GIRL POWER

NOTE: This post is part one of what I'm hoping to be a series addressing an issue that is heart-breaking and urgent.


WOULD YOU HIRE THIS GIRL? Let's say you run a coffeehouse and need a good barista: would you hire her? Need a babysitter for your kids? You're a principle needing a middle school social studies teacher?

Does she look motivated? Directionless? Visionary? Self-disciplined? Would you assume she is well-socialized--"the process beginning during childhood by which individuals acquire the values, habits, and attitudes of a society"?

We have five Grand-Girls. I want them to know that I am on their side! For many years, I worked in youth ministry. It has been one of the great joys of my life to advocate for teens, especially girls. I'm not sure why; but I think it has something to do with the church tradition I was raised in. By doctrine and dogma, this church tradition has diminished the role of women in the church, in the family and in society. In my personal experience though, that stomp-your-foot-down-and-slap-your-King-James_Bible hard line was blurry. It was a message that played better at a pastor's conference or preach-off than in the real world. The church Fathers talked a tough game about the secondary and tertiary role of church mothers and sisters, but I think deep down they knew (and refused to acknowledge), the local church would have faltered faster had it not been for women.

According to recent studies and much conjecturing, young people, especially girls, are suffering: increased depression, hopelessness and at least--sadness. It's not just the church or politics, or the unfortunate, illegitimate marriage of the two. But what is it? The current favorites (depending on your news source) include: social media, smartphones, the recent pandemic (being isolated at home), "wokeness", the breakdown of the nuclear family. Even poor old Donald Trump and his championing of misogony has made the list.

I'm not trying to point a finger. That's a tough thing to do these days. My old digits are so twisted by arthritis (both real and idealogical) that often, when I'm pointing at one thing, people assume I'm pointing at another. I'm interested in solutions. I don't know that I have any, but that's where my interests and my heart, lie. So...

Back in my early days of youth ministry, I thought I could rescue every troubled teen. I got some wise guidance from a couple of people. One was my mom. She told me, "There's no such thing as a troubled teen, just a teen with troubles." The other told me to accept my limitations. "You can only do so much, but do that the best you can."

In that spirit: here goes...

First, I need to remember that Jesus loved young people and he loved women, all women. His own mother was probably fourteen when he was conceived. She is one of five women listed in the story of Jesus' beginning. Matthew in his gospel records this group:

Mary, the mother of Jesus. Of course she deserves to be listed, but these other four? I wonder if there was ever a time when the Disciples were gathered around the campfire waiting for the fish to cook, that maybe Jesus asked Matthew, “Hey, Matt, I get why you mentioned my mom and maybe Ruth; but Tamar, Rahab The Prostitute, and Bathsheba?!”

Of course he never asked Matthew about that. My guess is that Jesus was not at all embarrassed to have listed in his public record women like Tamar, who pretended to be a hooker so she could trick her father-in-law in to having sex with her, or Rahab The Prostitute, a real prostitute, or Bathsheba (mentioned only as the wife of her husband) who had an adulterous affair with the king (David) and then the king had her husband moved to the front line of the war so that he would surely be killed.

Isn't it strange how we want to sterilize The Story, making it less human? Creating a false reality is always dishonest, whether it misappropriating scripture or pretending that the personas, the guises of social media are real and must be attained.

I love the inquisitiveness of youth. It's essential to healthy growth. It can also be frustrating and scary. Let's not discourage it. They want to dig deep. Let's not breed cynicism by being dishonest with them.

It's in the asking of questions like: Why?! When?! Why not?! that the journey begins. Maslow would say we all need a place that's safe and secure to ask those questions and start the exploration. But more on that in the next installment.

Oh; that girl in the picture? That's Susan Kare. She did this (from the Wikipedia entry on Susan):

Susan Kare (born February 5, 1954) is an American artist and graphic designer best known for her interface elements and typeface contributions to the first Apple Macintosh from 1983 to 1986. She was employee #10 and Creative Director at NeXT, the company formed by Steve Jobs after he left Apple in 1985. She was a design consultant for Microsoft, IBM, Sony Pictures, and Facebook, Pinterest and she is now an employee of Niantic Labs. As an early pioneer of pixel art and of the graphical computer interface, she has been celebrated as one of the most significant technologists of the modern world.

Susan Kare is considered a pioneer of pixel art and of the graphical user interface, having spent three decades of her career "at the apex of human-machine interaction".

In co-creating the original Macintosh computer and documentation, she drove the visual language for Apple's pioneering graphical computing. Her most recognizable and enduring works at Apple include the world's first proportionally spaced digital font family of the Chicago, Geneva, and Monaco typefaces, and countless icons and interface components such as the Lasso, the Grabber, and the Paint Bucket. Chicago is the most prominent user-interface typeface seen in classic Mac OS interfaces from System 1 in 1984 to Mac OS 9 in 1999, and in the first four generations of the iPod interface. This cumulative work was key in making the Macintosh one of the most successful and foundational computing platforms of all time. Descendants of her groundbreaking 1980s work at Apple are universally seen throughout computing and in print.


I've included Susan's story to celebrate the life and work of youth, especially young women. Honestly celebrating real work and worth is affirming; for all of us. It's out there everywhere. Look for it. Acknowledge it. Embrace it.



CINDERELLA

I am a church beside the highway where the ditches never drain
I'm a Baptist like my daddy, and Jesus knows my name
I am memory and stillness, I am lonely in old age
I am not your destination
I am clinging to my ways
I am a town

LET’S TALK ABOUT CINDERELLA. Not the girl, but a place. Actually an old hotel.

POSTCARD OF THE CINDERELLA HOTEL. SHAWNEE, OKLAHOMA.

I don't know the history of the Cinderella Hotel. I could probably have done some research, but I'm not writing a piece for posterity here. And, I want to recall the Cinderella as I encountered her over the years.

Let's start with why she is on my mind. She has sat abandoned, except for a few homeless folks looking for a night's rest. Now, the word is that she will be bulldozed. This is the merciful thing to do.

What was once a lovely place to stay with all the post-war promise of a young, abused stepchild who has just met her fairy godmother, to a seedy place where the best business plan was probably to rent rooms by the hour rather than for the duration of a family vacation with “refrigerated-air” and a lovely pool.

My first experience with the Cinderella was as a mildly rebellious, young preacher's boy with a small bag of wild oats to be sown. Those oats grew into straws, one of which, but not the camel's back breaking one, was a "function" (read: dance) for the students of the Baptist university a bison's chip's throw from the Cinderella, a function that I may have had a hand in planning, which may now live in infamy.

Years later, our family which was scattered around Oklahoma, gathered at the Cinderella for a family Christmas gathering. By this time the old girl was showing signs of giving up. Like her glass slipper didn't fit anymore and her prince had lost interest.

A year ago we moved to Shawnee to become a burden to our children. We drive by the Cinderella often on our way to the dance studio and a little restaurant called, "Shawnee Pho" which is a favorite of our Grand-Girls, and sits next door to the Cinderella. We ate there just last night. As I always do, I glanced over at the dilipated, fenced off mess and remembered better days. After eating I cracked open my fortune cookie to discover there was no fortune inside. See where I'm going?

This morning, I saw the headline that the old princess will be plowed under. I don't know what will take its place. Maybe they plan to "pave paradise and put up a parking lot."

Remember this lyric from John Lennon, "Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans." Maybe I'll write that on a piece of paper, carefully insert it into a fortune cookie and throw it into Cinderella's remains along with the memories of vacations, honeymoons, ashtrays, COLOR TV, and paper ribbons that stretched across toilet seats telling us that it had been “Sanitized For Our Protection”.

I kicked off this essay with a stanza, my favorite stanza, from the song "I Am A Town" by Mary Chapin Carpenter. I don't claim to understand what Mary had in mind when she wrote it, but I can imagine a town like Shawnee and so many others singing it, if a town could sing a song.

Speaking as a Shawneeite, I'm excited that we have a new Taco Casa and Dutch Bros Coffee, but these don't do anything for the shell that was once a vibrant downtown. I wish it could vibrate again. I'm not counting on a visit from a fairy godmother or a decision by Joanna and Chip Gaines to make Shawnee their new home, bringing a truckload of shiplap and promise of rebirth, so, I'll offer this verse, taken way out of context, as a step:

"Also work for the success of the city I have sent you to. Pray to the Lord for that city. If it succeeds, you too will enjoy success.” Jeremiah 29:7.

Here's to old Cinderella. Thanks for everything. Sorry you didn't live happily ever after.

Please take time to listen to Mary Chapin Carpenter's song. Here's a link and the lyrics.

I'm a town in Carolina
I'm a detour on a ride
For a phone call and a soda, I'm a blur from the driver's side
I'm the last gas for an hour if you're going twenty-five

I am Texaco and tobacco
I am dust you leave behind

I am peaches in September, and corn from a roadside stall
I'm the language of the natives, I'm a cadence and a drawl

I'm the pines behind the graveyard
And the cool beneath their shade

Where the boys have left their beer cans
I am weeds between the graves

My porches sag and lean with old black men and children
My sleep is filled with dreams, I never can fulfill them

I am a town

I am a church beside the highway where the ditches never drain
I'm a Baptist like my daddy, and Jesus knows my name
I am memory and stillness, I am lonely in old age

I am not your destination
I am clinging to my ways
I am a town

I'm a town in Carolina
I am billboards in the fields
I'm an old truck up on cinder blocks, missing all my wheels
I am Pabst Blue Ribbon, American, and 'Southern Serves the South'

I am tucked behind the Jaycees sign, on the rural route

I am a town

WRITE RIGHT

AS FAR AS I KNOW each of my English teachers and writing professors have passed. I no longer live under the scrutiny of their red pencils. Comma splices, sentence fragments, dangling participles and run-on sentences are of little concern. Punctuation is more functional than rule-bound for me these days--I use punctuation to attempt to make a sentence read like I would say it; if you know what I mean. Hey, at least I use/misuse punctuation.

There may be a few regular readers of this blog who "grade" and judge my essays as they read; but as far as I know, there is only one actual English teacher who reads an occasional post. Apparently, grace takes precedence over grades for her. Her post post comments are always kind. I'm not surprised. She taught our boys, and I always sensed that she chose to value the beauty of words just above the rules and penmanship--not that she didn't have a red pencil.

[I hope you have a significant other, or four, or six, or more, who doesn't carry a freshly sharpened red pencil. You know that famous passage in the thirteenth chapter of 1 Corinthians that describes Love? One of the definitions of love is that it "keeps no record of wrongs." Red pencil wielders seem to also be scorekeepers. They put stuff in your permanent record.]

I'm not advocating for rule-lessness. Without some structure, order, agreed-upon guides, and a dose of accountability we're left with people like George Santos who has "padded his resume" to the point he's nothing but a laughable cartoon. I actually feel sorry for him. How horrible it must be to feel so inadequate that you become an ugly verion of Walter Mitty.

In my own over-inflated vision of myself as a writer, I'm making this declaration of being free from the shackles of the rules of composition. Now, I'm confessing. I still rely on those lessons-learned from my teachers past. I continue to use references and resources to strive to be a good craftsman of letters and marks and words and ideas. Hoping to write, as Hemingway said, "one true sentence," at a time.

these are always within reach of the desk where pops writes

One of the guidebooks that was required reading in my days as a journalism major at Tulsa University, where I was captain of the tennis team (not really: on the tennis team part) was The Associated Press Stylebook.

The keepers of the Stylebook recently offered this new guidance: “We recommend avoiding general and often dehumanizing ‘the’ labels such as the poor, the mentally ill, the French, the disabled, the college educated.”

This seems like good guidance for general conversation too. So stop it! Stop poking fun of The Boomers, The Elderly, The Etc., when we speak of going to The Cracker Barrel for breakfast, or to The Starbucks for coffee. [Actually I go to The Starbucks for the banana nut bread. Saying I go there for the coffee is kind of like the old Boomer who claimed he bought Playboy "for the news articles."]

I guess now I'm going to need to rethink the title of my memoir I've been working on: "The Bald and The Beautiful".

I can see where grouping folks together could be dehumanizing and maybe even marginalizing; at least stereotyping. If someone were to say, "The Bald are snarky," I might take offence. However, if someone were to say, "Obviously The Bald have better things to do with their hormones than just growing hair." I would concur.

It's funny how we try to soften the edge of being The Old. Does it help to be called The Elderly? No. But it is what it is. Should you assume that just because my joints creak, that I come bearing a Medicare card and an AARP card that I'm old? Yes, that's a good assumption. Go ahead and lump us all together. Just don't stand in our way when we're getting in line at The Braum's for The Fro-yo.

Should we be concerned about The Young throwing all rules of punctuation and grammer to the wasteland with their incessant texting? Heck yes. Give me a Red Pencil app and I'll go after them. Who am I kidding? I've got better things to do and, as a member of The Elderly, not a lot of time to do them /period/fullstop/.

PLAY FAVORITES


[NOTE: Artificial Intelligence (AI) technology was not used in the writing of this essay, only Pops' dubious human intelligence and questionable emotional intelligence (EQ).]


THE MORE CIVIL AND POLITE POSITION, when it comes to playing favorites seems to be: don't. Remember those teachers or coaches that "played favorites"; or so it seemed. I was apparently not teacher's pet material. Heck, in the opinion of most of grade school teachers I didn't even "work up to my potential." As a school boy I was certain that the first criterion for that esteemed position was to be a girl. Why, I don't know. They seemed to me to be fussy and whiny and tattle-tellie. Not all; but those that seemed to make good teacher's pets did.

I can't fault the teachers. I had my own list of school days favorites--friends with common interests, and girls who were out of my league. Even to this day, I ease the pain of that reality with an excuse: I went to school in Jenks--a small community with a giant school district. The Jenks school district even extended across the river into South Tulsa where we lived. There was a girl named Karla who topped my favorites list, but she lived in town, I didn't. Being geographically challenged plus shy to a fault, and having a football-playing rival made wooing her a hurdle too high. Is there any pain like the pain of the unrequited love of a kid?

No regrets though; when it really mattered, Providence carved paths that led me to meet a beautiful girl, who was most certainly out of my league and who went to our rival school: Bixby (Home of the Spartans). That was over 50 years ago and she is still my FAVORITE and still out of my league.

When it comes to things like breakfast cereals, movies, sitcoms, seasons of the year, and sports teams, having favorites seems like a good thing to me. It helps us explore things, to define ourselves, to know ourselves a little better. For example, let's talk about favorite places to visit. Some people love warm, exotic, beachy places. If someone told me I could go on an all-expenses paid vacation, I would choose from my favorites-- places I've been and enjoyed: Great Britain, New York or Chicago.

While we're there; favorite pizza? For me Chicago-style is best. I love a slice of NYC pizza, but Chicago wins that one along with best hot dogs. Favorite burger? Hands down it's Sid's in El Reno, Oklahoma.

If pinned down for an opinion on things like raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens, brown paper packages tied up with strings, frankly, these are not on any list of favorites I might have. Although, I am curious about what's in that package.

Having favorites simplifies life. I don't have to stand in the grocery aisle staring at the Pop Tarts®, trying to decide. I'm grabbing the unfrosted strawberry every time. Paper or plastic? Paper. I just like paper sacks. There's something nostalgic about them. You never know when you might need to make a book cover or wrap up a package and tie it with string. Plus, while I'm not a raging, ranting environmentalist, I hate that every fence row along the way is littered with plastic bags from Wal Mart and Dollar General--two of the stores near the top of my unfavorite-places-ever.

All this thinking about favorites started as I was listening to a lot of Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young following the passing of David Crosby. I mentioned that the original CSN album was in my Top 5 albums of all-time. Someone asked, "What are the other four?" Contemplating that question made me realize that there are at least a baker's dozen in my Top 5. Here they are in no particular order:

Carole King, ‘Tapestry’ SONY, 1971

Miles Davis, ‘Kind of Blue’ COLUMBIA, 1959

The Beatles, ‘Rubber Soul’ PARLOPHONE, 1965

The Beatles, ‘Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’ CAPITOL, 1967

Bob Dylan, ‘Highway 61 Revisited’ COLUMBIA, 1965

The Beatles, ‘Revolver’ APPLE, 1966

The Beach Boys, ‘Pet Sounds’ CAPITOL, 1966

Marvin Gaye, ‘What’s Going On’ TAMLA/MOTOWN, 1971

Blood, Sweat & Tears, 'Blood, Sweat & Tears album' Columbia, 1968

Crosby, Stills & Nash, 'Crosby Stills & Nash' Atlantic, 1969

Simon & Garfunkel, 'The Graduate' Columbia Masterworks, 1967

Jars of Clay, 'Jars of Clay' Essential, Silvertone, 1995

Diana Krall, 'Live In Paris' Verve, 2002

As I was curating this list, the first consideration was: PLAYING FAVORITES--the albums I tend to play over and over--the ones I never tire of. Next, you have to consider the album as a whole. There are a lot of albums out there that have two or three great songs, but these albums are non-stop quality music, which for me means superb songwriting--wonderful lyrics, memorable melodies, rich harmonies and chord progressions that give you goosebumps. They are wonderfully produced and stand the test of time. They are groundbreaking.

When I use the word album, I'm speaking literally of the vinyl record and cover jacket. My love of music was deepened by bringing home a new album, putting it on the record player and reading all of the album notes and looking at the pictures while the music played. It was an experience that only an album can give.

Obviously, I still favor the music of the 60s and early 70s. Eleven of the thirteen are from that era. Back then being able to buy an album required weeks of saving my allowance, doing extra chores, and begging. I had to make sure this album would be a favorite before laying out the hard-earned coin for it.

I still have many of those albums that I bought over 50 years ago. They are that special to me. I don't play them on my turntable these days. They are too worn and scratched. My turntable has a cartridge (needle) that costs more than my stereo did back in the day. So now I listen to high-quality digital versions of my favorites. But often, I still pull the album from the shelf and look at it as the record plays.

I love playing favorites.