Politics

It’s Official, We’re Doomed

Critical thinking. In my opinion, it’s the single most important thing (after learning to read) for people to learn. It’s what allows us to make informed decisions, objectively analyze information, sift opinion from fact and learn to incorporate the nuances of life. Develop empathy, compassion because we understand (at least the facts of) all sides, whether we agree with them or not. Not just so we can make sensible charts and see patterns, but critical thinking also feeds imagination, promoting innovation, new discoveries, and progress. The higher the level of educational institution, the more critical the thinking should become. And it’s something we’re seeing less and less of. There isn’t a whole lot of room and time left for teaching critical thinking skills when public schools are forced to spend the majority of their days teaching to (high stakes, homogeneous) tests and teachers are evaluated based on how their students perform on said tests, and how well they design a bulletin board. That leaves college, right?

On one side, we’ve got Bernie Sanders, who wants to eliminate tuition, and offer free education at public universities. I like Bernie, and I agree with much of what he has to say. I would absolutely support free tuition at public universities. It isn’t unprecedented in the US, California public universities were free to California residents until the 1920s, with a nominal fee for another fifty years. In New York the CUNY (City University of New York) schools were free (I think some, but not all) until the 1970s. If I were king, I’d make it free for in-state residents, still charge for room and board for other than low-income students, and place GPA restrictions on the free tuition, both to get it in the first place, and then to keep it once a student is in. (And no more bullshit with these “weighted” high school GPAs, stop penalizing economically disadvantaged kids from poor communities who don’t have the opportunity to take 23 meaningless AP classes.) I think these types of restrictions and minimum requirements would have to be in place to avoid degrees from public universities becoming meaningless.

And on the other side, we’ve got this. Excuse me a minute while I puke, will ya? In a nutshell, concealed carry laws will now allow students to carry handguns on campus at public Texas universities. Because of this, professors are being told to avoid sensitive subjects, drop certain topics from their curriculum, and limit student access to them. Putting aside the underlying facts regarding guns, gun violence, and gun safety (because we don’t want to get involved in too many high fallutin’ facts here, it’s just a blog, after all), there is no way to look at this and not see how very wrong it is. College. What’s the point of it, anyway? A liberal arts education was intended to provide students with (drumroll) critical thinking. Different ways of viewing the world, figure out how to solve complex problems, communicate effectively, provide you with the ability to think for yourself. I suppose liberal arts is definitely out with this now, huh? Well how about an applied degree in science, mathematics, law? Nope, sorry, because any and all of those fields of study may include sensitive topics and be offensive to personal beliefs, they can’t be studied.

To be fair–and possibly even demonstrate critical thinking skills–despite my left leanings I also think the extreme on the other side is a bunch of bullshit. Excessive trigger warnings and attempts to “protect” students from subjects they might find uncomfortable or offensive effectively muffle debate, discussion, and analysis. This warm and fluffy blanket of avoidance isn’t doing us any favors.

I believe in education. Power, reasoning, and opportunities grow from academic discourse, exposure to new ideas, and studying history. That said, I don’t believe everyone should or needs to go to college. Some people aren’t academically gifted. Some people aren’t good at sitting in a classroom. *that’s me* It doesn’t make sense to me when I see help wanted ads for receptionists that want college degrees. Way to penalize people who don’t go to college. Skills learned outside the classroom are important too, and many jobs and careers that make our society keep chugging along have nothing to do with a BA, BS, MS, etc. I do believe everyone who’s capable of doing the work and wants to go to college should have the opportunity to do so without trading a degree for homelessness, life on the pole, or forfeiting any chance of ever using that degree to get ahead in their chosen field because they’re so in debt from it.

Regardless of the path chosen, and regardless of whether you lean left or right, aren’t we all saying we’re frustrated because we want better, we want more? Downward mobility isn’t just about economic status. One by one we’re burying the tools we need along with our heads in the interest of…what? Ignorance, narrow-mindedness, and divisiveness.

I don’t care whether your classroom of choice is a traditional one, online, or in the corner bar at happy hour. What matters is that we insist on continuing to learn, listen to all the sides and all the facts, and grow.

We need knowledge. Progress. Problem solving. Opportunity.

Excuse Me, Your Fly is Open

Fresh off the dirty laundry pile!

I haven’t wanted to talk much about Trump and the upcoming election here on Mrs Fringe. Why feed the fire and all that. Or not, maybe if I’m honest, it’s because I was hoping to cling to my default defensive position of burying my head in the sand, thereby pretending he’ll go away. Surely Americans will come to their senses long before an election? Surely his blatant lies, manipulations, racism, sexism, xenophobia, and generally abysmal record as a human being will send him straight to the peanut gallery. Apparently not, heh. And let’s face it, you don’t come to Mrs Fringe for political analysis. I’m not that objective. I’m not that good with the straight facts and figures. As I’ve said before, I’m not that smart. If you want a blog with reasoned analysis, I recommend this guy, Benjamin Studebaker. (I know, not completely objective, but smart, backs everything up with facts, and straightforward.)

I’m still not ready to talk big picture, address my fears re who the GOP has put forth as viable candidates overall, but. Today I’ll talk about Donald Trump. First, a bit of background on me. When I was younger, I worked in social services. My very first job in the field was with a camp that served autistic, psychotic, and what was then termed “emotionally disturbed” youth. (I don’t know why kiddos with autism were in that grouping, it was a long time ago, autism was even less understood, and it was considered rare–well before the epidemic it is today.) In retrospect, it was a dumping ground for kids no one knew what to do with. I know of three who were institutionalized not long after, but I’d guess that’s what happened with the majority of them.

One of the campers was a teen I’ll call Joey. I don’t remember exactly how old Joey was–he wasn’t in my group– somewhere in his upper teens, already looked like a grown man, with limited verbal/comprehension skills complicated by English being his second language. Joey had an obsession with his penis. Every time he wasn’t actively engaged in something else (and often when he was), his fly was down, schlong out, and masturbating intensely, while shouting his catchphrase. Between his catchphrase and obsession, I’m guessing there had been a serious injury and/or abuse in his past. Obviously, for all the reasons, we couldn’t allow Joey to walk around masturbating all day (not least of which the injury he was causing himself with such frenzy). So in addition to songs, chants, directions and redirections, hoots and echolalia, the command of “Joey, put that thing away!” was a constant refrain. We shared the campgrounds with other camps, and the other camp directors and counselors were forever threatening to get us kicked out if Joey continued whipping it out. We smiled, nodded, made the right noises and then turned away rolling our eyes.

At the time Joey was considered harmless. The majority of these kids, and the adults I ended up working with, were “harmless.” I was passionate in my defense of these children, wished with all my heart I could protect them all, always. When one of the kiddos broke my nose that summer, I argued on his behalf when the director kicked him out of the camp without a chance for me to meet with him and let him know I was ok. I was so angry, so indignant I wanted to quit. It hadn’t been an appropriate setting for him. I didn’t quit because I also met my first autistic kiddo there. I was idealistic, young enough and brash enough to romanticize what I was doing, but I was good at what I did. The child with autism? I was over the moon excited when I was able to get him to play one round of duck-duck-goose after weeks of trying. I called his mother. When she understood who was calling and why, she called to her husband, “Magic Fringe is on the phone.” That’s what they called me, and thinking about it still warms the cockles of my heart. There’s no magic, though.

Non violent, these children and the adults they become are a million times more likely to be the victims of predators than predatory themselves. I just made up that “statistic,” but the intent behind it was a fact then and a fact now. But the majority doesn’t mean all. I did work with some people who were violent, on occasion a danger to others as well as themselves. And as I grew more experienced, and now as I’ve gotten older, I see the nuances I didn’t see then. It’s still heartbreaking, but not quite harmless to have a young man walking around hooting, yelling, and masturbating in public. The potential for danger; the potential for violence caused to him, by him, or to those just too close to get out of the way was real.

When Donald Trump hoots about immigrants, about building a wall between Mexico and the US, when he calls women “bimbos,” when he trumpets that sexual assault in the military is to be expected, when he calls a woman “disgusting” for needing to take a break to pump breast milk, when he says he would eliminate gun free zones in military bases and schools, when he says the answer to our broken mental health system is to find a way to arm more of the “good guys” to take out the “sickos,” when he calls for banning Muslim immigrants from entering the US, when he brays about plans to bomb the shit out of Isis (does he know Isis isn’t a country?), when he shouts that he will force Nabisco to produce Oreos in the US, Apple to produce their products here–while at the same time his clothing line is manufactured in Mexico and China…I could go on and on. The point is, when he spouts this nonsense, he’s whipping it out.

He has no filter. He isn’t honest. There’s a difference. With all the lies he vomits, it’s shocking to me that anyone, anywhere, perceives him as anything other than a dishonest buffoon. I’m also shocked when people talk about him as a businessman, how good that would be for America. Umm, America isn’t a business. It’s a country, made up of individual citizens, with varying needs and vulnerabilities. Trump is indeed a good businessman, if good here is defined by selfishness and the amount of money accrued. He’s so good, he was able to declare bankruptcy multiple times–wipe his debts clean at the expense of thousands of jobs–and still make money. He’s so shrewd, he’s got people supporting him who represent those he screwed with each and every bankruptcy. By the way, that whole idea of businessman as politician? We did that here in New York City, with Bloomberg. He fired those who disagreed with him (oh, those pesky checks and balances) and when his term was up, he changed the term limit laws so he could stay. Get ready to hand Trump a crown and scepter. You may or may not want someone you consider a “bleeding heart” at the helm of this country, but do you want someone who is actually morally bankrupt?

The very same things that make me unqualified to be a political pundit–lack of filter, lack of understanding of the nuances in policies, inability to grasp the ramifications of decisions made today for 30 years from now (it’s true, I’m a lousy chess player), selfishness and general hotheadedness–are what make Trump unqualified to lead this country.

When people cheer him on, use him as validation to let their inner racist come out, their not so underlying faith that women are less-than, their complacence with ignorance of how the world works, when they vote for him–they aren’t just turning away from nuance and rolling their eyes, they’re handing him lube and inciting potentially dangerous situations.

Put that thing away, Mr. Trump.

Daily Assault: Booby Prize Edition

A surprise double yolk for this morning’s pancakes. Because I’m immature, this made me think of cleavage. *insert snicker here* Because I’m an adult, what it did not do was make me want to reach out and grab the yolks with my bare hands to give a little squish.

I remember being little and admiring my grandmother’s cleavage. It seemed so powerfully adult, that hint of simultaneous swell and wrinkles. Of course, I also admired the way she could take her teeth out and clean them in a separate glass, her lifetime bus pass, and the way she could cup her hand and use her palm as an ashtray. She had her own ideas about men and women, which she shared through lectures equally generous and cryptic. As far as I could tell they boiled down to men were not to be trusted (outside of progeny–in which case, they should be lionized), marriage was a necessary evil–so be sure to marry rich, and fergawdssake don’t have too many babies. She was what used to be called a tough cookie, and I wanted nothing more than to grow up to be her.

I’m a blabber-fingers left-leaning blogger, which means I indulge in the not so occasional political rant. I don’t address every injustice I see or read about (impossible), or even every big story, because I’m exhausted and frequently too damned disheartened. Is there such a thing as blogging battle fatigue? Do I have the right to feel it when I don’t address all? Yesterday I came across this story. A few days late, because I’ve been busy rattling my pots and pans, sticking to the kitchen–barefoot, naturally. I considered blogging when I first saw it, but what could I possibly say? So I posted the link on my personal Facebook page, thinking I would just spread a bit of awareness amongst my three friends and that would be that. One friend replied with a statement about Republican men, and another friend replied to the first about the unfairness of the blanket statement. Fair enough, and it made me think. Not only because it is unfair to categorize ALL Republican men, but because it implies male Democrats are ALL more enlightened. Would that it were so. I woke up still thinking, and decided I couldn’t let this incident pass without comment here on Mrs Fringe. Because I’m a woman. And as a woman, I say without hesitation that this is bullshit.

The gist of the story: State Rep (NH) Amanda Bouldin (woman) wrote a statement opposing a proposal made by State Rep Josh Moore (man). The proposal is for it to be a misdemeanor for women to expose their nipples in public. Bouldin disagreed in a statement on her Facebook page, saying the bill should *at least* exempt breastfeeding mothers. The proposed bill actually does exempt breastfeeding mothers, but that isn’t the problem. The issue is Moore’s response (written on Facebook, later deleted–when will people learn there are no take-backs on the internet? Your Words ❤ The Internetz R 4eVER), where he wrote that Bouldin (and women in general, I guess) should have no problem with a man’s natural response to stare and grab when a woman exposes her nipples in public while breastfeeding. This all devolved in true internet fashion into comments from other men as to whose nipples they would/would not want to see.

I’m sure Moore thought he was being clever, perhaps even funny, a play on the “argument” that breastfeeding is natural. Cause, yanno, women’s breasts are really for and about men. Not babies, and certainly not women. This shouldn’t be an argument, a debate, or even an issue. What he described is assault. This isn’t a breastfeeding debate. This is about women; our rights to control and make decisions over our own bodies, our right to be safe. If his natural inclination is to assault every woman he sees, or at least every woman where he spies a bit of pink or brown skin, I am afraid for every woman he has ever or will ever come into contact with. I feel sorry for him, and every man like him, who believes they not only have no control over themselves, but it’s the fault of evil-original-sin WIMMINZ, for having breasts. And wombs. And vaginas. And calves, thighs, hair, lips, and ankles. No wonder we need men to tell us how to care for and hide our bodies. *sarcasm* More than fear and pity, I’m fed up. This man was elected. He represents far too many: right, left, or libertarian.

That he would even say this is an assault, a not-so-clever play at intimidation. When someone wonders what is meant by the phrase “rape culture,” this is it. This statement tells women we not only aren’t safe from unwanted stares, pinches, and grabs, we have no right to expect safety. Regardless of age, race, religion, or socioeconomic class, I’m guessing at least 98% of women have experienced multiple moments of feeling unsafe, feeling and/or being assaulted by unwanted remarks, leers, hands, or full body grinds on a not-so-crowded bus or subway car.

As time goes on, I believe there are fewer men who think along these lines. More men understand human rights, the need for equality in the social contract, fewer believe entitlement is a natural extension of dangly bits. Not enough, though.

Women have fought for and won many advances. In many countries we can vote, work outside the home (though not necessarily for equal pay), own property, hold political office, expose our ankles. But we still can’t do any of these things with a reasonable expectation that we won’t be groped along the way.

I didn’t grow up to be my grandma, but I am a tough cookie.

Living in the Real World?

City Streets

The internet is aflame with gun arguments right now, impassioned and extreme on both sides. On one site I’m a member of, I read a comment in defense of private citizens keeping themselves armed (without stricter regulations) to the effect of for those of us who don’t live in ivory towers…live in the real world…danger…needing a weapon…and a few cities were named, to make the point that (s)he was not referencing bucolic pastures or suburban houses made of ticky-tacky. That specific comment really struck me, because as a city dweller I’ve always thought of this as an issue for those who don’t live in cities. People living in wide open spaces who don’t have police and police stations within spitting distance, and of course, visions (fed by the media, no personal experience) of compounds populated by paranoid folks who don’t trust the commie gubmint. Obviously there are criminals with guns here in the city, law enforcement officers, and those who work in the Diamond District, but nope, I don’t know of any neighbors who are campaigning to keep legal arsenals.

Several of my online friends who aren’t American have been asking me questions, all pretty much boiling down to a blend of what-the-fuck? why? guns? and America?

I touched on this in my last post, but I want to talk about this a bit more, and hope readers will join the conversation. You’re welcome to agree or disagree with me, but no personal attacks or blanket slurs. While Americans have a common bond by definition, our experiences of life in America–what constitutes the “real world,” varies greatly, and that plays a huge part in individual stances.

Maybe you grew up with inappropriate jokes about those who lived in the Bronx. Or Detroit, or Chicago. I grew up with inappropriate jokes about places in big sky country (is that a nickname for an actual place or an idea?), where the men were men and the sheep were nervous. Shouldn’t we be past all that now?

You all know Mrs Fringe is a New Yawkah; born here, raised here, guessing I’ll collect social security here too. I ride the subways every day. I’m not wealthy, never have been. When I was younger, I worked in downtown Brooklyn, when it was very, very different from the artsy, hipster paradise it is today. Our office was next to the Brooklyn Arms Hotel, and every day on my way from the subway station, I’d feel the crack vials crunch under my feet while I rushed past the Brooklyn Arms Hotel (a particularly notorious welfare hotel) and hoped I didn’t get clipped in the head by something flying out a window–’cause that happened regularly. Of course, I wasn’t first starting my day when I went into the office, that was after three hours of “field work,” which involved walking through neighborhoods that weren’t part of any tourist attractions, and visiting clients who weren’t particularly happy to see my smiling face at 7am. Sometimes I was walking those streets at 1am, because of a late shift or an emergency–and trust me, this was long before New York was spit shined and spiffed up. I’m not trying to glorify life in the city or America, there’s crime, there are problems, and yes, I’ve had a moment or ten where I’ve been frightened.

I don’t live in the roughest neighborhood, it’s one that’s been “gentrified.” I’m not young, I remember when it wasn’t. Gentrified in (most of) NY means there’s still a good mix of everyone–race, culture, and economics–sharing the same block and the same public schools. Three kids, three elementary schools, and two of those elementary schools were classified as Title I schools. Title I means there’s a high percentage of children who come from low-income families who qualify for free/reduced lunch. If you’re unfamiliar, trust me, your income has to be pretty damned low for your kids to qualify for free lunch, and yes, here in Fringeland, we’ve had many years where our kiddos qualified because life.

On my block there are a mix of residences. Google tells me one brownstone is on the market for $6 million dollars, average for the block and neighborhood. Next to it is a housing project (yanno, the projects), there’s a small building that I think is a co-op (a very NY thing, you buy your apartment, but technically you own shares in the building, not your apartment, so everything you want or do–including the purchase of the place–has to be approved by the co-op board, generally a bunch of residents who take pleasure in agonizing over awning colors and making residents jump through as many hoops as possible), and there’s my building, which is part of a program from the 60’s/70’s designed to keep working class people in the city. One block over starts the SROs and a couple of shelters. Wikipedia says SROs are for one or two people, but I know plenty of families that live in those one room dwellings. Regardless of which address they live in, I recognize most of the long term faces on the block and immediate neighborhood, and they recognize me, too. We smile, nod, maybe say Happy Holidays. My family’s experience of America is quite different than that of the family in a brownstone up the street, and different again than that of a family in the projects.

Even if I only look within my building, there’s a mix of skin colors, ethnicities and cultural backgrounds; I know of at least ten different languages spoken within these bricks, twelve different religions, atheists–likely more, this is NY, we don’t talk personal religion all that much. Multicultural is a fact of life here, not a talking point, and definitely not something that strikes fear in my heart. So what’s my point?

We’ve got a lot of questions that need to be discussed and examined, but more guns can’t possibly be the answer. If your experience of America is different than mine, that’s part of what makes America what it is. It doesn’t invalidate my experience any more than mine invalidates yours. Let’s talk about what’s real, what it is to live in x city, x suburb, x town; talk about it based on real life experiences, not phantoms of what could happen based on shadows and misdirection. Maybe you’d be afraid if you found yourself on a subway platform at 1am and saw a few of my neighbors waiting for the 2 train. I’m pretty sure I’d piss my pants if I found myself faced with a bear in the woods. Hell, I run into the house when I’m visiting friends in New Jersey and a deer steps into their backyard. But my world is still real, thankyouverymuch. Real city, real New Yawk, real America. There have been quite a few times where I wished I had cab fare, but I never wished for a gun.

Another Day, Another Mass Shooting

When Columbine happened, I cried. Virginia Tech, I cried. Sandy Hook, I cried. After Sandy Hook, I thought I was finished crying. Then came the shooting in Charleston, SC this past summer. I cried again. Yesterday’s shooting in San Bernardino, CA–I didn’t cry. I’m horrified, deeply saddened, my heart aches and breaks for those lost, injured, and those who have lost loved ones in yesterday’s slaughter. You know the one, in a Social Services center, where the developmentally disabled receive services. I’m disgusted.

When did these types of shootings become an acceptable part of the fabric of America? Last night I thought it must have been after Sandy Hook. But I purposely waited before trying to put a blog post together, waited until I was calm enough to think beyond what.the.fuck. Earlier in the day, before I saw the news from San Bernardino I was still debating whether or not I could write anything that made sense about this past weekend’s shooting at the Planned Parenthood in Colorado. Whoops, I blinked, new shooting. So I make no guarantees as to the coherence of this post, sorry.

This morning I’m thinking this “acceptability” must be older. Maybe 1984, when 21 people were slaughtered (also in CA) in a McDonald’s. After all, not everyone goes to college. Not everyone relates to seeing churches as a sanctuary. Not everyone had a warm and fuzzy school experience. But McDonald’s? What could possibly be more American, more of a symbol of capitalism at its finest, than McDonald’s? (Hell, when I had my first child, McDonald’s was one of my thoughts when deciding whether or not to raise my children vegetarian, and decided against it.) Maybe it was 1986, when “going postal” became a punchline after 14 people were shot and killed in Oklahoma. Come to think of it, when did these mass shootings become a sacred cow? Not that they’re in any way, shape, or form funny– but somehow they aren’t a subject open for discussion. Or study. Or, yanno, action.

My mind is peppered with questions, but not the ones you might think. We’ve had so damned many of these shootings, in so many ordinary places filled with people going about their lives, there’s no question that any and everyone in this country should be able to identify and understand this isn’t a matter of a hazy “them,” it could be me, or you, or anyone we care about. We’ve had so many I don’t care about the specific why or who of each shooter. White, black, brown, male, female, Christian, Muslim, right now I don’t give a shit. When we look at these mass shootings, we are always looking at American citizens taking out as many other American citizens as they can. I think we need to focus on the how before anything else. And the answer to how is guns. Easy accessibility and the attachment to them. It is bizarre, that we live in a society where the right to own a personal, literal arsenal is considered so holy, we aren’t even allowed to research it.

Because, as the Facebook memes say, guns don’t kill people, people kill people. This is true–and they kill each other with guns. We passed the time when access to legal guns should have been given (much) tighter restrictions at least thirty years ago. It’s also true that increased background checks and tighter restrictions will not eliminate all gun related crimes and deaths. We can’t cure cancer, either, but we screen for it, pay attention to symptoms and warning signs, and treat people who are sick. Surprisingly enough, even though we have no cure for cancer, many of the people treated go into remission and go on to live full lives. Some don’t. If we used the same logic currently being used for arguments against gun control, we wouldn’t treat any cancer patients because some will die regardless of treatments available and used.

Last night I had a conversation about this with a friend who is also medical needs mom. Over the years, we have gotten very good at compartmentalizing. You kind of have to, in order to help your child as much as possible, but also to, well, live. Get the laundry done once in a while. Laugh. We have learned to accept what would have once been considered unthinkable, let alone acceptable. So I understand how and why we, as Americans, have learned to compartmentalize these atrocities, these types of “events.” When there are so many, we have to, in order to keep functioning. But there’s a huge difference in this analogy. We don’t stop caring and loving. We don’t stop doing everything in our control to learn what we can, access the best treatments, provide the best life. We don’t stop remembering our children, medical needs/special needs or not, are human beings. It seems to me it’s time for the larger we, the American people, to remember these victims (past, present and future) of gun violence are human beings. We’re supposed to care. Care with real discussion, not rhetoric. Care with action and the best preventative measures available.

“It’s too soon” is not a battle cry. It’s a deflection. And it’s nonsense when these horrors are happening so frequently there isn’t even a pretense of a time that isn’t too soon.

These shootings aren’t an act of God, a force of nature we’re powerless to prevent. We, as a society, are making a choice. We make a choice when we watch and read opinion pieces and pretend they’re news, we make a choice when we encourage hatred, when we value this life over that one, we make a choice when we tsk tsk about another mass shooting but don’t enact stricter gun laws. Federal ones.

Could You Repeat the Question?

I seem to have lost my train of thought down in the subway tunnels.

I know, I’ve been quiet. You could go so far as to say absent–doing what I have to do, and not a syllable more.

It’s a funny thing. I’ve heard writing described like a muscle, the more you do it/use it, the more you can write, higher word count and more effective. The same is true in reverse. Not working on a novel led to not working on anything fiction, to not reading fiction, to not blogging because what the hell, is anyone actually reading my words anyway? Despite my descent into sniveling, I’ve received several nudges in the form of notes and emails over the past couple of weeks from people wondering where I am (thank you!), reminding me there are people out there who read Mrs Fringe. If this post is a bit scattered, keep in mind that my writing muscles are a bit stiff.

By now, most days I’m on autopilot for the commute. Some days I can fully appreciate the opportunity to hear some fine musicians, find a dollar at the bottom of my bag for one of the all-too-many ragged and hungry homeless who are walking those tunnels without benefit of a coat–sometimes not even shoes, note some characters (and quirks) for future writing endeavors, and some days, well,

some days I wonder if I’m going to be humping that 3rd rail after another few years of twelve trains a day.

So where I’ve been is here, and what I’ve been doing is adhering to the if-you-don’t-have-anything-nice-to-say rule. What makes me come out of cyber-hiding today? My absolute embarrassment at being a member of the human race right now. Much as I’d like to be a Time Lord; I have no Tardis, only one heart, only one life, and am in fact limited by time and space. We won’t even mention the effects of gravity. Same as everyone else on this earth.

But everywhere I look these past few days, I see and hear people playing the my-god-is better-than-your-god game, naturally followed by my-life-is-more-valuable-than-yours. Last week’s attacks in Paris more than ramped up the worldwide conversation about the Syrian refugees, where they can go, who will take them in, why anyone should. The attacks in Paris were horrendous, despicable, the result of fear and hatred. Every act of terrorism is horrific, be it domestic or international.

I’ve read many theories on what to do in order to combat terrorism. Some of those theories sound good, others make no sense to me at all. Not being an expert in international relations or politics, I can’t begin to think that I know the best thing to do in order to neutralize (is that the right word?) Isis/Isil/Daesh. Here’s what I do know. They are a small group of dangerous nut jobs. I said it. SMALL. And they do not, in my expert opinion as a human being residing on the one and only planet we humans can currently reside on, justify turning our backs on the millions of Syrian refugees who have had to flee from their home.

We, as human beings, have documented waves of refugees (most, if not all, because of religious persecution) dating back to BC times. Israelites, Huguenots, Muhacirs, Russian Jews, Belgians, Serbians, Armenians, Jews from Eastern and Western Europe during WWII, Palestinians, Ugandans, Cubans, Balkans, Rwandans, Sudanese, Iraqis, and now Syrians. I’m certain I’ve missed many, and I’m certain the Syrians won’t be the last. Is there a group, a religion, a nationality that hasn’t been persecuted?–and many have had their turn as the persecutors, as well. With all this experience, shouldn’t we, as one human race, be able to recognize each other as fellow humans and respond with compassion, instead of reacting with fear and walls and bigotry? Given the planet’s population, global climate change, and bigger and better weaponry, I would guess waves of displaced peoples will increase with time. (Unless we eliminate borders.)

I’m not naive, I understand there are problems, logistical and otherwise that come with large numbers of refugees. But the biggest problem I see is clinging to hatred and xenophobia, pretending that it isn’t “our” problem.

The other day I was on a crowded train and spotted an empty seat next to a woman wearing a niqab. You know what I did? I sat down.

Testing, Testing, 1,2, Oh, ‘Murica

Surely you’ve read about it, or at least heard about Ahmed Mohamed, the 14 yo boy arrested at school in Texas for bringing in a clock. Just in case being a new high school freshman isn’t terrifying enough. I’m not sure I can come up with any new or brilliant commentary on this, but I couldn’t bring myself to let it pass without mention. The school to prison pipeline grows ever shorter, while the concept of American public schools being about anything other than testing and warehousing grows more fantastical.

When we moved into this apartment, I dumped or donated most of the no longer used toys and build-your-own kits that clogged the shelves. But I looked into the boys’ closet this morning, and found this:

Contraband?

And now you know the truth, Mrs Fringe and Husband are subversive enough to have encouraged our kiddos to use their imaginations, and *gasp* learn outside the classroom. I would say I’m going to send the pinhole camera kit to Ahmed Mohamed, but since he built his clock using his brain, imagination, and spare parts, I’m guessing he’s advanced well beyond this type of thing.

I’ve seen many comments to the effect of “oh, Texas.” But it isn’t “just” Texas, this type of lunacy, this profiling, this purposeful stifling of children’s minds is everywhere. Test scores test scores, who needs learning? Or creativity? Or ingenuity? We do. Who needs to question school rules, what’s being taught and valued in our schools? We do. Who needs to speak up and say racism and fear has overtaken common sense? We do. The teachers in Ahmed Mohamed’s school failed him. The first teacher he showed his clock to who told him to hide it, and the second teacher who reported him to the principal. The principal who called the police. The police officers who arrested him, fingerprinted him, questioned him without his parents or attorney present, stated that he was passive aggressive because all he would say was that it was a clock, they failed him. Not just him, but every kid who attends anything other than the “elite” schools where science and creativity are encouraged. Schools with precious few seats where you either have to test in, win a lottery, live in the right zip code, or pay tens of thousands of dollars per year.

We send our children to school with the assumption and reassurances that the adults in charge will do all they can to keep our children safe. Safe, first and foremost. Before academics, before test scores, before athletics. This boy wasn’t kept safe, he was terrorized. My heart aches for his parents, trying to imagine what his mother must have thought and felt when she first heard. Anyone else remember being taught that old trick about principal/principle? The principal is a pal. Not to a kid who’s brown. Or poor. Or smart. Or questioning.

I’m guessing most of us have been faced with at least one moment in our lives where we made a decision based on fear. Those moments don’t generally result in rational thought and educated decisions. But yesterday’s incident was based on pure, willful ignorance and prejudice. It isn’t an honest debate about the advantages/disadvantages of high stakes testing, if it’s worth having our schools look and act like prisons complete with lockdowns, metal detectors, and bars on all the windows, or even whether or not girls should be allowed to wear belly shirts in school. If you’re thinking Mrs Fringe doesn’t sound impartial and unbiased, you’re absolutely right–because Mrs Fringe is a blog, for my blatherings, not a fact-checked news source. If only we were teaching our kids to tell the difference. But I suppose that would also be suspect; mustn’t question what’s on the screen in front of you–unless of course you disagree, and even then, don’t question, just attack, facts be damned.

I read something yesterday, a comment on a Facebook thread that referred to his arrest and suspension as science-shaming. WTF? This doesn’t need a pretty and politically correct label, it needs to be called what it is. Bullshit.

This morning everyone is gleefully celebrating the support shown through the #IStandWithAhmed hashtag on Twitter. President Obama invited him to the White House, he’s being celebrated and receiving invitations from the techiest of the big tech folks. That is wonderful for him and his family, and honestly, I hope they win a huge judgement in a lawsuit. But I can’t quite celebrate, because this shouldn’t have happened, and no matter what opportunities come his way, I imagine being criminalized for making a clock will shape every decision he makes from now on. Him, and every other young person who saw this news.

Excess

Moonflowers, finally!

I get one every three days or so, but they open in the afternoon, not at night.

What’s worse than 5am yoga? 5am yoga after eating yourself into a carb coma the night before, of course.

The other morning I woke with an urge for corn chowder. First day of a heat wave, why wouldn’t I want soup? I went to the grocery store, and bought the ingredients. Not as easy as it sounds, because I wasn’t thinking about the fact that it was Saturday. In the grocery store. By the time I got home, I needed to rest my back for a while before getting started. Just as well, because lifehappened and I never got to start the soup.

Yesterday, day 2 of the heat wave. I love summer, nothing makes me happier than not needing more than flip flops and shades to walk outside, but nothing holds the heat like the city. The thought of soup was now as appealing as diving into the Hudson River. But…I already dropped $50 in the grocery store the day before, and had told Art Child she could help me. Just in case making soup when it’s 93° with 69% humidity outside wasn’t enough, in between chopping and sautéing, I was back and forth at the laptop, had a thought provoking email conversation with a writing friend about writing and not. This, naturally, is a conversation I feel compelled to keep having, but it’s upsetting too, leaving me to feel generally useless. What to do when I’m stressing myself out? I added biscuits, chicken (for the flesh eaters), and tofu (for the non flesh-eaters) to the menu.

cheddar scallion biscuits

Gin & Lemonade

Maybe an extra jalapeño next time.

Marinated chicken

Tofu in the same marinade.

I’m a pretty good cook, and sometimes everything works out just the way I want it to, and last night’s dinner was one of those meals. Husband went into work early yesterday, so he was actually home at dinnertime, and the four of us sat together. At my table, everyone sitting together means political discussions. Last night’s topic segued from the need for campaign contribution reforms, to general American consumerism and excess. Did it occur to me that in that moment, sucking down my organic, non-GMO corn, jalapeño, and yukon gold potato soup that I was the very picture of American excess? Yes, yes it did. But I enjoyed it anyway. Did the conversation stop me from thinking I had absolutely nailed those biscuits? (If, like me, you’re too heavy handed with a rolling pin, drop biscuits are the way to go.) Nope. When I was already full from the soup and biscuit, did it prevent me from taking a big slice of tofu? Well, you see, I made the whole brick, and it’s only Art Child and I who eat the tofu, so it would be wasteful to not even eat one slice….

What a surprise that I woke up before the sun, feeling like an overstuffed sausage. These political conversations are deadly, I tellya.

Haters Gonna Hate

So said Nerd Child to me when I was upset a few months back, about a (very minor in the scheme of things) racist comment directed towards him and a friend. I get his point. He’s a smart and awe-inspiringly rational person–because of this, he is, I’m sure, better poised to make changes in our world, changes in how people approach the world, than his hotheaded blabberfingers mother.

No question, there is value and wisdom in taking the long view of social ills. As I’ve said before, however, there is also risk. Risk of denial, risk of distorted views, plain old risk involved in sweeping these ills under the rug in favor of a false “no problem here!” presentation.

I am, of course, talking about the deaths last night of 9 innocent people in Charleston, South Carolina. A shooting that was a hate crime. At a prayer meeting in a church–the Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church, a church with a long, proud history. Proud unless you’re a white supremacist/separatist, in which case you’re likely having very different thoughts than I am right now. Supposedly, the suspect sat in the prayer meeting for an hour before making the statement that they were “taking over the country and raping our women.” Because those human beings who opened their prayer meeting to him were a real, direct threat to his date nights and our national security, yes? <<NO! I shouldn’t have to spell out that the previous sentence is sarcasm, but apparently I do, judging by the things I’ve seen and heard online today.

I don’t know how legitimate the above quote is. Maybe it’s a misquote, maybe it was spun out of thin air. But can I believe it’s real? Yes I can. Because just the other day, Donald Trump announced he’s running for President of the United States. Trump. Do I think he has a snowball’s chance? Nope. But. I saw comments referring to him as a good idea because he’s a businessman. True, he’s a businessman, and I think I read he’s worth something like 4 billion dollars. He’s also declared bankruptcy four times. Included in the gems of his announcement speech Trump said, “When Mexico sends its people, they’re not sending the best. They’re not sending you, they’re sending people that have lots of problems and they’re bringing those problems. They’re bringing drugs, they’re bringing crime. They’re rapists and some, I assume, are good people…” So…the shooter in South Carolina was singing the same song as Donald Trump? You might be thinking, of course not–Trump was referring to undocumented immigrants, and the shooter was referring to African Americans. What I hear is: They. Them. America is not a business. If it were, we might recognize our people–all of them–are our assets. In a country where someone like Donald Trump can be taken seriously by anyone as a candidate for President, we’ve got issues, and we need to air out this rug.

So I’m just going to try and clarify a few things here, from my muddled-by-sorrow point of view. This is OUR problem, America. OUR shame, not some shadowy boogeyman named, They. Despite what too many want to pretend, it isn’t a relic of the past that’s no longer in use, nor is it a secret. Not “just” one lone, hateful lunatic, either. If it was, this wouldn’t be a news story we see play out over and over again.

If it was, the flags wouldn’t be flying at half staff today at the capitol of South Carolina. Columbia, SC. One of those flags isn’t, by the way. Which one? The confederate flag, of course. The very fact that there are confederate flags flying openly anywhere in America is the problem. There is no pride in a confederate flag. That is our shame. Just today, the Supreme Court ruled that Texas is not violating the First Amendment by banning confederate flags on license plates. Why? Because it’s fucking wrong! It’s racism, it’s vile, if you can’t join the 21st century go ahead and keep it to yourself. If you want to honor those who died fighting in the Civil War and display the flag they fought for and under, I don’t get it, but go ahead and keep it in a museum with all the other interesting and long outdated relics. Study it, learn from it, but don’t wave it as a symbol of modern America.

If it wasn’t a problem, there wouldn’t have been any major media outlets jumping to say it wasn’t a racist crime, it was an attack on Christianity. I’d like to be sarcastic again here, or make a joke about Faux news, or even snicker at the field day the best political comedians will have with this, but I can’t–because there are too many voting citizens who take this lunacy seriously. So I’ll just make a direct statement. This wasn’t an attack on Christianity. Or the South, or the freedom to fly the confederate flag. This was a racist hate crime.

You know what it isn’t? It isn’t a result of not having “God” in schools. Yes, indeed, I saw that come across my Facebook feed. I strongly believe in, support, and defend freedom of religion; but I believe in the separation of church and state just as strongly.

It isn’t a result of the pastor not having a gun in the church. I am not and don’t pretend to be an expert on religion (of any faith), and I’d be hard pressed to quote directly from the Bible if that quote wasn’t indirect and the subject of an article I was reading in the moment, but I’m pretty sure this doesn’t fall under What-Would-Jesus-Do.

It’s the result of hate. Hate, fear, a public education system with more holes than the infinite number of test bubbles that face our children each year, an inability to discriminate between hard facts and opinions/editorials/entertainment, and a sadly lacking understanding of what it means to be a member of a greater community. A society.

This was a nauseating, racist hate crime that has left 9 Black Americans dead, while countless more Americans piss on each other across internet boards everywhere as they scramble to skew this to fit their political agendas; as the black community once again mourns unnecessary losses that should be unthinkable. Unspeakable. Unimaginable. But we don’t have to imagine it, because these losses, these attacks, are all too real and all too frequent. That’s why we have to speak about it.

To the families and members of the Emanuel AME Church, I am so very, very sorry for your loss.

Logic Need Not Apply

Don’t judge, I haven’t been able to wash the floors.

This morning, after I took Art Child to school I walked over to the grocery store. It’s a nice day, not too far from the school, and I am healing, so I figured I should be productive. The plan was to do this yesterday, but I was shot after physical therapy. Total win–it wasn’t crowded, I got my shopping done without falling, most people are courteous and give the lady with a cane room to maneuver. Sure, a couple knocked into me, but I think that’s the general invisibility of middle aged with no make-up. I stuck to budget and kept in mind things that would be quick and easy to prepare.

If only I had paid attention to the weight of things I was purchasing. Or the broken elevator (it’s Manhattan, square footage tends to be vertical instead of horizontal, larger grocery stores are broken into two floors). I intended to take a cab home. Well worth it under any circumstances, this store is considerably less expensive than those within a few blocks of my apartment. At this point, my pelvis/hip still can’t handle the subway stairs or the jostling of the train, so taxi it is. Pricey but convenient.

This particular block is always difficult for hailing a cab. There are three bus stops, an express subway stop is in the middle of the street, it’s only a block away from the exit/entrance to the highway, and two major avenues cross each other and switch places. In other words, it’s crowded, be patient. I waited. And waited. Not one empty cab went by. Well, maybe one did one of the six times I was blocked off by buses pulling in and out. Ten minutes. I should have asked for help while I was in the store, I still could have gone back inside and asked. Except I was embarrassed, because an acquaintance of mine works in there, and I had just told her how well I was doing, there was no need for me to cut the line to reach the cashier ahead of others. Hence the title of this post, no logic. Finally, a cab at the far corner. And a woman carrying bags sprinted ahead of me while I was trying to figure out how to pick my bags back up and got to it before the light changed. She turned towards me when she opened the door, and I saw she had a baby strapped to her chest. Fair enough, babies first.

I kept waiting. Now I was getting irritated, thinking about how much I just want to be home, and I didn’t even get everything I needed at the damned store. And watching cabs with lit numbers (means they’re empty) go past on the opposite side of the avenue–the direction I actually needed to be headed. Between the general weight of the bags, and the fact that I didn’t pay attention to how they were packed, there was no freaking way I’d make it all the way across the street. I know, sounds crazy, but I’m broken and this is a really, really wide street. I considered calling Fatigue and asking him to come help me, but I figured even if he didn’t have a dogwalk scheduled, there was no way he’d reach me before a cab came. I should have called.

By the time another fifteen minutes passed, I had gone well beyond my physical limits for the day, and was ready to start sniveling. Then, could it be? Yes! Stopped at the light across the street but on the side of the avenue I was on, was an empty cab. My spine crackled with the thought of a seat, not to mention needing to lift the bags again. And then he changed lanes, to turn away from me. Fringelings, I seriously imagined throwing my kale at that cab.

Pretty dumb, huh? But that’s what went through my overactive imagination. No, I didn’t throw my vegetables, and don’t believe I would. Then I thought about how many people with brown skin have empty taxis pass them by on a regular basis. One small thing, but it’s a symptom, and that one small thing might not feel so small if it happened all the time. And I thought about the many comments I’m seeing on my Facebook feed, declaring a complete lack of understanding for why so many in poor Black communities are so frustrated during protests that some will riot. Anyone can have the type of accident I had, it happens all the time, no matter what socioeconomic status. I’m not able to walk any dogs right now, and I cringe thinking of the bill from the orthopedist, but I was able to say I’ll skip the salt and vinegar chips, buy the store brand yogurt, and thereby pay for a cab to get groceries home. I became irate from being inconvenienced. Once. This moment, this nuisance of waiting an unusually long time for a taxi? This is privilege.

For the record, I gave it one more shot and waved my cane–the cab driver who had changed lanes? He changed back and picked me up.