Someone, and their mother, should be bitch slapped. Not that hitting a dog is ever appropriate. But neither is gum on my shoe.
Last Thursday night, before the kids even left, I started tearing out my dining room. I worked on it Friday, spent Saturday, Sunday, and Monday elsewhere, then spent yesterday with the cousins and then in class. I was exhausted and hit the sheets before 9pm. This morning, I finished in here. As in, it’s done except for steam cleaning the carpet. I am well pleased.
And this afternoon, because the whole goal of the open shelving was to see what I have so I can use it, and because this one puzzle hangs two inches over it’s assigned space…. I’m going to put it together on my cleared table.
Also, in case you see this post and we aren’t Facebook friends…you need to read what I wrote there this morning:
Anger is a tertiary emotion. One of the elements is usually fear, which is a response to a threat of some kind. Now, if we as white society have learned to fear the “angry black man,” maybe we need to ask why he’s angry. What of his have we threatened? His life through race related crime? His pride through systemic discrimination? His family by rigging the economic system in such a way that he cannot earn enough money to support his children except by turning to crime?
I think somehow, we’ve become convinced that being politically correct means we don’t talk about race in “polite circles.” “Politically correct” has become a way for white people to pretend that race and sexuality and all those other differences among us don’t matter. We can pretend not-white is equal to white male heterosexual. Clearly it is not.
I’ve been challenged this week, as I have been challenged multiple times over my academic career. “What are you going to do about it?” And I think my answer is that I am done being politically correct if it means couching my opinions in language that ignores the effect of race on what I have to say.
I think, also, that I will remind myself and my white friends that while we may rant about the racial, sexual, and whatever else kind of violence happens in this country, we sit in a place of relative safety. Especially the heterosexual males among us.
Maybe, just possibly, people who are darker than us and people who are not male or not heterosexual aren’t overly sensitive and looking for discrimination where it doesn’t exist. Maybe it’s really there, everywhere, and we in our whiteness don’t see it because we perpetuate it with our own willful ignorance. We should probably be ashamed of that.
I am changing some things up today. I now have to carry the DSM, which is printed on lead leaf, with me on Mondays in addition to my lunch, my water bottle, my tablet which has the materials for my other classes, and the sundry personal items I need to make it through a 15 hour day. With the two books on the right, my backpack weighs enough that my back stayed tight Monday even when I wasn’t wearing the pack. No good. I’m switching to a smaller planner/personal notes book and a standard notebook for class notes.
As for pens. That DSM prof plans to finish his 3 hour class in 2 hours each week. He does this by speaking faster than JFK. And giving out loads of information not in the text. And his tests are open book open note. That aqua pen does not glide. I have to push and pull it. And writing quickly makes it illegible. And I have good pens. That one, and its package mates, are gone.
BTW, I thought the pack was heavy Monday. No, it’s heavy TODAY with all these notebooks while I make the switch. At least I had the sense to ditch the DSM this morning.
I love these little not-quite cheeses. They are so cute and little and covered in pretty red wax. I feel classy when I pack them, look at them, eat them. But, then…I look at the amount of garbage I made for four bites of food. And I just have to ask myself if that’s legit.
No. No, it is not legit to create this much garbage for not-really cheese. I’ma have to start buying actual cheese and slicing it myself.