Monday, April 24
Saturday, April 15
Chivalry
I'm going to be a bit off the mark for a moment this Easter weekend and mourn the loss of chivalry. Or at least, lament the behavior that seems to have taken its place.
I understand that each culture has a different standard of conduct when it comes to showing appreciation for the opposite sex. In visiting one particular country a few years ago, while walking through a crowded marketplace, I found myself getting pinched on the derrierre a few times. Our host told me it was considered a compliment to be pinched and that I should not be insulted. Try telling that to my bruised bottom and ego.
I had forgotten about my fellow countrymen's counterpart to the pinching: screaming at females from passing vehicles. Now, I would imagine that these same people would never exhibit this behavior if they were pedestrians, which leads me to believe that actual close contact with the object of their affection is never the intended outcome. I've never seen a gaggle of guys scream, "Whoo, baby! Hot mama!" at the office or passing in the aisle at the grocery store. But something happens when a group of males--or females, I'll give you that--get together in a moving car, or most likely, a truck or SUV. The higher off the ground, the louder the display of appreciation for the assets of the person of note.
Maybe it's the pregnancy, but I find my patience growing quite thin these days. I've endured a few lurid comments here and there--but that's another topic entirely as to what in the world is attractive about a big, round belly--when the camel was in sudden need of a neurosurgeon. I was walking across campus when I heard a sound that was apparently designed to make me go week in the knees: "Whoooooo! Pump that bump! Pump that bump on down the STREET!" Being the only person on the sidewalk at that moment, I turned toward the direction of the crooning and saw a fellow in a tricked-out truck, waiting for the traffic light. He had taken the time to roll down the passenger window so I could be afforded the full effect of the genteel conversation he threw my direction.
I debated, for a split second, how to respond: run to the truck and tell him he was just the person to raise my baby, tell him my husband would come break his legs, pretend to go into labor. Instead, I just did my best eye-roll and walked on to the car. It took me a minute to decide that "bump" referred probably to my anterior and not posterior silhouette. And then I was reminded of those few blocks between my high school and my father's office, where I'd walk to catch a ride home in the afternoons. Inevitably, some beat-up pickup or a muddy Bronco or a recycled police cruiser (with spotlights still attached) would roll by, and just as it was nearly past, there would come the "hey, baby!" or some sort of screaming or hooting. And this for a girl in jeans and T-shirt and a pair of Keds.
Over the years, this scenario has repeated itself--walking through a parking lot, waiting to cross a street. I've come to consider it part of being female. No other attribute seems to be required. I've often thought that I'd like to be so attractive as to render the would-be cat-callers speechless, but that hasn't happened yet.
Somehow, I find it hard to imagine that Lancelot ever screamed, "Got fries to go with that?" to Gwenivere (forgive me, Mrs. Chavies, AP English, for probably butchering both the spelling and the true context of that). Nor can I imagine William Wallace hooting at his beloved. And if attracting a date or mate is the intent, I must say that in my life, I've never heard any of my female friends or acquaintances say that they wish that guy who just screamed would turn around so they could hop in his Big Foot truck with neon lights underneath.
I guess someday my daughters will hear the call of the wild, too. Maybe they'll have a snappy comeback ready, but chances are, if the apples don't fall far from the tree, they'll just keep walking, too. I just hope they'll come across somebody who'll throw his coat across the mud puddle at the end of the sidewalk.
I understand that each culture has a different standard of conduct when it comes to showing appreciation for the opposite sex. In visiting one particular country a few years ago, while walking through a crowded marketplace, I found myself getting pinched on the derrierre a few times. Our host told me it was considered a compliment to be pinched and that I should not be insulted. Try telling that to my bruised bottom and ego.
I had forgotten about my fellow countrymen's counterpart to the pinching: screaming at females from passing vehicles. Now, I would imagine that these same people would never exhibit this behavior if they were pedestrians, which leads me to believe that actual close contact with the object of their affection is never the intended outcome. I've never seen a gaggle of guys scream, "Whoo, baby! Hot mama!" at the office or passing in the aisle at the grocery store. But something happens when a group of males--or females, I'll give you that--get together in a moving car, or most likely, a truck or SUV. The higher off the ground, the louder the display of appreciation for the assets of the person of note.
Maybe it's the pregnancy, but I find my patience growing quite thin these days. I've endured a few lurid comments here and there--but that's another topic entirely as to what in the world is attractive about a big, round belly--when the camel was in sudden need of a neurosurgeon. I was walking across campus when I heard a sound that was apparently designed to make me go week in the knees: "Whoooooo! Pump that bump! Pump that bump on down the STREET!" Being the only person on the sidewalk at that moment, I turned toward the direction of the crooning and saw a fellow in a tricked-out truck, waiting for the traffic light. He had taken the time to roll down the passenger window so I could be afforded the full effect of the genteel conversation he threw my direction.
I debated, for a split second, how to respond: run to the truck and tell him he was just the person to raise my baby, tell him my husband would come break his legs, pretend to go into labor. Instead, I just did my best eye-roll and walked on to the car. It took me a minute to decide that "bump" referred probably to my anterior and not posterior silhouette. And then I was reminded of those few blocks between my high school and my father's office, where I'd walk to catch a ride home in the afternoons. Inevitably, some beat-up pickup or a muddy Bronco or a recycled police cruiser (with spotlights still attached) would roll by, and just as it was nearly past, there would come the "hey, baby!" or some sort of screaming or hooting. And this for a girl in jeans and T-shirt and a pair of Keds.
Over the years, this scenario has repeated itself--walking through a parking lot, waiting to cross a street. I've come to consider it part of being female. No other attribute seems to be required. I've often thought that I'd like to be so attractive as to render the would-be cat-callers speechless, but that hasn't happened yet.
Somehow, I find it hard to imagine that Lancelot ever screamed, "Got fries to go with that?" to Gwenivere (forgive me, Mrs. Chavies, AP English, for probably butchering both the spelling and the true context of that). Nor can I imagine William Wallace hooting at his beloved. And if attracting a date or mate is the intent, I must say that in my life, I've never heard any of my female friends or acquaintances say that they wish that guy who just screamed would turn around so they could hop in his Big Foot truck with neon lights underneath.
I guess someday my daughters will hear the call of the wild, too. Maybe they'll have a snappy comeback ready, but chances are, if the apples don't fall far from the tree, they'll just keep walking, too. I just hope they'll come across somebody who'll throw his coat across the mud puddle at the end of the sidewalk.
Friday, April 14
Good Friday
The week had been harried, to say the least. Deadlines at work (granted, some of them were self-imposed), demands of the household, the physical stresses of supporting the new little passenger in my body, the day-to-day tug of war of sharing the planet (like the guy who cut me off in traffic and then flashed me half a peace sign)--all of it was coming to a full boil as noon approached, and it was time to hurry to church just in time to hear the end of the Good Friday services.
I was not mentally prepared. It was hot, and heat and pregnant bellies don't mix. Never being one to wilt in the sun before, I couldn't understand all the sympathetic faces when I'd tell those who ask that the baby is due in August. I hate to be cold, but until recently couldn't comprehend being too hot. Today, trembling and sweaty as I walked through the parking lot under the midday sun, I understood. And so it was with a rather ungrateful heart that I slipped into the pew with my daughter and husband.
The sanctuary was dark. The chancel was draped in black cloth, and the usual paraments--purple cloth during Lent, Green for Pentecost, etc., were gone. The impressive stained-glass window that arches up to the cathedral ceiling was dark and lifeless. The ministers wore simple black suits and dresses, none of the usual robes and colorful stoles that hail the attire of the clergy of our church.
Rev. Mooty spoke quietly. As he finished his prayer, a haunting cello seemed to fill the air from nowhere. Behind the chancel wall, I caught a glimpse of the cellist's arm moving gracefully back and forth, guiding the bow through each mornful note, as the piano joined the lament. Some quiet words later, our friend stood to give the meditation. He began, and then hesitated, and then the story emerged: he was awaiting tests to determine whether he remains cancer-free. Suddenly, the concept of death was not some remote thing that played out in scripted fashion in accordance with a religious holiday; it was a possibility for a rather young man with a vivacious wife and cherubic little girl, just as it has been for all of humanity, only most of the time, we choose not to recognize that fact of life. At least, I do. But as I sat listening, it occurred to me that to ignore death is to somehow miss something of the splendor of life. In the bitter horror of his death, we see the magnificence of his life. The sunrise gets its splendor from the darkness from which it rises. To respect death is to value life.
I could feel the little one moving inside me, and looked down at my daughter's long hair across my lap as she napped. It was then that life seemed to slow down for a moment, and in the dark, quiet cool of the sanctuary, we could all breathe again.
It is not finished.
Good Friday.
I was not mentally prepared. It was hot, and heat and pregnant bellies don't mix. Never being one to wilt in the sun before, I couldn't understand all the sympathetic faces when I'd tell those who ask that the baby is due in August. I hate to be cold, but until recently couldn't comprehend being too hot. Today, trembling and sweaty as I walked through the parking lot under the midday sun, I understood. And so it was with a rather ungrateful heart that I slipped into the pew with my daughter and husband.
The sanctuary was dark. The chancel was draped in black cloth, and the usual paraments--purple cloth during Lent, Green for Pentecost, etc., were gone. The impressive stained-glass window that arches up to the cathedral ceiling was dark and lifeless. The ministers wore simple black suits and dresses, none of the usual robes and colorful stoles that hail the attire of the clergy of our church.
Rev. Mooty spoke quietly. As he finished his prayer, a haunting cello seemed to fill the air from nowhere. Behind the chancel wall, I caught a glimpse of the cellist's arm moving gracefully back and forth, guiding the bow through each mornful note, as the piano joined the lament. Some quiet words later, our friend stood to give the meditation. He began, and then hesitated, and then the story emerged: he was awaiting tests to determine whether he remains cancer-free. Suddenly, the concept of death was not some remote thing that played out in scripted fashion in accordance with a religious holiday; it was a possibility for a rather young man with a vivacious wife and cherubic little girl, just as it has been for all of humanity, only most of the time, we choose not to recognize that fact of life. At least, I do. But as I sat listening, it occurred to me that to ignore death is to somehow miss something of the splendor of life. In the bitter horror of his death, we see the magnificence of his life. The sunrise gets its splendor from the darkness from which it rises. To respect death is to value life.
I could feel the little one moving inside me, and looked down at my daughter's long hair across my lap as she napped. It was then that life seemed to slow down for a moment, and in the dark, quiet cool of the sanctuary, we could all breathe again.
It is not finished.
Good Friday.
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