The Prayer

This morning I read something about a 29 year old man that had 21 kids with 11 different women. The article stated something about four children being born in the same year. Twice. Okay, I guess at the very surface, the first reaction would be to laugh. It would be kind of funny if it were fiction. I can laugh at the shock of it. To me it is unfathomable that someone would have so many kids, and just keep making more. These aren’t Lay’s Potato chips. Nobodies eating all the babies they want. The human race isn’t dying out (yet). There’s no need to for anyone to make more. I don’t get it.

So far we have two things there—laughter followed by befuddlement. There’s also a third thing that happens when I read such stories. I say a little prayer. Certain groups of certain people will know exactly what I mean here. It’s the prayer of “Please don’t make us all look bad.” “Please, please…”

“Please don’t let it be a black person.”

Then you open the link to the article, see the face of the culprit in question and think “God damn it.”

It doesn’t even matter that you have no other connection to this person aside from superficial appearances. You’re in the group, they’re in the group and there are still people out there that will make vast assumptions of an entire group based on one person. It doesn’t even matter that someone in this group is the president of the country. It makes no difference.

If you can go into the world knowing you will be judged based on your own actions alone, and no one else’s, consider yourself lucky. I don’t even consider white people to be exempt from this—it goes both ways. There are vast assumptions about white people too. For example, remember the sniper incident of 2002? Who were we picturing before we solved the mystery? (yes, another “God damn it” moment for me, but that’s beside the point) Who do we see in our minds whenever a strange letter about powdered ‘thrax gets mailed, who do we picture when some militia-minded individual goes wacko against the government? That’s right.

Maybe this is why we have a need to put people in boxes. I can be split evenly into two boxes (same goes for the president) but let’s not kid ourselves. I know how I’m seen by most people based on their first glance. Why do we do this? Is it an attempt to predict behavior? Is it a way to figure out what we have in common with some and how we differ from others? I look forward to the day when the prayer does not cross my thoughts whenever I read a story like that, but I think that day is still a long way off.

(God damn it)

The Fairer Sex

Let me preface this by telling you that I’m not a big horse-race person. I don’t know much about it at all. I did rejoice a little when this year’s Preakness was won by a filly instead of a colt. Of course there was plenty of lead in on the news informing the masses on why her participation was a BFD. Those are inevitably followed up with the man on the street type comments, and one came from an older man who stated with a smug little smirk, “Fillies should race fillies, and stallions should race stallions.” There’s always one that thinks like this, isn’t there? You know someone is going to open his big yap because deep down he’s afraid if a female races, she just might win. So she did win and then what? Out comes the whining about how she had an unfair advantage.

And if she lost, you know what? Someone would come out with “well she had no business racing anyway.” And this is just about horses.

I have a feeling the attitude extends to plenty of other areas. I remember an argument discussion I got into online about who should have a role in combat in the military. The guy kept insisting on whatever was best for the “morale” of the troops. My argument is based on whatever is best for the military, which means the most competent people for certain jobs get to do those jobs. According to the law, it is illegal for women to be on the front lines in a combat role, but what happens when the rules change? I was branched Air Defense Artillery in the Army, which is defined as a Combat Arms branch, however I was limited to being in Patriot units since the Patriot Missile System is generally relegated to the rear ranks. It wasn’t designed to move very often and the long range of the missile means you can shoot from afar. Well this time around, those units moved right along with the infantry, which put women on the front lines. Then last weekend I watched “Lioness” which is about "Team Lioness"--female soldiers who were assigned one type of specialty, while given an additional duty of going into towns and going into the homes of people suspected to be conspiring against Americans. Since these were families, and families generally have men and women, and it’s not even cool for men to do body searches on women in OUR culture, guess what? They needed women to search the women in those houses. Some of these patrols involved close range firefights (combat) which technically made the whole situation illegal. There was even one soldier who had hunted before entering the military, who was specifically given the duty of carrying a squad automatic weapon because she was a good shot. This wasn’t getting caught up in a supply convoy that hit an explosive, it was sending female soldiers directly into a combat zone even though we have laws specifically against that. And while we’re on the topic, it’s kind of absurd to declare that an entire half of the population can not be in combat. How do you avoid that in a war? There are green zones but nothing is really safe, is it? I feel like all of this is based in fear, and in this case it’s the fear of seeing women come home dead or maimed. Even if you’re a soldier and in the role of protecting others and fighting battles, sometimes people still think you need to be protected, not for your own good, but for theirs.

There was a recent episode of “Cold Case” (stop that laughing) I watched that involved a fictional military institution (Pennsylvania Military Institute, or “P.M.I.”—get it? Like “V.M.I.” except it’s not, wink, wink). Anyway, this involved a 2003 case of a female cadet who mysteriously turned up dead. I told my husband “This is kind of not relevant anymore,” but then again, maybe I’m wrong. I remember 1995 when Shannon Faulkner entered the Citadel. I remember the disbelief at the people fighting her entrance into the school as well as my own classmate who claimed “The Citadel is done if they ever let women in.” (I wish I’d asked him why he chose West Point, since most of his discussions involved high praise for The Citadel).

Shannon Faulkner didn’t make it, but was that any surprise? She wasn’t really in shape, but also, she was the only woman to enter with her class. That’s pretty much a recipe for failure. At least the service academies let in more than one, and at least many of them made it through. Someone has to be the first, but it’s easier to be the first when someone else is doing it too. Your name might not make the news, but you have a better chance of getting through.

I’m sure there was just as much bullshit in the first class of female West Pointers. The first year is hard enough, I couldn’t imagine the additional sexism heaped onto that already generous pile. When you have a general, and graduate, General Westmoreland, claiming that women in combat would have to be “freaks” you have to wonder. For every guy that speaks his true feelings, I’m guessing there are a bunch that secretly think it, but don’t say it.

Maybe this extended to the way we were viewed as cadets too. I remember the mindset that we “gray trou” weren’t dating material. I am guessing this was based in fear too—who would want to date someone that wouldn’t be wowed by your uniform or your daily exploits because she’s doing pretty much the same thing? And then--horror or horrors--what if she’s better at doing it than you are?

I was never any kind of stud at anything at West Point—I struggled with many things. I also don’t think most guys were against me. I’m sure there were a few, but without the vast number that helped, I wouldn’t have made it. People are changing, and I think men change as they live and see what women can do. I think they change when they have daughters and turn into the person that does not want someone else limiting his kid’s future because she’s a girl.

Stream of consciousness

(I was on the train home when I scrolled through my music collection on my ipod and landed on Nine Inch Nails. What follows are the thoughts and actions that resulted from my music selection.)
-Hm, I haven’t heard this in awhile. It’s still pretty good. Hey, I forgot about this song.
-Wait, aren’t they supposed to be in concert soon? Or did it already happen? I’ll have to remember to check that when I get home.

(at home)
(Forgets to check that.)

(in the car the next morning)
-Good thing I found the NIN CD's so I can listen to them in the car.
-Too bad I still need to fix the ipod adapter connection. It sucks to switch CD’s out all the time and I am terrible about taking care of them so they don’t get scratched.
(As an aside, try to drive slowly when a NIN song is playing. It's impossible.)

(on the train)
-Oh good, I can listen to my ipod again
-let’s look through the paper to see if we can find the ad about that concert.
-Nope, can't find it, I guess it already happened
-Oh, wait, here it is.
-And look, Jane’s Addiction is playing too. I forgot about that
(switches ipod songlist from NIN to Jane's Addiction)
-I wonder what the tickets cost. It’ll probably be expensive.
-And I’ll need someone to babysit.
-And my husband will probably not want to go to this, but he will agree to it just to oblige.
-Well at least I’ll be here June 9th—
-Oh wait, no I won’t. I’ll be on a plane returning from California.
-Yay, trip to California!

The Power Of Negative Thinking

It doesn’t take much to ruin my day. I worry about lots of things—too many things. If I knew how to stop, I would. I worry that all of this worrying is going to put me into an early grave and then I worry that I died of cancer or some other equally awful way to go.

Yesterday the indicator in my car started blinking. It was the one that tells you if you have a flat, and usually when it flickers on, it stays on. This time it blinked, just like a little round hazard light. Blinka-blinka, 5 seconds till your tires self destruct, it seemed to be saying. Blinka-blinka, too bad you were too cheap to replace those runflats with more runflats because you don’t even have a jack or a spare tire. Blinka-blinka, you’d better hope those two cans of fix-a-flat will be enough get you home.

I drove sensibly and took care whenever I went through one of those metal joints that connected two parts of the road. Stuck on the shoulder in 95 degree heat during rush hour is not one of the things I’m aiming to do before I die.

The car felt pretty normal—I wasn’t slowing down and feeling that bumping that comes with a flat tire. The car felt a little shaky, but maybe the alignment was off. I couldn’t hear the flapping of loose rubber or see the sparks of my rims against asphalt. I was okay, but in the corner of my eye, that blinking indicator was there, flashing on and off, reminding me that maybe I was wrong.

Of course this was a night when the traffic was moving like sludge. Damn it, I thought, I just want to get home and check the tires. Blinka-blinka, should have joined AAA, the light said.

I reached home, parked outside and pulled out the car's manual. From there I looked for information on the flat tire indicator. There was nothing about a blinking light. I followed the instructions and turned to the page for cars with conventional, non runflat tires. When I glanced at the diagrams showing the tire jack and the spare, I closed the book. Never mind.

I grabbed the tire pressure gauge from the glove compartment and checked the front tire—40 pounds of pressure—a little overinflated, but perhaps that was because I’d been driving and the temperature was warm. I checked the other three tires, deflated a couple until they were all at around the same pressure and replaced the valve caps. Then I got back in, turned the key and waited.

Blinka-blinka.

Four more turns of the key and it was still blinking.

I know, I thought, maybe if I start the car and roll it into the garage, the indicator will reset because once the tires start rotating, the car will figure out tire pressures have been evened out.

Start car, roll forward, put it in reverse, back in to park. Turn key.

Blinka-blinka.

I sighed, grabbed my stuff, closed the driver's side door and went inside.

The following morning, I returned to the car and just before I started the engine, I remembered. The light.

Blinka-blinka.

I pressed the reset button, just under the hand brake, and then the light stopped blinking and went solid. I pressed it again and the light went out. Thanks to Google, I was able to try out the solution I found online the night before. When it worked, I exhaled and turned up the stereo.

As I drove, I started thinking back to the day before, when I deflated the tires to even them out. You’re only supposed to check the tires when the car’s been still and the air inside the tires is still cold. I had done just the opposite the day before. All of it was hot—the rims, the rubber, the air—all hot!

Uh-oh. What if I overdeflated? What if the air in the tires cooled down and the tire pressure was now too low? The idea has been popping into my head regularly. Just like the little indicator light, major and minor worries flicker through my mind all day until I resolve the issues, get over them or fall asleep.

Blinka-blinka. Did you pay your credit card bill yet? Blinka-blinka, are we out of orange juice? Blinka-blinka, do you have clean underwear for tomorrow?

Maybe Google can help.