Friend Me

A couple of weeks ago, here’s what I posted:

“Going to write a blog on Facebook etiquette. Suggestions of what to include?”

Here’s what was posted back:

1)    Use punctuation/ no crazy capitalization

2)    No politics

3)    No posting about standing in line at Target

4)    Be wary that once it’s out there, it’s OUT THERE (oops, broke rule #1 already)

5)    “Thank you notes” (no idea what this person meant)

6)    No pics of your meal

While I respect my friends' opinions, I had a hidden agenda I didn't reveal.  And they were honestly responding.

(Thanks, Fernando.  Looks yummy.)

In terms of these thoughts, I think things like... 

1) Someone believing that George Bush was a good president can always be hidden. 

2) Meal pics can only be considered somewhat fascinating b/c, at least in our family, we merely eat the same things over and over and over.  What someone else eats always looks Fresh & Inventive. 

3) In terms of the Target line, I’m interested. I even want to know what’s in your cart.  Or, are you carrying a basket?  Anything Snoopy in the dollar section?

In order to get real reactions, I failed to write what motivated the question in the first place. 

I had just reached out to a childhood friend who had failed to return the reaching.  It hurt.

I know.  Had I, instead, posted: Why doesn’t someone respond when an old friend reaches out, here may have been some of the replies:

1)    People have LIVES.  If you haven’t HEARD FROM SOMEONE IN 20 YEARS, there’s a REASON. 

2)    It’s the same old thing on FB, once you find out how many kids someone has and if they’ve battled any diseases, you go back to being fine without them.

But, here’s the knee-jerk reasons I came up with for being ignored:

1)    This person never liked [me]

2)    [My] memories of the friendship are f-ed up

3)    [I’m] pathetic for even giving a shit

4)    Via my home page, this person realizes I’m gay, and while it’s trendy to accept me, gays still freak her out or, worse, she thinks I had a crush on her. (No, sorry).

A few days after incessantly checking to see if she’d finally responded (never), I changed my list of reasons she didn’t.  Be aware, I'm pained--

1)    She’s an asshole

2)    She’s a huge asshole

3)    Her asshole has an infection that’s reached her bloodstream

4)    She’s dying of Assholitus

If I were Queen of the World, this would be my only rule to Facebook Etiquette…

If someone reaches out, reach back.  The world’s a fucking scary place.  Considering all the problems inherent in something seemingly stupid like Facebook, life is somehow less lonely when you’re at least cyberly connected to people you loved or once did.  For God’s sake, just friend me, then hide me.  Tell your real friends what a loser I am.  I’ll never know.  What would it hurt?

After a week of angsting, I read one of those life-quotes people like to post. 

“Be kind.  People are fighting a battle you know nothing about.” 

Who knows the reasons people don't reach back.  Or merely why she didn't.

She could be fighting many battles, for all I know.  After all, I haven't talked to her in 20 years.

It's not an easy topic

            The whole Trayvon Martin tragedy underscores the fact that we can’t hide behind “Well we have the fist black president” thing.  Sadly, I, too, needed the Trayvon Martin/ George Zimmerman reminder that racism is still a horrible reality.  

            I, too, hid behind, “Look how much progress we made!  The first black president!”  What an awesome day that was when Barack Obama put his hand on the bible and swore to defend the constitution.  Truly.  Even thinking about it is amazing. 

            It meant racism was over, right?

            Uh, guess not.  And it’s not just racism that isn’t over.  It’s homophobia. It’s anti-semitism.   It's ageism.  It’s children still being programmed to turn to the man in the room to make a decision.  Because he’s the man. 

               Each year I have Hispanic students tease classmates who have darker shades of brown skin.  The first time it happened in my classroom I found it completely absurd.  Since it pretty much happens every year, at one time or another, the absurdity has unfortunately become commonplace.  When it happens, I get so frustrated because I feel like my students need to “unlearn” bigotry.  My job is to teach them.  Not to unteach them.    

            Something weird happened in the early 1990’s.  I was working at a coffee shop when this new girl was hired. Let’s call her Anja. 

            Anja seemed nice and really cool and I liked her.  She was funny and smart and she laughed at my dumb jokes.  She appreciated some of the pranks my coworkers and I would instigate like when, in the middle of July, we’d change the shop music to Christmas music just to see if anyone would notice.  (About half.)

            Shortly after meeting her, as we were getting to know each other, Anja informed me that she was born in Germany.  I had never met anyone who was born in Germany, even though my heritage is half German and half Russian. 

            After she told me this, I had this really weird reaction to Anja.  All of a sudden, well, she? Pissed me off?  I suddenly disliked her, but I didn’t know why.  I didn’t understand my own reaction.  I stopped talking to her so much and, instead, found myself waiting for her to start conversations.  I waited for her to take control of our exchanges, which she eventually did.  But nothing she said satisfied me.  It was like I was waiting for her to say something specific. 

            Oddly, at some point, I finally realized I was waiting for an apology?  It was so strange to admit.  Why the hell did I want this from Anja?  Anja did nothing to me.  She wasn’t even alive during the Holocaust.  Also, I am not what they call a practicing Jew, although I could use some practice.  What the hell was wrong with me?  I wanted her to apologize?    

            Whatever was wrong with me, I couldn’t deny that this is exactly what I wanted from Anja.  I wanted some kind of acknowledgement that the Holocaust happened and that her ancestors may have been involved.  Was her grandfather one of the reasons my cousin had to be thrown over a fence to live with another family in order to survive?  Did one of her uncles or a great uncle, maybe, flick the switch that cued the gas?  Did one of her ancestors brutalize one of mine?

            Anja and I did become friends, but not close ones.  I never disclosed to her anything about my feelings.  Instead, I just judged myself for having them.  What may have helped, however, would have been if we could have at least talked about the atrocity that occurred in her country of origin, to my ancestors.  Maybe if we could have just acknowledged that it sucked I may have felt better.  Something.

            I feel sorry to people who are targets of racism.  I am sorry.  I’m sorry that perhaps some of my ancestors had some of their ancestors as slaves.  I’m sorry that people who have darker skin are not treated equally.  I, too, have been socialized to have inappropriate, unfair reactions to people with darker skin. 

            As in the scenario President Obama illustrated in his speech, I imagine myself in an elevator when a large, dark man enters.  Perhaps I’m alone.  Any man would make me a bit on edge.  Would I be more on edge if he was dark?  Would it have been better if he was short?

            I refuse to succumb.  I want to look at him in the eyes.  I want us both to decide to unlearn what we have learned.  I want us to define how people should behave.  I want us to live in this moment: the one that we create. I refuse to acknowledge the forces that encourage me to be afraid of you, I want to tell him, and I can only hope that you refuse to assume that I am. 

            I want the dialogue to continue.  I do think that the nation as a whole needs to formally apologize to African Americans and anyone else with dark skin for the treatment of blacks.  I’m sure there exists some time in history when such an apology may have been issued.  Whoever did this apology, whenever it was, I don’t think it was enough.  The Trayvon Martin murder brought too much pain to the surface for it to have ever been enough.  

On the cutting room floor

Chapter 2:

Making Mudpies

January, 1976

The mud in the backyard of the house isn’t all that great for digging--making mud pies, things like that.  You stir the dry ground with a stick and try hard to get some sort of creamy concoction by adding water from the faded hose into the empty margarine container with the pale-yellow, floral design.  You want the mixture to look like cake batter does when they cook cake on TV—how smooth it all is when it enters the cake pan and folds on top of itself like an accordion--no lumps.  That's the consistency you’ve been hoping to make for a long time now.  It’s 1976 (year of the bicentennial--woohoo!) as you sit in that suburban Cincinnati backyard.   Your thick, dull, brown, seven-year-old hair flies in your face (rubber bands never hold when you're little) while you stir a slice of the earth with a stick.

All you get are clumps.

Thud.  Andy’s in the backyard with Pete.  Thud.  They toss a tennis ball back and forth and catch it in their mitts.  They do this for a long time.  Mother won’t let them throw a hard ball anymore because of the two broken windows.  Mother says they’re lucky they didn’t demolish Nana's antique green, glass vase that was behind the second window that broke.  Thud.  Mother said it almost became a casualty too.  (It has air bubbles in it, but she still likes it!)  Nope, no more hardballs.  Andy’s relieved anyway; Mother has a habit of making him real nervous about breaking another window.  So, throwing a hardball isn't an option any more ever since he broke the second one (even though it was Pete who broke it, Andy took the blame.  Andy didn’t want to give Mother an excuse to be mad at Pete).  It’s all about tossing tennis balls in the backyard now.  

Thud.  They throw the ball with such seriousness--their faces tight, as if what they’re doing is real important.  Thud.  Sometimes they talk while they toss--about girls, about school, about kids they hate, baseball.  Sometimes they talk so much and with such enthusiasm, they talk over each other, try to out-loud the other, out-fast-talk the other, and eventually out-gross-out the other.  Sometimes they don’t talk at all and all you hear are the thuds.

During their time in the backyard, they transform into professional baseball players.  You must sell concessions: “Get your ice-cold chocolate cake HE ERE!  Get your ice-cold chocolate cake!  Come for your ice-cold chocolate cake while I eternally try to get all the lumps out!  Meanwhile, it’s icy-cold, clumpy cake!  Get your ice-cold cake!”

(not me.)

Sometimes, when Pete doesn’t show, you get to toss. You and Andy transform into famous athletes.  You can be anybody, not just baseball players.  The only rule is that if he chooses a tennis player, you have to be a tennis player.  If he chooses a baseball player, likewise.  That’s the only rule: you have to stay in the same sport.  You always choose the same ones over and over and over again.  In baseball, he’s Johnny Bench, you’re Pete Rose.  Tennis: he’s John McEnroe, you’re Jimmy Connors.  Football: he’s Terry Bradshaw, you’re O.J. Simpson.

These are good people!  Admirable!  Role models. 

While you play, the fans stare at you.  They root, they cheer.  If you’re in trouble during a game, you go to the side of the yard and listen to the pathetic looking tree with half-eaten apples.  This pretend-manager gives you pointers.  You look down real serious.  You listen.  You nod.  You consult like this when you’re way behind.

On Saturdays, when Andy has a game, you bring your mitt.  It’s different from when kids bring their mitts to professional games: when a kid who brings a mitt to a professional game, it's because the kid is trying to catch a ball--keep a souvenir.  That’s not what you try for at Andy’s game.  You don’t need any souvenir. (Plus, no use in catching a hardball to keep when you’re not even allowed to throw them at home: thanks, Pete!) 

No, the reason you bring your mitt to Andy’s game is completely different: you bring your mitt hoping upon hope that one day you’ll need it.  One day, Andy's baseball team might just happen to be one player short and instead of calling off the whole thing—the whole game—there’ll be some really big reason why they can’t call off the whole thing, and Andy’s coach will look into the bleachers, desperate, as he searches for some way to solve this problem.  Luckily, he’ll just happen to see you with your mitt, t-shirt, and gym shoes, ready to play!  He’ll nod you on. He’ll put you in the outfield and maybe you’ll catch the third out! Time to bat--there are two outs, bottom of the ninth, you’re up, and you know the rest. Pretty soon you’re on the cover of the local newspaper, Sports Illustrated, even People.

For your television interview, you jaunt down a lush backyard in springtime with Barbara Walters. The two of you skip happily through a field of fresh daffodils.  During a pause in the interview, you stop to pick up a flower and hand it to her.  As you do, she asks when it was you knew you were so gifted.  "Let's talk about you, Barbara," you say.  “Did you ever consider speech therapy?”

Thus the reason for the mitt.   So far, you haven’t had much luck, but bring it anyway.  The coach never seems to notice you at all, much less consider you a sub.  One time a kid came late, but the coach just planned on playing without him.

Since you go to the trouble of bringing it (the mitt), there’s a lot of time to toss a ball up in the air and catch it.  When Dad comes, sometimes he tosses with you, on the side of the ball field.  Sometimes, he looks right at you when you toss.  Sometimes he mysteriously smiles your way and you smile back.  Like Mom, you’re not sure if he’s looking at you or past you.  But sometimes you and Dad share a Moment.  Most of the time, though, he looks to see what’s going on in Andy’s game.  It’s okay.   

Mom doesn’t like it--your mitt.  She never really says this, but it’s easy to tell.  Sometimes she fixes your hair while you sit in the stands next to her.  She un-wrinkles your t-shirt and sometimes licks her finger to try to dab out a spot in your jeans, or worse, your face.  She puts her arms around you real tight. Her hugging so tight makes it hard to catch the ball in your mitt, much less throw it; she holds your arms to your side so that you can’t move and you end up suffocating both the mitt and the ball.  The ball suffocates and dies inside the mitt, despite your attempts to let it breathe.  You wonder if Mother realizes this.  You wonder if she realizes she’s killing something.