate, but not tolerate.
We can be certain that baby Brandon did as all infants do after birth, he absorbed all the messages that surrounded him. . Education is not an isolated entity. Knowledge is not gained only in a classroom. Our first school is called home. Structured lessons may inform us; however, these are never internalized as deeply as the wisdom we acquire at the knees of our Mom and Dad. Parents have a profound influence on a child. Those we love most have the power to teach us more. Definitely, the occurrence taught Brandon what to do when he felt troubled.
Kendra McInerney, Brandon's mother, claimed a night of partying in 1993 ended in a fight and William shooting her in the elbow, breaking it in several places, according to court records. Still, they married later that year, and Brandon was born in January 1994.The fighting didn't stop, and sometimes it was witnessed by Brandon and his two older half-brothers, according to court records. In 2000, William pleaded no contest to a domestic battery charge against Kendra. He was sentenced to 10 days in jail and ordered to attend domestic violence classes. The couple separated in August 2000.
Love, or familiarity can breed contempt. Even when someone no longer shares a physical space with the person that causes him or her distress that individual remains intimately connected in the heart. Parting is not a sweet sorrow. Indeed, it is often the source of more pain. Indifference is rarely evident once an emotional bond is formed.
For Kendra and William McInerney, separation did nothing to alleviate the angst they felt or expressed. , Nor, did living apart make life more livable for the children. Drinking, drugs, and violence were daily transgressions in Brandon's life. The stories are stark. Yet, fortunately, it appeared Brandon survived. Indeed, some would say he thrived.
Through all the family turmoil, Brandon got involved in activities outside the home, including martial arts and lifeguard training. He seemed to want something more than just the status quo of Silver Strand, Crave said."He didn't want to be involved in that whole thing," Crave said, gesturing at friends drinking a few beers nearby after getting off work.
Brandon joined the Young Marines — the Marine Corps' equivalent of a JROTC program — several years ago and became a leader in the group, which disbanded last summer.
"Brandon was a young man that I would never have figured something like this would happen to," said Mel Otte, his commanding officer.
Otte said he never witnessed Brandon showing a short temper and that he would have been kicked out of the group if he had bullied other kids.
"He was an outstanding young man," Otte said. "What happened since I left, I have no idea."
What occurred did not take place in a instant. The image of restraint did not transcend an earlier reality. Change did not come on in a flash. Often calm is a facade for the chaos that lay beneath the surface of a boy [girl, woman, or man] who battles emotional upheavals. What was real for Brandon is true for each of us. We learn and live what we believe is customary.
Even those of us who "know better," or are exposed to impressive amounts of information, organized to challenge unhealthy conventions, do as we have seen done, or was done to us. Some escape the affects of sensory overload for a time. Few abandon family traditions until long they have repeatedly fallen from grace. Only an individual forced to face his or her "demons" day in and day out thinks to learn new habits.
We all love easily. We loathe with less effort. What we do not do well is authentically accept others. Few beings bother to have compassion, to learn from those who look, think, feel, or act differently. Without empathy, everyone is a possible enemy.
Hate, or fear, of what we do not understand, motivates many a mind to react aggressively. Apprehension and anxiety are not logical. None of our emotions are. Nevertheless, all too often humans, prideful of an intellectual capacity, are galvanized by feelings. We are threatened by what we feel terrorizes us.
For Brandon it was a boy who thought him fine. For adults it may be a secret admirer, or an individual who has authority over us. The neighbor who was unkind could seem a danger. Mature men or women may believe the man in the automobile in front of them is a menace. Even a small girl, on the corner, with her fingers out-stretched in a sign of peace could seem a hazard if our habit is to adopt an angry stance when we feel annoyed.
People are familiar with what deeply disturbs them. They know all too well how to demonstrate love and hate. Indifference is doable, as long as an n individual does not see or hear those outside their sphere. Benevolence, perhaps that is the reaction, the action we do not learn from birth.
We all crave a connection. Humans have needs. Individuals long to be included, intimately involved; we wish to feel as though we have the right and power to make decisions for ourselves. Men, women, and children are not indifferent. Hence the dilemma.
When it seems we are unable to manage our world, humans freak. Each of us responds differently, understandably. Intellectually, people may recognize they cannot control the universe. However, when stressed, we discover the habits we hold dear remain intact. Our reactions are not innate, just well studied. Brandon McInerney was not a bad boy. He is a human being. He reacted as he had learned to do. Barely fourteen years of age, Brandon expressed his deep disdain for a situation and someone he could not control.
Chaos abounds. Nonetheless, we try. Too often, we fail. A senseless murder, and what assassination is not absurd, illustrates what occurs when someone does not feel fulfilled and knows not what to do. People in physical or psychological pain lash out in the ways they know how.
Brandon McInerney was baffled, no terrified, by the actions of another boy. Lawrence did not cause bodily harm to his peer. He did no verbal damage, at least not intentionally. Paradoxically, when Larry spoke of Brandon, he articulated his sincere admiration. That is what bothered the young boy Brandon. Love, especially when expressed unconventionally, caused Brandon's heart and mind to break. The young lad, now passed, Larry, did not bully Brandon or his buddies. Indeed, the other boys hassled Lawrence prior to his final day.
In recent weeks, the victim, Lawrence King, 15, had said publicly that he was gay, classmates said, enduring harassment from a group of schoolmates, including the 14-year-old boy charged in his death.
McInerney, now in custody, refuses to speak of what motivated him. His lawyer offers the fourteen year old is too young to fully understand his actions. Perhaps all people are too immature to rationalize the unreasonable, revulsion, repulsion, and feelings of repugnance.
What is hate? Certainly, it is an emotion, as inexplicable as fondness. Each can be voiced to the extreme. Neither is inconsequential. Perhaps, when humans feel adoration or antipathy they lose all perspective. The chemistry we feel when we connect intensely is uncontrollable. If only people could capture the energy and place it in a bottle before they pop.
Assemblyman Mike Eng (Democrat, Monterey Park), chairman of the Assembly Select Committee on Hate Crimes, said we would, with a bit of money directed towards teaching diversity, be able to stop crimes against people based on race, religion, ethnicity, or sexual orientation.
"My bill is focusing on [hate crime] prevention," Eng said after a news conference at his El Monte district office. "We already have bills on the books about proper punishment; mine will focus on dealing with hatred in a school setting."Eng hopes to create a pilot program by allocating up to $150,000 to establish a diversity and sensitivity curriculum at a few school districts. The pilot program would serve as a model to be used to develop lesson plans statewide.
Others in the community believe the proposed program only serves to comfort parents and Principals, adults, and not adolescents. Countless argue that similar programs such as D.A.R.E. (Drug Abuse Resistance Education), D.A.R.E. (Drug Abuse Resistance Education), are ineffective. These simplistic strategies always were nothing more than slogans used to appease anxious adults. Although these agendas survive, they do not strengthen the will or the character of the young persons they serve. At times, instruction is as indifference. If you do not know what to do, or say about an open wound, look for an easy answer. Apply salve, and walk away. Most of us truly believe the sore will eventually heal by itself.
Here's a news flash: "Just Say No" is not an effective anti-drug message. And neither are Barney-style self-esteem mantras . . .DARE, which is taught by friendly policemen in 75 percent of the nation's school districts, has been plagued by image problems from the beginning, when it first latched on to Nancy Reagan's relentlessly sunny and perversely simplistic "Just say No" campaign. The program's goals include teaching kids creative ways to say "no" to drugs, while simultaneously bolstering their self-esteem (which DARE founders insist is related to lower rates of drug use). . . .
According to an article published in the August 1999 issue of the Journal of Consulting and Clinical Psychology, DARE not only did not affect teenagers' rate of experimentation with drugs, but may also have actually lowered their self-esteem. . . .
The findings were grim: 20-year-olds who'd had DARE classes were no less likely to have smoked marijuana or cigarettes, drunk alcohol, used "illicit" drugs like cocaine or heroin, or caved in to peer pressure than kids who'd never been exposed to DARE. But that wasn't all. "Surprisingly," the article states, "DARE status in the sixth grade was negatively related to self-esteem at age 20, indicating that individuals who were exposed to DARE in the sixth grade had lower levels of self-esteem 10 years later." Another study, performed at the University of Illinois, suggests some high school seniors who'd been in DARE classes were more likely to use drugs than their non-DARE peers.
Still, Americans, intent on straightforward solutions, quick fixes, and immediate gratification, forget that life is not so simple. The family teaches children from birth. The lessons we learn in our youngest years are internalized deeply. In infancy, each day we encounter our mother, father, or guardian, the people we need most, and most want to love us. As toddlers, we are intimately involved with our caregivers, even if they do not seem to care for us. When we are children, the only choice that we have, the only option that gives us a sense of control, is to cling to those who help us survive. Moms and Dads are our first and best, teachers, if only because they are there in whatever capacity.
However, sadly, for some of us, such as Brandon McInerney our mentors did not teach us well. Schools try to suffice. Teachers with ten, twenty forty to a class try to create a relationship with each student. As educators teach Math, Science, Reading, and English, they work to provide a sense of self-worth to each and every young scholar. For a few hours, five days a week, a troubled youngster can call his or her classroom home.
For young people such as Larry, school may have been a place to blossom, somewhere where he felt safe, or for both the boys an educational institution may have been the place where lessons begun at birth were reinforced. Each was teased, bullied, and verbally battered. Each had friends. However, they may not have felt they achieved an authentic intimate connection with anyone. Even acquaintances can say . . .
“He had a character that was bubbly,” Marissa said. “We would just laugh together. He would smile, then I would smile, and then we couldn’t stop.”
An ally in life does more than smile or laugh. Larry King may have felt he had few real supporters, in a school he attended for only months. How close can two people be when they see each other only for hours and then each returns to their own abode. One may return to the place they consider "Home Sweet Home," the other may reside in an institution, far from those who are "supposed" to love him.
For several months before to the shooting, Larry had been living at Casa Pacifica, a residential center for troubled youths in Camarillo.
Lawrence's parents are alive and well, as are his four siblings, a younger brother, two older brothers, and an older sister. While the family spoke lovingly of the dearly departed, they dared not speak of why the lad no longer lived with them. Many children today are placed in treatment agencies. The numbers are staggering. The reasons are astounding. Yet, when people know not how to love well, and are not indifferent, they do what they may hate to do.
The number of children placed in residential treatment centers (or RTCs) (1) is growing exponentially.(2) These modern-day orphanages now house more than 50,000 children nationwide.(3) Children are packed off to RTCs, often sent by officials they have never met, who have probably never spoken to their parents, teachers or social workers.(4) Once placed, these kids may have no meaningful contact with their families or friends for up to two years.(5) And, despite many documented cases of neglect and physical and sexual abuse, monitoring is inadequate to ensure that children are safe, healthy and receiving proper services in RTCs.(6) By funneling children with mental illnesses into the RTC system, states fail—at enormous cost—to provide more effective community-based mental health services.(7)RTC placements are often inappropriate.
RTCs are among the most restrictive mental health services and, as such, should be reserved for children whose dangerous behavior cannot be controlled except in a secure setting.(8) Too often, however, child-serving bureaucracies hastily place children in RTCs because they have not made more appropriate community-based services available.(9) Parents who are desperate to meet their kids’ needs often turn to RTCs because they lack viable alternatives.(10)To make placement decisions, families in crisis and overburdened social workers rely on the institutions’ glossy flyers and professional websites with testimonials of saved children.(11) But all RTCs are not alike.(12) Local, state and national exposés and litigation “regarding the quality of care in residential treatment centers have shown that some programs promise high-quality treatment but deliver low-quality custodial care.”(13) As a result, parents and state officials play a dangerous game of Russian roulette as they decide where to place children, because little public information is available about the RTCs, which are under-regulated and under-supervised.
Yet, parents and community services agencies take those who are perhaps most vulnerable, our young and troubled teens, and place them in Residential Treatment Centers not able to provide minimal care. When we, as a culture consider other options, and other means for childcare, we cannot but think of poor Brandon and how he suffered at the hands of his mother and father. We are reminded that Brandon, the tormented shooter, lived in a location he called home. We might wonder; which situation was better, worse, or can we even compare the traumas each child in this story suffered.
Brandon and Larry are not anomalies. They are not alone. Children throughout our country are taught to express love in a violent manner. The little ones watch adults they admire model cruelty. The young are trained to demonstrate their contempt similarly. Sadistic reactive behaviors rule in our society. Listen to people ruthlessly scream in the marketplace. Consider the abundance of "hate crimes" in America. Turn on the television. Tune into the radio. Read the "literature." Hostile conduct is commended and condoned.
For too many of our offspring, aggression in their daily existence is the norm. They hear it in their homes; see their parent bludgeon each other. As toddlers, tots, children, or teens our youth feel the bruises on their back, and remember the bones broken by those they love most. Ponder the statistics.
During FFY 2005, an estimated 899,000 children in the 50 States, the District of Columbia, and Puerto Rico were determined to be victims of abuse or neglect.
- Children in the age group of birth to 3 years had the highest rate of victimization at 16.5 per 1,000 children of the same age group in the national population;
- More than one-half of the victims were 7 years old or younger (54.5%)
- More than one-half of the child victims were girls (50.7%) and 47.3 percent were boys; and
- Approximately one-half of all victims were White (49.7%); one-quarter (23.1%) were African-American; and 17.4 percent were Hispanic.
Gender preference did not determine maltreatment when infants and the very young among were involved. Specific biases are learned as we "mature." While many wish to focus on Larry's identification with the gay community as reason for such a horrific reaction, the cause for Brandon's response goes far deeper. Scorn is rarely selective. Disparagement is an equal opportunity employer.
Abusive behaviors are rooted in our personal history. We cannot dismiss the fact that as a society, our past performances towards those we disdain are deplorable. As a culture, emotional beings that we are, we embrace love and hate, and ignore indifference.
We must ask ourselves, what are we doing to our offspring from the day they enter this world, and why. Answers offered after the fact, solutions that do not address the broader question will not stop the violence we see in schools. Nor will it quash the mayhem or reduce the murders we see on our streets. Hate crimes are born at home. Mothers and fathers motivate much that occurs. Moms and Dads often do what was done to them.
Children 'learn violence from parents'Children who witness domestic violence are at an increased risk of having abusive relationships as adults, researchers have found.
Being abused as a child and having behavioural problems also increases the risk of being violent as adults. Receiving excessive punishment is another risk factor. US researchers from Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons and the New York State Psychiatric Institute followed 540 children for 20 years from 1975 . . .
If a pattern of violent behaviour towards a partner has been established, it is difficult to change say the researchers. . . .
If a child was hit by their parents, they were much more likely to see violence as a way of resolving problems as adults, the researchers found.
But seeing violence perpetuated between parents was found the be the greatest risk factor for being the victim of a violent partner as an adult.
Both men and women who witnessed domestic violence were likely to grow up to abuse their partners . . .
"This acceptance of coercive, power-based norms as ways of regulating conflict may have direct implications for young adults' means of conflict resolution with partners, independent of a disruptive behaviour disorder."
For too many of our young persons a forceful hand, a furious face, and a vicious voice are identified with those they are most fond of. Children are confused. In too many lives, love does not come easily. Little ones do not know what authentic affection looks like. As "mature" beings, some people seek the wisdom they did not acquire in their family homes. They wish to learn of what could not have been fully integrated in a school curriculum. Grown-up persons harmed by habits that debilitate a mind, body, heart, and soul know to their core, habits die hard. Adult classes meant to teach as Assemblyman Eng proposed exist at West Virginia University an older person can study How To Communicate Love. Learners are instructed, "Love comes from within." Students are advised to appreciate themselves.
Learning to love yourself will help create your personal appearance of love. If you do not know how to love yourself, you will not be able to love others. Loving yourself also means that you have a loving attitude in your actions and responses toward others; that you look for opportunities to help rather than be helped; that you communicate a loving appreciation of others with “thank you” and “please” as part of your vocabulary; that you forgive others and do not hold a grudge; and that you help people in need without thought of reward or recognition.
However, ultimately pupils are reminded of what Lawrence and Brandon have helped us realize.
How we communicate love to others is learned; we are not born with the ability to communicate love.
Nor are we born with the ability to hate. Each of us, every man, woman, and child is well-trained. If we are to truly end the violence that exists in schools, we must eliminate the hostility in our homes. Assemblyman Eng, perhaps a program in parenting, one instituted in every community throughout the globe might be more effective than any instruction in a school. If we are to truly teach forbearance to our progeny we must acknowledge parents, adults in every avenue are our life teachers. Let us not speak of how best to teach the children tolerance. We, their elders must learn how to love first. Perhaps, if the elders begin to appreciate each other without brutality, next Valentine's Day Cupid will not shoot arrow. He will bestow gentle kisses on each of us.
Sources, Societal Scars, Scabs . . .
Posted by Betsy L. Angert on February 28, 2008 at 11:00 AM in "Take me as I am!", Abuse, Adult Influence on Children, Aggression, Approval or Love, Communities and Communication , Compassion, Conflict, Complex, Emotional Intelligence, Family, Functioning, Fables, Fear, Human Nature, Humans, Self-Destructive, Life, A Forward Motion, Light. Darkness., Looking at Life, Nature or Nurture, Quality of Life, School Days, School Shootings, School Violence, Society, Teach The Children, Tributes, Verbal Combat, Violence, When Will I Be Right? | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Fragrances and Food; The Way to a Heart is Through the Stomach and Nose
copyright © 2008 Betsy L. Angert. BeThink.org
We met in December. The year was 2007. He was a friend of my cousin's. The two were best of buds; they still are. Cousin Paul has known James for decades. Jim moved to my hometown only months earlier. He felt alone. James longed for a friend, locally. Paul introduced us on the Internet. After my relative played the mediator, the man in the middle, the means for a message, he asked if he might share our electronic mail addresses. James and I each consented, and from then on, we exchanged epistles directly.
In letters, we liked each other. Admittedly, for us, the electronic medium was limited. We decided to share a drink together; although I let him know, I only imbibe water. James said that was not a problem. We arranged to get together at Starbucks. The coffee shop was near to his home and mine. Neither of us wished to share where we lived exactly. We were hesitant, cautious, or just not willing to chance the unknown.
Today, speed dates are popular. For some, a minute or two is more than enough to determine whether he or she is the "one." Some believe in love at first sight. They know immediately when Miss or Mister Right walks through the door. From across a crowded room eyes meet, sparks fly; for many providence steps in. Cupid's arrows are manifest destiny.
A gallant gent may meet a genteel girl and the two will gallivant forever. If a lady were to encounter a extraordinary lad in the last month of the year, by Valentine's Day, perchance the two would be wed. That is unless she eats garlic onions, or spicy foods.
James enjoyed our first encounter. He took pleasure in our later luncheon. My cousin's best friend looked forward to our every conversation. The more we chatted the more he longed to converse, connect, and commune in every way possible. This fine fellow spoke of copulation often. While he had been with others at the time of our introduction, he did not feel as close to them as he did to me. James spoke of our shared energy, enthusiasm, interests, and the excitement he felt in my presence. Nonetheless, one day, as he readied to rally at my home he decided he could not do it.
The smell of my well-seasoned skin was just too much for this lovable man. James diet is bland in comparison to mine. He did not wish to tell me I could not dine as I do. He did not wish to end our relationship per se; James just needed to create a physical distance. All the while, he reminded me of how much he loved me and always will. Certain he did not want to think of a time when we would not be emotionally together, James concluded, at least for a time, he needed to occupy a separate physical space. Perhaps, we could see each other and just not share a repast.
In the Twenty-First Century, the dynamics of dating are more complex. People are sensitive. The personal preferences of one person may offend another. Individuals are vocal.
Sharing meals has always been an important courtship ritual and a metaphor for love. But in an age when many people define themselves by what they will eat and what they won’t, dietary differences can put a strain on a romantic relationship. The culinary camps have become so balkanized that some factions consider interdietary dating taboo.No-holds-barred carnivores, for example, may share the view of Anthony Bourdain, who wrote in his book “Kitchen Confidential” that “vegetarians, and their Hezbollah-like splinter faction, the vegans ... are the enemy of everything good and decent in the human spirit.”
Returning the compliment, many vegetarians say they cannot date anyone who eats meat. Vegans, who avoid eating not just animals but animal-derived products, take it further, shivering at the thought of kissing someone who has even sipped honey-sweetened tea.
Ben Abdalla, 42, a real estate agent in Boca Raton, Fla., said he preferred to date fellow vegetarians because meat eaters smell bad and have low energy.
No matter how delightful a mate may be, if she eats meat, or finds a meal of fish repugnant a male suitor may not pursue her. If a woman thinks a man prefers a menu that is ethically loathsome, she will say so. Even those trained to understand, may not empathize at all.
Lisa Romano, 31, a vegan and school psychologist in Belleville, N.Y., said she recently ended a relationship with a man who enjoyed backyard grilling. He had no problem searing her vegan burgers alongside his beef patties, but she found the practice unenlightened and disturbing.Her disapproval “would have become an issue later even if it wasn’t in the beginning,” Ms. Romano said. “I need someone who is ethically on the same page.”
While some eaters may elevate morality above hedonism, others are suspicious of anyone who does not give in to the pleasure principle.
James did not quibble with my decision to avoid caffeine or alcohol. He did not question my desire to shun sugars. It made sense to this sweet man that I do not dine on meat, fish, chicken, or potatoes. James did not find fault with my wish to preclude processed foods from my diet. I did not consider his choices flawed. For me, people eat as they do. I delight in my entrees and worry not of what others consume. I understand change comes from within. I have no desire to transform another; nor do I wish to be converted.
As with other differences couples face, tolerance and compromise are essential at the dinner table, marital therapists said. “If you can’t allow your partner to have latitude in what he or she eats, then maybe your problem isn’t about food,” said Susan Jaffe, a psychiatrist in Manhattan.Dynise Balcavage, 42, an associate creative director at an advertising agency and vegan who lives in Philadelphia, said she has been happily married to her omnivorous husband, John Gatti, 53, for seven years.
“We have this little dance we’ve choreographed in the kitchen,” she said. She prepares vegan meals and averts her eyes when he adds anchovies or cheese. And she does not show disapproval when he orders meat in a restaurant.
“I’m not a vegangelical,” she said. “He’s an adult and I respect his choices just as he respects mine.”
In a former relationship, Eric and I were as Dynise Balcavage and John Gatti are. Never once was food an issue. I cooked meat for Eric with little hesitation. Admittedly, I would pay more for chicken parts. I could not bring myself to cut into the flesh and bone of one of G-d's creatures. When liver was prepared, I could not season the slices. In truth, my eyes could not gaze upon the bloody organ. Eric would place the animal protein in the bag I prepared with flour and spices. Then, he would lay the organ into the heated pan. Only after the meat was seared, could I continue to cook the "delicacy."
However, while I do not define myself by what I eat, I can no longer look at animal flesh on a plate and feel the same emotional distance I once did. While I still do not struggle with what another ingests, I do not believe that I would be so willing to bake, broil, or boil a bird, cook or carve a piece of beef, slice or dice a chop of pork. Perhaps, I have changed, even if ever so slightly.
I cannot be certain whether trends transform a person, age alters an individual, or if experience hardens hearts. Perhaps, ancient hurts hinder us. In an era where divorce defines the population, people have become more discriminating. James was married twice. I am the daughter of divorced parents. In America today, our experiences are common and likely shape us. The subtle nuances of companionship possibly affect the stomach and the nose..
Children watch Mom and Dad coo, only to see them separate. The pain of parents parting can cause a stomachache. Teens remember when their parents were romantic, rather than full of rage when together. As an adolescent reflects on unity he or she ponders, 'This stinks!' Adults cannot forget the one who broke his or her spirit. Habits of lover were appreciated. Slowly, but surely, all that seemed beautiful left a lover nauseous. The scent of one who was adorned becomes a reminder of all that was lost. Closeness can be sickening. Smells and tastes are no longer savored.
Nonetheless, people wish to believe passion is pure, adoration is in the air, and that special someone is just around the corner. Hence, we look, and look, and hope to find our Valentine. Restaurateurs rely on the human desire to love and be loved.
Valentine's Day ranks second only to Mother's Day at restaurants."It's something that restaurants all over the country . . . look forward to," said Steve Chucri, president and CEO of the Arizona Restaurant Association.
Thirty-five percent of Americans dine out on Valentine's Day, close to the 38 percent on Mother's Day.
Of those who dine out, 80 percent pay an average bill of $62. The remaining 20 percent spent more than $100 in 2006, the most recent year for which figures are available, according to Sherry Gillespie, the association's marketing manager.
Those spending $62 are paying $20 or $25 more than usual, Chucri said.
"I think people go out and spend more because they enjoy the day," he said. "They might get that bottle of wine instead of a glass of wine. Or they might get an appetizer and a dessert."
Pleasure or the want of it can be blissful. James and I experienced that from the first. The conversation, started and stayed interesting. We were authentically animated. He thinks I am saucy and sweet, but perhaps a bit too spicy. Like or unlike millions, James does not revel in the smell of natural seasoning. At one point he explained, "I think you are great. I enjoy your company. I yearn to be with you and would be if only you would stop eating garlic, onions, and spicy foods for three days."
While intellectually James does not object to my nutritional regime or my being as I am, his stomach and nose struggle to follow his fondness. Delicate scents do not disguise the aroma of peppers. A bouquet of cologne does not cover the odor of onions. From food to fragrances, friendships are fragile.
Perfume has long been an aphrodisiac decanted sparingly from an iconic glass bottle. But for Leslie Ware, a fashion editor at a quarterly magazine in Huntsville, Ala., fragrance has worked its magic in the opposite direction, as a romantic deal breaker.Several years ago, Ms. Ware was engaged to a gentleman who did not like Trish McEvoy 9, the fruity vanilla blend she had been wearing for seven years.
“He thought I smelled like a traveling carnival, the kind where they sell corn dogs, because I guess the smell was reminiscent of cotton candy,” Ms. Ware, 28, said. “This was the demise of Trish No. 9.”
It was a bad omen.
Soon after, Ms. Ware said she broke up with the perfume-averse boyfriend. She has not worn fragrance since.
A more recent boyfriend fared no better after he bought Ms. Ware what she called “an old-lady perfume” against her wishes.
“It made me mad,” she said. “I told him not to bother buying me fragrance since I am picky, and now I have a $125 bottle of perfume sitting in a closet.”
Just as stomachs lead many men, and women, noses help navigate these same individuals through the maze of ardor. When we wish to give to one we love, money is no object. The cost of the gift does not deter a admirer. Nor does the price impress the person who receives a present. There is much to love, and more to learn if we wish to create a bond that lasts.
This Valentine's eve women will not douse themselves in fragrances and men will be reminded not to buy perfumes as they did in the past. Colognes and toilette water are not collected as they were years ago.
[M]ore women are forgoing scent altogether. Last year, about 15 percent of women said they did not wear fragrance, up from 13 percent in 2003, according to a survey of 9,800 women conducted by NPD.“That may sound like a small number, but nationally that translates into two million more women who are saying ‘I don’t wear fragrance,’ ” said Karen Grant, the senior beauty industry analyst at NPD. “Eighty-five percent of women are still buying fragrance, but an increasing number tell us they are wearing fewer scents, less frequently or not at all.”
Fragrance fatigue is probably inevitable, with heavily fruited scents wafting out of everything from dishwashing liquids to hotel linens to candle displays at the mall. But perfume aversion seems to be tapping into a larger societal phenomenon that may have its origins in bans on cellphones and cigarettes: the idea that the collective demands of the public space trump one’s personal space.
“People are shying away from fragrances not for the traditional reasons that you’d expect, that it is too expensive or that they are wearing alternative products like body sprays or lotions,” Ms. Grant said. “Many people said it bothers them that fragrance has an effect on other people, that they are trying to be considerate by not overcoming others with scent.”
Indeed, Rochelle R. Bloom, the president of the Fragrance Foundation, an industry trade group, said that people who worry that their fragrance may offend others simply may be wearing perfume improperly.
It is not difficult to hurt the feelings of another. People are sensitive souls. Stomachs ache. Noses run. Hearts hurt. Cupid's arrows are curved; however, they can be straightened.
But sometimes couples can reach olfactory accord. Last fall, Robert Flood, a retired technology platform tester in Allen, Tex., worried how to tell his wife of 25 years, Amy, that he could not abide her new perfume, Elizabeth Taylor’s Passion.“It was very atrocious, at least to me,” Mr. Flood, 52, said in a phone interview last week.
The couple later worked out a compromise so that he would not be discomfited should her scent again stray into his air space. Henceforth, each will choose a fragrance for the other to wear.
“On Valentine’s Day, we will go to one of her favorite stores and she will buy me English Leather and I will buy her Jean Naté, which is the fragrance she was wearing when we had just met and she was 17 going on 18,” Mr. Flood said. “We are not smelling the perfume so much as the memories.”
Indeed, for the Floods, fragrance brings with it the Proustian power of recall. One could argue that those who forgo perfume now may inadvertently diminish at some future date the textural memories of relationships past.
Perchance, passion is more than a perfume or a pound of flesh. Spice may not be the cumin poured into the curried dish. The flavors that create true fondness are not found in the pantry or the powder room. The zest and zing that brings zeal into a relationship does not originate during a meal. A scent will not make heartstrings sing.
If two are to enjoy as one they must be responsive and receptive to what is not visible to the eye or smelled by the snout. Memories made and remembered satiate more than a stomach and flood more than a muzzle. This Valentine's Day may be the time to steam sweet nothings and sniff a bit of fresh air. Hugs, kisses, and Happy Valentine's Day.
Sweetness and Spice Sources . . .
Posted by Betsy L. Angert on February 14, 2008 at 05:30 PM in "Take me as I am!", Approval or Love, Compassion, Conflict, Complex, Dreams Live and Die , Emotional Decisions, Emotional Intelligence, Empathy and Evolution, Food Folly, Looking at Life, Looking for Love, Marital Status, Quality of Life | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack
History Happens; Ebbs And Flows. Emotions Are Entrenched
copyright © 2007 Betsy L. Angert. BeThink.org
On any given day, in any given way we create a foundation for our lives. What we think, say, do, or feel will be with us throughout our existence. Even if we believe, we are no longer where we were, we evolved, [and we all do] the effects of our actions, our reactions, do not change unless we work extremely hard to transform them. Indeed, no matter how diligently we are in our pursuit, attempting to erase the effects of our deeds, our failure to function, or our rejoinders, these will linger in the hearts and minds of those we associate with.
People presume to know who we are, and what we meant way-back-when. Today they are more certain than ever. Emotions are easily entrenched.
Only a day ago I was endeavoring to say, just this. Two prominent persons were in the news. Numerous articles were written discussing their doings. Television broadcasts assessing their situations filled the airwaves. Throughout the day, each time I heard or read of one report, the other followed immediately. There were no transitions between these news items. The tales were presented as interesting, somewhat ironic anecdotes, In my mind, the inference was ever-present; the past is evident in today's occurrences.
As I evaluated these narratives I thought of nothing more, than how "funny" life is. Try as we might, we cannot escape what we said or did long ago. It was and is almost humorous to me. When we consider the twists and turns of events, no one could imagine what will come.
It seems to me, those most wanting to forget what occurred "when we were . . ." are the ones more deeply immersed in their history. I penned prose discussing what for me is somewhat laughable. In our effort not to repeat history, we often do as we did long ago, or we create a chaos that pales by comparison.
How often have we purposely pursued a prospect different than those we embarked on before only to discover the similarities? If we are able to strike a chord that relieves us of former follies, it seems many of us give birth to bigger and better traumas. While reviewing the day's events, I marveled.
In my mind, these two persons were notably not repentant for their earlier conduct. They each often seem embroiled in incidents that relate back to their past.
In my missive, I spoke of the wonder woman of note, an esteemed and articulate aspirant. Some say she is a "polarizing" figure; yet, her prestige is unquestionable. I imagined that she might have been more cautious, or may have attended to what could have been easily misconstrued prior to this late date.
I theorized that perhaps, not wishing to be vulnerable, open, willing to apologize for what others felt and thought hurtful caused a reluctance to change that did not serve this renowned person well. I pondered; perchance, if this exceptional individual had done other than take a defensive stance, the coverage of her deeds would not have been so great.
I also offered the other tale musing how harsh life can be when we work to justify our history. I spoke of a person some think is a criminal. [Who am I to presume.] The man discussed in my now deleted missive fell so far from favor that the mere mention of his name causes people to cringe.
The only correlations stated in my essay were the two had each been the focus in the day's news, and each does what many or most of us have done. They have not actively attended to their history.
If any of us has not enthusiastically worked through what was, we might relate.
If those around us refuse to lovingly labor with us in hopes of resolving past understandings, well, the predicaments may be similar. Oh, those well-established emotional reactions can be our undoing.
In my own life, my personal history haunts me often. I cannot imagine that I am alone in this experience.
I might cite the conversation I had two years ago in September. An estranged family member and I spoke for the first time in a long while. I tried, as I had done many times over the years, to discuss a trauma I never understood. To this day, I am unsure what happened or exactly when. I only know that until we, authentically chat about what this individual is feeling and why, we will never move forward. Indeed, our relationship will continue to regress.
Avoidance of the topic has caused great harm. Ignoring has lead to shared ignorance. Pretending nothing is wrong reaps greater problems.
The best way out is always through.
~ Robert Frost [Poet]
In this more recent discussion, I shared all my sorrows. I suggested every possibility for why we might be where we are, or were on that autumn day when we spoke at length. I offered my sincerest apologies for every word, and any action. I explained where I might have been years ago and accepted there was so much I did not know then and desired to understand now.
These words came back to me, "It is all in the past." I stated, 'It is not. What was effects what is. Our history is our foundation. It is evident in the present and will create the future, if we do nothing to correct our differing impressions.'
Two months ago, another individual mentioned an event that occurred more than twenty years ago. I recall the incident well, and the ensuing misunderstanding. Money exchanged hands, was re-paid, however, inadequately according to this other person. I remember the same, and for a score I was certain I had made amends. Apparently, in the mind and memory of this individual I had not. However, nothing was said to me for all this time. Decades came and went and not a word.
Once I fortuitously learned of this lingering lament, much made sense. There had long been an unexplained distance between this party and me. Might this unpaid debt, the one I thought was fully settled be the cause for such a divide. I strongly suspect it was.
Again, I was told, now by a second person "It is in the past." However, once more, it was not. I shared with this love as I had with the other. "Times gone by shade our present and will be prominent in our future." We must be willing to approach the untouchable topics and decide that we will work to change what was. If we do not we will be forever haunted by our history.
Granted, if the persons we intermingle with are unwilling to alter their initial impression of what we may think are false claims and judgments, our interactions with these individuals will forever reflect their perception of the days gone by. Their understanding of us, interpretations of our message will be their staunchly defended truth.
Not one of us can escape the fact that we have not always been or done as we later realize was best. Some never think, or state, they have ever done wrong. That conclusion might harm these persons more severely than admitting, 'Perhaps, I was at fault.' They envision stating they were in error as a weakness. For these saintly souls, vulnerability is not the strength I perceive it to be.
For me, knowing I am another flawed human being is a reality. Those that read a recent treatise of mine might tell you that. Many did tell me this.
I am being "constructively criticized," rebuked and reprimanded for supposedly expressing a thought I did not state or even think to consider. I suspect all of us might be able to relate to this.
Interestingly, much of impetus for this inaccurate interpretation was evoked not by my words, but because of an image presented as an introduction to the publication. In my mind, I was stating that two people had a history that was affecting their lives in the present. Each wrote of their past, and details of their doings were discussed in the mainstream media on the same day. Both stories I thought somewhat bizarre. For me, that was the authentic connection, the only combining of the two I saw.
However, numerous persons viewed my symbolic message differently. It seems, once the portraits were perceived as one, they were forever linked in the minds and hearts of others. The visual took on a life all its own. Many readers were not able to separate their first impression, or expectation of what was to come, from what preceeded.
Ah, the human heart and the effect it has on a rational mind. We are all escorted by to our emotions although few wish to admit this. Perchance that is why our history haunts us. We protect and defend our beliefs as fact. Our failure to recognize that what is real for us is not valid for another harms our relationships and ourselves. I long ago learned, what is "right" for me is the relationship, not my need to prove someone else in error.
Often when we word our condemnation of an act, we present a punitive stance that defines the essence of the wrongdoer as erroneous. We use expressions that do not open hearts. Instead, humans turn a phrase that is punitive and demeaning to the other. We place the onus on them, the person that disturbed our sensibility. Had they not said, done, thought, or been as they were [or more truthfully, as we believe them to be] then we would not be in distress.
Words such as "I am disappointed in you" [your essential being] pass for constructive criticism. "Tsk, tsk" [How could you be so corrupt, cunning, dishonest, deceitful, and devious] are considered caring, statements of concern. "This is beneath you" is posited as an acknowledgement of your extraordinary quality. Supposedly, the speaker is intending to state their love and admiration. However, were these words said to you, you likely would not feel as though they were fond of you.
Might the articulation actually be more about the speakers' apprehension, their anxiety over what they believe you or I have become or possibly always were.
With thanks to a man I did not fully understand for years, for he was not like anyone I ever experienced, I learned much. Our perceptions are our reality. Only empathy can educate us. Nonetheless . . .
Most people that presume to know us best, those that claim to have deep knowledge of our intentions, rarely do. Others believe they recognize whom we are within. Frequently, they refuse to. Any attempt at sharing our authentic motivation for whatever might have moved us, is defined as "a veiled pretense," a "patronizing remark," or "beneath us."
In my endeavor to share a thought that I have honored for years, 'Fact is far stranger, and infinitely more humorous than fiction,' I was slammed, damned, criticized, and condemned.
If others never speak aloud in a truly caring manner when they have concerns, nothing will change. If they are busy placing the onus on us and are unwilling to believe that what they perceive as our intentions are not, there will be no growth, no understanding, and definitely no shared wisdom.
In elementary school, we learn the term 'constructive criticism.' We think that our expressed concerns are these. Seldom do we imagine how our disparagement might be heard. I wonder if this construct, caring censure might be an oxymoron. Can a person be critical without being cruel. I think there are ways to productively pronounce a genuine concern without using words that define another as fatally flawed. However, these require an open heart and mind.
Criticism is a misconception: we must read not to understand others but to understand ourselves.
~ Emile M. Cioran [French Philosopher. 1911 - 1995]
Demeaning another will never serve to secure a reciprocal reverence. Shaming a spirit cannot create a beautiful bond. Defensiveness does nothing to further discussion or understanding. Change will not come if we are entrenched in our emotional evaluations. Calm is not created when we chose words that cut like a knife.
In a debate, there are winners and losers. Disputes do not reap reflective rewards. In my mind, these forums offer no resolution.
When someone defines what is above or beneath us, based on his or her unfaltering belief that they know our intention better than we, they place the blame solely on us. When an individual decides that a person is suggesting more than what they state on the surface, then that person is reading between the lines and envisioning their own message.
For those who think, life is a comedy.
For those who feel, life is a tragedy.
~ Horace Walpole [Father of Gothic Novel, Earl of Orford]
I was told what I really think and who I truly am. Those that have never meet me, cannot, or will not dialogue with me as a caring, communicative person might, concluded that my message was what I had never thought it to be.
While as a human, I could rationalize and argue the point they presumed I was making. I could also make a case for the contrary were I to try. However, I had no desire to debase the subjects of my missive beyond what I thought interesting
Possibly, my essay was incomplete. I was not endeavoring to go deep. I genuinely was just jotting down a moment of surprise that two such stories, examples of how our past never dies were broadcast back-to-back during the evening news.
If, as in my situation, a visual is offered revealing that two people have a history that is invasive, and each was being discussed publicly on a single day, is interpreted as meaning more than it was meant to imply, then the messenger will be killed. I am slain and in the minds of many, I was totally to blame.
I submit, perhaps the image was powerful and communicated what was not meant to be. I might have included a third frame. The visual within that box could have been your face or mine. However, if the text of the treatise is read as it was presented, or at least as it was intended to be, the reader might understand my message.
I will try to state it simply. Anyone of us that does not work through their past and chooses not to help others to understand who we truly are is doomed. We are fated to realize that people will forever recall our history. The fiction others create will appear as facts, in part, because we do not correct it.
At times, we may not know that someone is feeling as they do. However, when we are a public figure, as the two I referred to are, it is difficult to avoid ample angst. I thought it fascinating that these two individuals were being publicly reminded of their past on the same day, nothing more.
I think, possibly, we all are forced to face what was; yet, our reminders of the past are not printed in the papers; nor do the accounts of many appear on the same day. Rarely do we need to address our errors or what others perceive as our mistakes in an open assembly.
However, on those occasions, when we do endeavor to correct a misimpression, as I have repeatedly tried to do today, our words fall often on deaf ears. Thus, the thought submitted earlier in the now defunct treatise illustrates my initial and intentional claims. Facts, or what passes for these, are funnier than fiction. Historically, the past does not fade from minds. Sadly, for some, what "may" have never been will always be when humans are involved.
People are trapped in history and history is trapped in them.
James A. Baldwin [Author]
Posted by Betsy L. Angert on June 16, 2007 at 01:43 PM in Approval or Love, Communities and Communication , Compassion, Conflict, Complex, Discussion, Emotional Decisions, Emotional Intelligence, Empathy and Evolution, Facts or Fictions, Humans, Self-Destructive, Looking at Life, Psychology , Quality of Life, Who Writes Our History? , “Art of Loving” | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Cindy Sheehan. The Plea, Promote Harmony Peacefully
Cindy Sheehan Quits
© copyright 2007 Betsy L. Angert. BeThink.org
Dearest Cindy . . .
I meant to write this letter days ago after reading your farewell "Good Riddance Attention Whore." I watched as the number of electronic communiqués in response to your essay mounted. I thought my message might be lost and perhaps was not important. I decided to forego a seemingly fruitless endeavor.
Yet, as I reflected on my reading of your words, and those writing in reply, I was haunted. Still, I hesitated. I was drowning in sorrow as I observed the interchanges. Ultimately, I concluded I can stay silent no longer, for if I do I endorse the verbal struggle. Oh, how I long for peace, harmony, and tranquility in every aspect of life. I hope to express my thoughts in a manner that honors calm and furthers a shared understanding. However, if the present is as the past, what are meant to be peaceful ponderings may provoke.
Cindy, the chatter surrounding your letter of resignation reminded of what struck me most in your offering. I experience as you mention.
[T]he "left" started labeling me with the same slurs that the right used. I guess no one paid attention to me when I said that the issue of peace and people dying for no reason is not a matter of "right or left", but "right and wrong."I experience this as well. More often than not, my missives bring talk of divisiveness. When I am critical of those that send our young and now older to combat, I receive comments of how "evil" the right is. I may frequently speak of the neoconservatives with disdain; however, I think the Left is no less liable. For me, any being that thinks war is ever an option allows for the practice.
I have also been slammed for calling the Commander and his Cabinet criminal. While I do believe that all beings have the potential for enlightenment, some are extremely slow to evolve. The ego delays their ascent. I have faith that each of us will make errors repeatedly as we travel through this Earthly existence; nonetheless, when these blunders take sweet and vulnerable men and women into battle, I think that iniquitous.
For me, it matters not the Party affiliation; harming another is errant. I experience as you have.
I am deemed a radical because I believe that partisan politics should be left to the wayside when hundreds of thousands of people are dying for a war based on lies that is supported by Democrats and Republican alike.I cannot comprehend the reprimands of one that thinks I am too harsh verbally, when I, without swearing explain my disdain for any being that is willing to hurt others. Merely calling for censure or impeachment, a nonviolent means for ending mass murder, is considered illogical and disappointing to this self-defined contrarian. Apparently for this self-proclaimed Buddhist, placing the onus on me seems apt. I am bombarded with barbs while men and women die on battlefields abroad.
It amazes me that people who are sharp on the issues and can zero in like a laser beam on lies, misrepresentations, and political expediency when it comes to one party refuse to recognize it in their own party.The mad cap fellow I mention and I would each agree with this statement. However, he would remind me that the philosophical form of Zen, Hinduism that I hold dear is deeply flawed for it differs from the religious sect of Buddhism he prefers.
I sigh deeply. I trust that as much as I appreciate many of this man's musings, the need to be right or reproach drains me. I want no part of such exchanges. I long for peace in every effort eternally.
I am not a competitive person and have no interest in engaging is dialogues where one is left the victor, and the other defeated. I prefer peace. For me, even an arraignment is an opportunity for growth. It need not be confrontational. I only wish to lessen the power of those that think we have the right to punish another nation or our own citizens by putting them to death, or torturing them until they talk. Yet, consistently I realize bringing about harmony is not the intent of many in the movement.
I have also tried to work within a peace movement that often puts personal egos above peace and human life. This group won’t work with that group; he won’t attend an event if she is going to be there; and why does Cindy Sheehan get all the attention anyway? It is hard to work for peace when the very movement that is named after it has so many divisions.When working with an organization devoted to harmony, the two persons prominent is coordinating the events argued vehemently. Those assisting with the installation project then took sides. There was no tranquility among the pacifists; yet, they claimed to be people of peace.
While walking with a group dedicated to calm, marchers called out to the law officers. These peace protesters preferred to fight the fuzz. The antics of those supporting an end to war actually promoted the same on local streets.
Cindy, I relent as you have.
[N]o matter how much I sacrifice, I can’t make you be that [peaceful, loving] country unless you want it.Persons and political structures are as they wish to be. I cannot change them; nor do I desire to try. I speak out for I trust that my silence will not benefit them or me. In my own life much has been said when I was not ready to understand the meaning or significance. I trust that people and policies are in flux. They are evolving as am I. I can only hope that my love of peace will be honored within my lifetime. I accept that this may not be so. Nonetheless, for me and I trust the same is true for you Cindy Sheehan, I will continue to do as I can. However, I cannot sacrifice my own soul. If I am to stay strong, I cannot continually allow others to deplete my spirit.
Cindy, I thank you so much for sharing your self, your strength, and for remaining vigilant. I believe peace will come. You will be among those that made the transition possible. I am grateful.
Sincerely, with great respect . . .
Betsy L. Angert
Posted by Betsy L. Angert on May 31, 2007 at 02:05 PM in "Take me as I am!", Activism, Bloggers Unite, Cindy and Casey Sheehan, Communities, Communities and Communication , Compassion, Conflict, Complex, Discussion, Dreams Live and Die , Emotional Decisions, Emotional Intelligence, Empathy and Evolution, Humans, Self-Destructive, Iraq War, Peace Movement, Peaceful Protests, Politics, War is in the Wind, War Kills [Mind, Body, Spirit], “When is Enough, Enough?”, “You are either with us or against us” | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Bulimia Builds Bitterness and Bridges
© copyright 2007 Betsy L. Angert. BeThink.org
As we stood face-to-face and quietly discussed my years of anorexia and bulimia, I was reminded of what I always knew and yet, was too distracted to acknowledge aloud. It was not that I never spoke of it before, I had on many occasions. However, this conversation helped me to realize the heartache my illness [and I unintentionally] caused more deeply.
A sweet and sensitive soul stood tall, looked at me directly and said, "My sister struggles with bulimia. I would really like to speak with you about your experience." Moments before this utterance, we were discussing teeth and toothbrushes. I shared my history of stains and offered my theories. I mentioned my concern; had years of bingeing and purging damaged the enamel. Perhaps, my dentine was more porous than they had been before I began traveling down the path of bulimia. I did not know with certainty; I hypothesized. Then Douglas spoke. A minor musing evolved. My hope is I have as well.
Over the next few days, Douglas and I chatted often. I shared three missives I penned on the subject. Surprisingly to me, he read them immediately. He wanted to understand his sister. She is his very close and lifetime friend. We talked a bit more. I provided three more pondering prose. The wondrous man quickly read these as well. It seemed he was devouring information. He was searching for answers. Too much had been left unsaid for too long. Sarah had been ridding herself of fodder, denying herself nourishment for a few years now.
Or Similar Discussions . . .
Douglas and his sister Sarah struggled to discuss the unspeakable. This empathetic gentle giant of a man did not understand; why would she wish to eliminate all the food from her body. He feared for her; yet, he acknowledges, he did not express himself well when bulimia was the subject. Douglas was frightened. He felt powerless. Unbeknownst to me, my words gave him strength. He trusted I was open to discussing the topic, or at least he knew that I said I was. However, I wonder. Until I asked him of his thoughts, he said nothing.
Then, upon inquiry, Douglas spoke of how he never imagined that she might felt separate from herself as I had. This feeling fellow could not comprehend that his sibling was not as concerned with her weight as she might be about other situations, those that are far more serious.
I cannot be certain what troubles Sarah. She may fear adult responsibilities; I did. Graduating from high school or college can be a challenge. Fitting in or fearing not is quite an experience. It might be . . . ?
Douglas offered, he wondered why she did not just stop. As we exchanged tales of woe, his, hers, and mine, I could see that he was contemplating. Every thought I expressed traveled within him. There were many chords struck. The causes, the effects, all touched his tender heart. Douglas decided to present my letters to his sister. Possibly, she would know that he cared; that might be meaningful. His desire to help was palpable. I could see it in his face, hear it in his voice, I felt it.
This healthy hardy, fellow that stood before me knew he would never do as she was and is doing. As he read early on, as he reflected further, as we chatted, he realized that perchance, the physiological, the physical influences might be more powerful than he ever considered. Neurology might matter. I expressed my realization; bulimia is not purely a psychological problem, oh, that it were.
Upon reflection, as profound as our exchange was, I did not realize the depth or intensity. I had no idea that this encounter would change me. I long ago concluded I had worked through all that was during those trying years. I was wrong.
I never realized how fully my relationships with family, and friends, was affected. Might my acquaintances also have tales to tell of their trying times with me? When I was immersed in an enigmatic illness, I was, as all human beings are involved with many individuals, those at work, at school, on the streets and in the stores. Discussing with Douglas helped me to learn, to grow, to resolve some of sorrowful details, and to realize there was more I need to work through.
Among the quandaries still left to resolve is my relationship with my cousin Alexander. After, Douglas first revealed his situation, and his gratitude for our conversation, I was elated. I telephoned my Mom's first cousin, my close friend, Alexander. I was excited and wanted to share the story. Might my history assist another? Would that not be wondrous? My cousin took a deep breath and paused.
Alexander and I rarely authentically discuss this part of the past. He lingers, as it looms large in the background. I understand that just as it was and perchance still is difficult for Douglas to discuss the doings, the dilemma, and the festering feelings that Sarah's situation fosters, Alex struggles. His stomach churns. Communication, when dealing with bulimia is a challenge. Alexander and I chat freely and often. We have for decades. Yet, this topic is too tender to touch. The scars are subterranean. The scabs sit delicately on the surface. No one wants to pick at these. Bloodletting is not our pleasure. Alexander stammered.
Then my sweet, caring cousin began to reflect on his reality. As I listened, I heard a somewhat protective cadence in his voice. It took time for me to remember that just as that period profoundly altered my ability to be free fun, silly, and stay on the surface, my affliction affected others abundantly. Even today, there is bitterness. What was not communicated then continues to have its effect. Perhaps, my family can build bridges now. However, first we must break down the barriers. Alexander begins to speak and I realize the wall is wickedly thick.
Years, and years ago, my Mom in desperation, turned to him requesting his assistance. Alexander and Mommy were close. They were raised together as siblings might be. The two had a loving history, and Alexander is a man of ample means. Mommy hoped for a financial favor. There was no one else she could turn to. No other family member or friend had funds for such a venture. She thought it might be best to hospitalize me, not for a day or two, not to stabilize my physical imbalance, but to place me in a treatment program that would work with me as a whole.
My Mom thought it wise to put me in close and constant proximity with physicians that specialize in bulimia. Although my Mom is a psychotherapist or perhaps because she is, she feared, she might be part of the problem. She could not help me as much as she longed to. This hurt her heart; it scarred her soul, and I only wish she truly knew. It was never her fault.
Alexander offered no cash. From across the country, cousin Alex, alone consulted with a doctor that someone recommended to him. The reference practiced many hundreds of miles from Mommy and me; he was considered a specialist. This physician is a psychiatrist. Since Alexander lives on the East coast, and the Doctor on the North West shore, the two talked by telephone. Alexander took copious notes. He jotted down pages and pages of data. Ultimately, this Doctor stated, since my Mom is a professional she likely is as knowledgeable as he.
Berenice Barbara certainly had knowledge of the dilemma. She lived with it daily. Yet, she could not continue to do so. Mommy remembered.
There was a time, years earlier, I resided in my parents' home. Each day, I would walk to the grocery store, buy bags and bags full of food. I had my own shopping cart and could crate much home. Once settled in the sanctity of the abode, I prepared for the afternoon and evening delight. The experience or entrées were delicious, or might have been had I ever bothered to taste the delicacies I prepared. Culinary escapades come in many sizes and shapes. Mine was huge and it took on many horrific forms. My adventure was interesting to say the least.
I placed newspapers on the floor in front of the television. I would travel between the kitchen and living room. I never bothered with the bathroom. I cooked, cleaned as I prepared my mega-meals, sat down ate, and then threw-up. All my food fell into a basin neatly placed in my palms for just this purpose. There was no time to travel to the toilet. Besides, that seemed so inefficient. I was busy, productive, bingeing, purging. Leave me alone!
My parents let me be. Possibly, they hoped it was a phase. Probably they knew they could not stop me from doing as I did. My brother was quite young at the time, not more than five years of age. I am certain he was curious, though he never said a word. Now, he barely remembers any part of his childhood. My routine went on for a while. Finally, I secured employment. I moved out.
Money was tight and became increasingly tighter. Try to feed a food frenzy that never ends. Imagine paying for twelve, fourteen, or sixteen hours of provisions everyday. I could no longer afford an apartment. I returned to my parents abode, for ten minutes. I walked into the entryway and was about to prepare for "my day." My Mom turned to my father and said , "No, I cannot do this."
My father, an extremely loving man was not willing to give up on me; nor was my Mom. It was only that Mommy could not watch as I wasted away and destroyed my body, again, and again. My condition affected my parents differently. They are , as are we all uniquely individual.
Mommy thought herself responsible. It hurt her heart so much to see my body bend, twist, and turn herself inside out. She saw her child wither away and feared I would pass. Even when the weight stabilized, she did not feel at ease. Berenice Barbara knew too well, what I was doing.
Bodily functions were precarious. I was depleting my electrolytes. Potassium, needed to sustain the blood flow was barely available. It was flushed out with the bile. The muscular organ that beats life into a human being was threatened. Mommy feared what was yet to occur. There is ample literature on the hazards of bulimia. None of the symptoms or effects of bingeing and purging are promising.
My father Barry, was equally familiar with the folly. Perhaps, although we were and are best friends, my antics did not affect him as they did my Mom. After all, he is not biologically related to me. Perchance, our bloodline had no bearing on his feelings. Barry only wanted to help and actively make known he loved [loves] me and believed in me.
Of course, Mommy did too. We were always very close. Possibly, that is why we were fine, as long as I was not throwing up in her home. I often say, "Home is where the heart is; mine is wherever my mom lives." Mommy wanted my heart to thrive. It could not, if in her home she accepted its suffering. I understood. I did not say a word when she asked me to leave her house. I could not. I hurt her so much. Harming me caused her much pain. Hurting my Mom heightened my sorrow, my grief, and my anguish.
Barry spoke instantly. He told me not to worry; he would help. Minutes after my Mom expressed her exasperation and left the room, Barry and I drove to a lodging inn not too far from my parents' dwelling. Barry rented an efficiency apartment for me. This man, my father secured my rent for a month, then the next. Of course, there was the following. Eventually, I worked my way out of that living situation. However, the bulimia did not transition as easily.
While in the hotel apartment, I invoked a newer pattern. I began "proceedings" at 1:00 Post Meridian. I cooked, cleaned, ate, and eliminated until usually one or two ante meridian. Nonetheless . . .
As Alexander spoke and shared his version of the anecdote, my mind wandered. Actually, I wondered. It was obvious to me. He believed he had done all he could. He saw no reason to involve himself further. Alexander was certain that Mommy had everything under control. I knew she wished she had.
For Berenice Barbara, it was not the undelivered dollars that did her in; it was the sense that Alexander did not care. He and Mommy are first cousins; as children, they were together always. My Mom felt she turned to him as a confidant, a brother, and he did not bother to talk with her. Actually, they never spoke again.
Mommy and my father Barry did much to assist me, as did Grandpa. Alexander believes that Grandpa loaned Mommy a bundle and she never re-paid the promissory note. Cousin Alex thinks my Mom frittered the dollars always, or tucked them into a mattress perhaps. She never sent me to a treatment center.
Alexander knows me now, or thinks he does, decades after that time. He sees me as healthy, happy, and I suspect feels certain my affliction was never all that serious. Yes, he has heard me speak of it, though rarely in depth and detail. It seems he is not truly interested. He often does not recall or realize the severity of what I say. He does remind me often that Grandpa wrote checks to me. Indeed he did.
Full of sorrow, and understanding my predicament, Grandpa saw the financial strain and the emotional toll. He connected to my struggle through my writings. I was stuck in a dead-end job. I hated the work. My employment had an effect on my health. I was grinding my teeth among other things. I could not afford to complete my degree. The duties in this mailroom were simple. I could complete the work with ease. I was often told the sorting station was never as clean and efficient. Still, I had to stay, sit for a nine-hour day.
To pass the time I penned my feelings, my frustration to Grandpa. Writing was then as it is now, my release. If I could not escape through food, and certainly while at work I could not, I wrote. My grandfather, after a time, I know not why for I would not ask, decided he would pay for my last year of college. He wanted me to have a degree, a piece of parchment, and a better sense of myself. Grandpa felt badly that Mommy, his daughter could not afford to assist me with my education. He did.
Years before that Grandpa gave much to me, Alexander is correct, although the giving was not cash. What grandfather Mitchell shared was of far greater value. My Grandfather came to visit Mommy, my father, and me. As a pharmacist, a scientist Mitchell trusted he could teach me how to better care for myself. Barry arranged for the transportation, and Grandpa with me in tow strolled into the American Association for Retired Persons pharmacy.
Together, for over an hour, we read every bottle. Grandpa Mitchell, my mentor explained the differences between one vitamin, mineral, or another. He discussed bonding agents and the pressure used to produce a pill. Capsules were considered, oils as well. A regime of supplements was created for me. I promised to take these nutrients when I awoke and before I lay my head to sleep. The pledge I made was to me. I was living with the benefits[consequences?] of bulimia. I longed to survive.
My hair was extremely thin and brittle. What was once thick and wavy was now thin and straight. The teeth that once glistened turned gray. Smooth skin was cracked and dry. Fingernails were brittle. When I scratched the dry surface of my flesh, bumps would rise. These tiny welts filled with blood; it took days before they disappeared. My young face was weathered and aging quickly. While I dressed well, I truly cared for and about my clothes, a close evaluation would reveal, I was not a pretty sight.
Nonetheless, Alexander never knew this. He did not see me, feel me, or understand my pain. Nor did he converse or come to spend a moment with Mommy. Alexander only heard of what is easier to speak of, the money. Grandpa shared stories of woe, not mine per se, his own. That is what we all do. We only know what is within us.
Alexander trusted my grandfather was concerned; however, Mitchell did not mention what he observed or understood. That would be too difficult. Much like Douglas, Grandpa Mitchell expressed his fear, not his love. Caring was too painful.
My cousin only related to the cute little girl I once was. That was his knowledge and understanding. Sadly, it still is.
Over the years, much to my Mom's dismay, I developed a relationship with Alexander. He never knew that I was hospitalized for days at a time. He was certain I was not placed in a program. Cousin Alex did not sense I was near death on more than one occasion. I was placed on a machine. Feeding was intravenous.
Alexander was [and is today] unaware. He did not [and does not] understand how Mommy felt. He could not comprehend nor will he. As we spoke, after my conversation with Douglas, Alexander declared he knows what he knows. My cousin refused to listen to my narrative.
My cousin did not and does not experience my Mom as she was. When I was detained in a medical facility, Mommy was never able to visit me. Physically she was capable; emotionally, she could not endure the pain. She tried once. I happened to be in a hospital affiliated with her work. She was there to meet with a patient and felt she could not leave without seeing me.
Mommy entered the room, sat on my bed, and we chatted. Each of us tried to communicate as we always had and did when I was not expelling food before I digested it. However, it was too hard for her. I could see the tears forming and before they gently fell down her face. She excused herself. She was flooded with emotions. Oh, Mommy, I am sooooooo sorry.
Alexander assumed much and apparently still does. He knows that he and Grandpa lived a block away from each other. They were friends; although I often wonder. When one, or both persons in a relationship share some information, and never fully deliberate, how intimate and whole might the rapport be. Nonetheless, the two were "close."
Each time my grandfather spoke of gifting money to my Mom or me, Alexander decided the sums were large and an unwanted load for my Mom's father. Cousin Alex does not recall what my Grandpa taught me, or does not make the connection for I shared the parable many times. "No one does something they do not really want to do."
After a time when Grandpa gave me two hundred and eighty nine dollars to travel, I thanked him profusely, for months. I could not resolve within myself how generous a gift he bestowed. Then, one-day grandfather Mitchell said to me, I would not have given you the money had I not wanted to. You need not continually thank me. He shared his now famous adage. Slowly, I learned. This lesson is about far more than money.
Nonetheless, Alexander remains stalwart, doing diligence over the dollars. I discovered this only days ago. As much as Alexander cherishes my Mom and I, he resents us. Alexander believes he has the specifics. For him there is nothing further to discuss.
My cousin believes my bulimia was a financial burden far beyond what it was. He thinks my Mom borrowed money and never repaid it. Grandpa disinherited his own daughter and sacrificed for his granddaughter. He brusquely said to me, "Ask your sister." I did. I discovered that my elder sibling understands as I do. The details of that I will save for another time. I told Alexander, in part of the exchange with my sister. Alexander refuses to hear the rest of the story. Bitterness becomes him. It must, for he has chosen to live with it for all these years.
Perhaps, that is the truer crisis. Bulimia breeds contempt. As the person afflicted purges in an attempt to escape feeling, the feelings flourish. They envelop everyone. Authentic communication ends. At times, we cannot be sure it will come again. The illness has a profound effect on the individual. It is as a heavy stone falling into a pond. The ripples travel. All are touched.
So much is shoved out of sight. Embarrassment causes the bulimic and her family to hide their emotions. There is much harm done to every one. People do not speak; they do not wish to see what is painful and true. Tales are told. Everyone wishes to appear excellent, exalted, and above it all. Yet, friends, family, familiars are all brought down. The spiral spins out of control.
Thankfully, it need not be. Douglas shared my writings with his sister. They had a lengthy conversation. Tears and fears were placed out in the open. Until, I told my truth, Douglas never understood how his sister Sarah struggles. He thought his sibling was concerned about her weight. This brilliant and munificent gentle man could not imagine why the healthy woman he knows and loves would do as she does.
It was only days ago he discovered, each night she cries herself to sleep thinking tomorrow, I will not do this. Yes, I remember; I did the same. This evening I told my father what Douglas shared. Barry asked was that true? He never knew. My father did not imagine my daily distress. I can barely phantom his sorrow.
As we reflected, Barry avowed, "Ultimately I trusted your sense of yourself and your evolving being. Mommy and I often talked about what we could do. Your health and well being was on our minds." I trust it still is. I feel it in Barry's musings. I sense it in my soul.
Each day and evening I think about Mommy's anguish. The despair my Mom felt, and may still feel, fills my heart. She has passed and I cannot inquire, Yet, I accept I cannot experience a fraction of the pain as she did, has, and sadly, may still .
Alexander, oh were he to speak of the unspeakable; what might we resolve.
Douglas and Sarah, I love you both. You give me hope. I wish to bequeath to you both hugs, kisses, and pleasant dreams. I have faith; tomorrow will come and good health will be yours.
Dear reader, you may wish to peruse Chapters One through Six, of my life as an anorexic, bulimic, a person. Please do.
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Posted by Betsy L. Angert on May 14, 2007 at 11:41 PM in "Take me as I am!", Anorexia Nervosa, Being, Becoming, Bulimia, Compassion, Conflict, Complex, Eating Disorders or Habits, Emotional Decisions, Emotional Intelligence, Empathy and Evolution, Fear, Health, Heartbreak, Heartache, Humans, Self-Destructive, Life, A Forward Motion, Looking at Life, Personal, Quality of Life, When Will I Be Right? | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Seung-Hui Cho. I Mourn Your Life and Loss
© copyright 2007 Betsy L. Angert
My heart aches. Of course I mourn the passing of the thirty-two Virginia Polytechnic University students, as do we all throughout the globe. Nevertheless, I cannot forget how my heart hurts for the thirty-third victim, the one the media never seems to count among those killed, Seung-Hui Cho. On April 16, 2007 thirty-three lovable and fragile individuals passed.
Seung-Hui Cho, as he called himself, was a young man locked in Hades for decades. His death began long before the day of infamy. He longed for comfort and company. All he received was chiding. Even in death, Seung-Hui Cho is scorned. I am forlorn.
From the first, there were labels. Many said he was "Chinese"; they would then add their political concerns for China. Then he was, and today he is still frequently referred to as a Korean National. Calls for restraints on immigration are common. Of course, in the minds of many American's anyone that is not white is not right, and definitely, if they are not born in this country, they are aliens.
Among some, there is ample discussion for the name of this now notable student, the "shooter." Many believe his ethnicity is more important than the person.
The Asian version of the name - Cho Seung-Hui - appeared to be more widespread, in part because of its use in the ubiquitous wire stories from Reuters and the AP. As a result, some Korean-Americans felt media groups were playing up Cho's foreign-ness, according to the Asian American Journalists Association, which advised reporters to use the American order.
Thankfully, and I do note the use of the name is Americanized, as family members and Cho himself seem to prefer, National Public Radio retorted as I had when speaking to friends and family. This young and deeply disturbed man was, is an American.
How American was Seung-Hui Cho? Despite being a South Korean national living in America, his upbringing, and his problems, were distinctly American.The system or lack of social services in the United states let this man slide through many a crack.
Seung-Hui Cho and his parents were hoping to find streets paved in gold in America. Unfortunately, they discovered what many of us do, life is good if you are among the fertile few. Actually, life, even for the affluent can be a struggle. Life is life. People yell; they scream, they damn, and they slam. Consider the woes of an eleven year old. The daughter of Alec Baldwin may have been born into money; nevertheless, she receives the wrath of a supposedly loving father. She is verbally slammed and damned.
Imagine how loved this little girl must feel after being told she is a "thoughtless little pig," Her Dad, actor Baldwin, threatens to set here straight during their meeting the following day. Were I she I would want to run for my life. Seung-Hui Cho, the wounded must have often felt a need to escape. Perhaps, his sullen manner was his means for flight. Seung-Hui Cho said in an 1,800-word rambling . . .
'I didn't have to do this. I could have left. I could have fled. But no, I will no longer run.'
Cho lived in shadows, deep and dark. He attended classes at a prestigious University. He was a scholar, a writer. Yet, he was shunned. His dialect was odd, mumbled, and his words were difficult to discern. This academic was nearing graduation, a scary proposition all in itself. He did not feel excepted in the world. From what we know of his history, he never had.
Some say he was paranoid, obsessively anxious, or unreasonably suspicious. Perhaps he was. Many of us feel family and friends expect much of us and from us. Often we compare ourselves to others and we believe we fall short. Acceptance into an esteemed University is glorious. Maintaining good grades is meaningful. Yet, any of us may wonder, is that good enough. Perchance when our sibling excels, we are far more aware of our failings.
Though Monday's shootings at Virginia Tech had already cast a shadow over campus, the news yesterday morning that the gunman's older sister is a recent Princeton alumna brought the tragedy even closer to home.The parents of these fine children are so devastated, they are residing in a community hospital. They feel deeply pained by their son's circumstance. The mother and father meant no harm; they as all parents hoped to provide the best for their children. In an interview with Seung-Hui Cho's grandfather, the elder statedSun-Kyung Cho '04 was an economics major who interned at the U.S. Embassy in Bangkok during the summer before her senior year and wrote briefly for The Daily Princetonian. She now works as a "State Department contractor," The Washington Post reported yesterday, and was listed on Princeton's alumni directory as living in Centreville, Va., with her parents.
"Seung-hui troubled his parents when he was young because he wouldn't talk, but he was well-behaved," said the man, who asked to be called Mr Kim, in interviews with two Korean newspapers.They are troubled and think themselves responsible. Perhaps, America has let the Cho family down. They expected so much, all Americans do. However, little is received. The rewards are few."I don't know how I can compensate for the responsibility for raising my kids improperly. I don't know how he could do this when his parents went to a country far away and worked hard."
In an editorial, the Hankyoreh newspaper wrote today that Cho’s case illustrated a problem faced by many South Korean immigrants in the US, where parents are too busy at work to take care of their children.Many in the Korean community think the problem lies in the life of an émigré; however, even native born Americans struggle to make a decent wage or create a comfortable caring environment for their children.“It is the reality of our immigrants that parents are so busy making a living that it’s not easy for them to have dialogue with young children,” the newspaper wrote.
“We should think about whether our society or our (Korean) community abroad has been negligent in preventing conditions that could lead to such an aberration,” it said.
Most neighbours could barely recall talking to the couple. "They're very quiet, very nice people. They worked very hard for him. It's very sad," their next-door neighbour, Abdul Shash, told the Associated Press.Most of us think our lack of personal success is our fault. When our offspring struggle or hurt another, we are pained. A Grandfather feels responsible for his own progeny and the product of their love. Mister Kim the eldest representative of a kind and caring family reflects,"They valued education, just like any other parents in this country, and they worked sometimes 12, 13 hours a day to send a daughter to Princeton and to send their son to Virginia Tech," said Jeff Ahn, president of the League of Korean Americans in Virginia.
“How could he have done such a thing if he had any sympathy for his parents, who went all the way to another country because they couldn’t make ends meet and endured hardships,” Cho’s maternal grandfather, identified only by his last name Kim, was quoted as saying.As a child Seung-Hui Cho was ridiculed and bullyed. As an adult he hid; he hoped to avoid the taunts and teasing.
Former classmates recalled Cho being taunted over his speech difficulties.One professor saw his angst. She read the words of a tormented soul. She was frightened. Initially, she embraced the long-suffering spirit of this neglected man.He almost never opened his mouth and would ignore attempts to strike up a conversation, said Chris Davids, a Virginia Tech senior who graduated from Westfield High School in Chantilly, Va., with Cho in 2003.
When Cho read out loud in class, other students laughed at his strange, deep voice that sounded "like he had something in his mouth," Davids said.
In a video Cho mailed to NBC in the middle of his rampage at Virginia Tech, the 23-year-old portrayed himself as persecuted and rants about rich kids.
Lucinda Roy, a co-director of the creative writing program at Virginia Tech, taught Cho in a poetry class in fall of 2005 and later worked with him one-on-one after she became concerned about his behavior and themes in his writings.The professor pondered. She realized Seung-Hui Cho was without friends. He did not know how to relate; perhaps, he had never had the chance.
Roy told ABC News that Cho seemed "extraordinarily lonely—the loneliest person I have ever met in my life." She said he wore sunglasses indoors, with a cap pulled low over his eyes.In his writings he was lashing out as all wounded animals do. His actions amplified the distance he felt and thus, created.
He whispered, took 20 seconds to answer questions, and took cellphone pictures of her in class. Roy said she was concerned for her safety when she met with him.Professor Roy became fearful. Sadly, we all are when we do not understand. Often, when any of us think we are threatened, instead of continuing to assist, we withdraw from what causes us great apprehension. We avoid knowing what we recognize and prepare to protect ourselves further. Thus, we as a society discuss increasing security in our schools rather than raising the standards and funding for mental health.
Such is the situation, the shortsightedness. It is all so sad to me. We separate ourselves from each other. We create stress. Then instead of coming together we try harder to take control. Emotions cannot be regulated; in truth, we cannot mandate behaviors. If we are to be truly safe, we must ensure that every individual feels cared for to his or her core. I believe we must interact, not react.
I beseech us all; I ask Americans, émigrés, and individuals in every corner of the globe, do not hold your children tighter, lock them up in buildings where there is little genuine affection. Love them; they need to feel safe and secure and only your authentic fondness can fill their hearts and provide stability. Pay attention to the progeny. They are our future.
Do not apply pressure as a tourniquet might. Suffocating a wound appears to stop the flow. However, scars form from within. What is not released, calmly and with care, in the moment builds up. Feelings must be felt, expressed, and received gently with concern.
Please let your loved ones be and breathe. Provide them with the freedom to speak and to feel. Be with those that are special to you. Listen to their concerns. Allow them to lean on your shoulder when they wish to. Tenderly teach autonomy. Do not dismiss the essence of interdependence as well. May we honor our children wholly in our homes and schools.
Please let us not place imprison our pupils, our progeny. Provide for them in meaningful ways. Trust them to grow and nurture them on their unique path.
Instruction begins when you, the teacher, learn from the learner; put yourself in his place so that you may understand
. . . what he learns and the way he understands it.
~ Soren Kierkegaard
Everything depends upon the quality of experience . . . just as no man lives or dies to himself, so no experience lives and dies to itself.
Any experience is mis-educative that has the effect of arresting or distorting the growth of further experience.
The central problem of an education based upon experience is to select the kind of present experience that live fruitfully and creatively in subsequent experiences.
~ John Dewey [American Philosopher, Psychologist, Educational Reformer]
The object of education is to prepare the young to educate themselves throughout their lives.
~ R. M. Hutchins [American Educator, Author, The University of Utopia and The Learning Society]
The sorrow is deep and the family feels more than any of us might imagine. I share the Cho family statement. I think that we each can feel their pain in these words.
Text of Cho family statementThose that passed can no longer physically help teach us to be kind, aware, active, and giving. However, through them, I hope we all learn. Every moment of life is fragile, fleeting, and a foundation for the future.
By The Associated Press
Statement issued to The Associated Press by Sun-Kyung Cho, sister of Seung-Hui Cho:On behalf of our family, we are so deeply sorry for the devastation my brother has caused. No words can express our sadness that 32 innocent people lost their lives this week in such a terrible, senseless tragedy.
We are heartbroken.
We grieve alongside the families, the Virginia Tech community, our State of Virginia, and the rest of the nation. And, the world.
Every day since April 16, my father, mother and I pray for students Ross Abdallah Alameddine, Brian Roy Bluhm, Ryan Christopher Clark, Austin Michelle Cloyd, Matthew Gregory Gwaltney, Caitlin Millar Hammaren, Jeremy Michael Herbstritt, Rachael Elizabeth Hill, Emily Jane Hilscher, Jarrett Lee Lane, Matthew Joseph La Porte, Henry J. Lee, Partahi Mamora Halomoan Lumbantoruan, Lauren Ashley McCain, Daniel Patrick O'Neil, J. Ortiz-Ortiz, Minal Hiralal Panchal, Daniel Alejandro Perez, Erin Nicole Peterson, Michael Steven Pohle Jr., Julia Kathleen Pryde, Mary Karen Read, Reema Joseph Samaha, Waleed Mohamed Shaalan, Leslie Geraldine Sherman, Maxine Shelly Turner, Nicole White, Instructor Christopher James Bishop, and Professors Jocelyne Couture-Nowak, Kevin P. Granata, Liviu Librescu and G.V. Loganathan.
We pray for their families and loved ones who are experiencing so much excruciating grief. And we pray for those who were injured and for those whose lives are changed forever because of what they witnessed and experienced.
Each of these people had so much love, talent, and gifts to offer, and their lives were cut short by a horrible and senseless act.
We are humbled by this darkness. We feel hopeless, helpless, and lost. This is someone that I grew up with and loved. Now I feel like I didn't know this person.
We have always been a close, peaceful, and loving family. My brother was quiet and reserved, yet struggled to fit in. We never could have envisioned that he was capable of so much violence.
He has made the world weep. We are living a nightmare.
There is much justified anger and disbelief at what my brother did, and a lot of questions are left unanswered. Our family will continue to cooperate fully and do whatever we can to help authorities understand why these senseless acts happened. We have many unanswered questions as well.
Our family is so very sorry for my brother's unspeakable actions. It is a terrible tragedy for all of us.
Source: North Carolina attorney Wade Smith, who provided the statement on behalf of the Cho family
This is not the time to teach fear. It is an occasion, an opportunity to reflect. Perhaps, we might learn to love every being, even those that appear to be different or distant.
Seung-Hui Cho My Sadness for Yours . . .
Posted by Betsy L. Angert on April 20, 2007 at 04:43 PM in "Take me as I am!", American Family, Approval or Love, Art of Loving, Have or Be, Change the World [Within], Communities, Communities and Communication , Compassion, Conflict, Complex, Education, Emotional Decisions, Emotional Intelligence, Empathy and Evolution, Family, Functioning, Fables, Humans, Self-Destructive, Looking at Life, Loss of Life, Nature or Nurture, Quality of Life, School Days, School Shootings, School Violence, Society, Teach The Children | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack
