What are the stories we tell ourselves that explain our lives?  Are we casting new actors in the same roles?  Or are we seeing every [...]]]> In every mind, narratives explain life’s little events.  Some always have heroes, villains and magical somethings.  The faces change, but the plots are played out the same way each time.

What are the stories we tell ourselves that explain our lives?  Are we casting new actors in the same roles?  Or are we seeing every experience as a blockbuster opening night with a carefully guarded surprise plot twist?

It’s not that there’s a right way to process life’s victories and disappointments. I personally don’t like telling myself the same story over and over, though. Unlike when I was a kid.

This was that era when parents didn’t hover over you every second of the day and you could watch whatever you wanted as long as nobody was getting naked. One extraordinarily unbearable Florida summer, my brother and I watched Bill Murray and company battle the undead every single day in Ghostbusters. Watching the same people do the same thing in the same way every single time holds a special and necessary function.  The not knowing collapses under the sweet, weighty relief of knowing.

You don’t even have to be there. It’s going to happen the same way. Every time. You feel… control. My dad passes through the room one of those summer afternoons as Bill Murray holds up playing cards faced towards him and pretends the busty blond across the table is guessing all of them correctly.

How many times you gonna to watch this movie?  Something different is gonna happen this time? This is followed, of course, by a diatribe instructing us to go outside because this is compulsory for all parents of this time period because I think that movie about Adam Walsh hasn’t been made yet and my mom won’t start volunteering at the local rape crisis center for at least another two years. It’s a simpler time.

Take a look at this:

Aside from the fact that the statically gendered aspect of this little graphic irritates me, I’m also affronted somewhat by how oppositional it is to the way I see everything. I don’t tell myself the same stories repeatedly.

Correction: I stop myself from telling myself the same stories repeatedly .

Quite.Often.

Because boys can be like apples on trees, too, and girls can be too scared (or lazy) to climb all the way to the top to get “good” apples. What if being brave or being scared isn’t even the issue? What if a broken heart doesn’t have anything at all to do with an apple tree, and is, in fact, due to the fact that a climber simply prefers oranges?! There is also a distinct possibility that one of those apples on the floor is a good apple!! And for the love of God and all things holy, you’re just going to sit on top of that tree and wait for someone to pick you?!!!

It reminds me of that Ghostbusters Summer.

How many times you gonna tell yourself this story?

Something different gonna happen this time?

You start telling yourself that same story and you don’t even really have to be there for it to happen.

Maybe you’d be better off just going outside to play.

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It summarizes op-eds on “hot” current event topics for the past week.  Like Cliff’s Notes.  Cliffs’ Notes.  Whatever.

Let’s do a The Month post for my blog.

Wait!!

It’s going to be good!!

Don’t!!

leave!!

Early in the month, I posted “How to Talk so People [...]]]> Have you heard of The Week?

It summarizes op-eds on “hot” current event topics for the past week.  Like Cliff’s Notes.  Cliffs’ Notes.  Whatever.

Let’s do a The Month post for my blog.

Wait!!

It’s going to be good!!

Don’t!!

leave!!

Early in the month, I posted “How to Talk so People (or Racists) will Listen”.

JM Randolph of accidental stepmom pinpointed how this situation can be awkward:

It’s difficult to speak up when confronted with intolerant beliefs.  For me, it’s exasperating if it’s my own family or people I’m close to. Sometimes, I don’t even bother because I know the person enough to know my words won’t make a difference.  I wonder, though, is speaking up about these issues about changing someone’s mind or is it about making a statement about who we are and what we’re willing to tolerate?

In “The Help… in Mississippi or in Pakistan”, we discussed K. Stockett’s best selling controversial novel, The Help. 

Kailyn elaborated on the objections eloquently and passionately:

What pissed me off about the book was the widespread popularity of it. For me it was the feeling of, “What? The experiences of my family are only valid if they are told by a white woman?” The more and more I thought about it, it just all felt like more of the Great White Savior being played out.

When I read literature about India, Pakistan or even Muslims written by individuals outside of those cultures, I can feel like that.  Sometimes, those perspectives seem to emanate from academic ivory tower conjectures. That’s not to say that only African Americans can write about African Americans, etc, but people write best when they offer their truth as they have lived it.

Still, while I agree with some of Kailyn’s assessment, but Windyfairy offers the zero sum of my opinion:

Part of racism was that ethnic people were stripped of their voices. [...]Maybe what we should take from this story is that there were people willing to work together for the same goal, despite their differences. Maybe what should be important isn’t who told the story, but that it was told.

It’s entirely possible that my not being African American is a factor in my tendency to agree with that.

It was also my birthday on the 9th. In addition to a MACBOOK AAAAIRRRR(!!!), I got an extraordinary “present” on my Facebook wall from Dave2 at Blogography.

I celebrated Dr. M.L.King, Jr.’s birthday here in Memphis this year, too. It was significant and beautiful experience for me.  One comment in particular on that post from RW, however, brought home a stark reminder of the realities of our times.

There’s no question but that for a lot of white Americans this is viewed as a “black” holiday that they have to just put up with not getting their mail on.

Including my family, there were six individuals who were not African American at the event I attended. I can unequivocally say that for me “black” or “African American” are rarely the first words that come to mind when I think of Dr. King.  Do people really still see him as an African American hero and not just a plain old American hero?

Megan finished out the month by graciously offering a guest post in the style of her blog  One Thousand Words (Or More).  I was honored to celebrate her talent and beauty with you.

Finally, I want to extend thanks to Nyt, and like bloggers.  As someone who can often fall on the other side of political and social issues than me (and most of the readers here), Nyt often takes the time to express opinions here. Disagreeing is more than just “okay”, it is needed. We can never be less for acknowledging “the other side” and taking the time to consider opinions oppositional to our own.  Being open minded means, well… being open.

Most posts this month were inspired by race, difference and diversity.  As always, I’m impressed with the respectful nature of the dialogue here and want to thank everyone for respectfully participating in conversations that could have gone horribly awry.

Also I’ve started a Native Born Facebook page, where I’ll be posting articles, videos and fascinating things relating to my blog.  And Star Trek.  Vampires, too.

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