“What I propose, therefore, is very simple: it is nothing more than to think what we are doing.”
Hannah Arendt, The Human Condition

"My mistress' eyes are nothing…"
“What I propose, therefore, is very simple: it is nothing more than to think what we are doing.”
Hannah Arendt, The Human Condition
My Eagle (Eastern Washington University Eagle) and I speak most days about her training, school, roommates and life in the Northwest. Her pre-season schedule keeps her wickedly busy, but yesterday we ended the day unwinding to the news of her day and mine.
After reminding me of her class schedule, one class being African American studies, we began a discussion about cultural appropriation, having referenced the class that Rachel Dolezal (former professor at EWU and President of the NCAA who made the news recently by her parents outing her as white) would have taught.
Not surprisingly, she and I differed. She thought social media had gotten it right this time. People should not be consuming cultural artifacts as if unattached to the people who suffered or strove through the badges, persecution or honors of and by those cultural expressional effects.
One example she insisted on was the appropriation of “clueless white girls” adorning themselves with henna though they do not care a whit for Indian culture or people. In fact, she claims, these same young white girls actively discriminate and ridicule cultures different from their own (if whiteness is a culture as well as a position of privilege and power?), including Indians.
Admittedly, my most played role as devil’s advocate annoys my children. But this time I was not baiting. I countered with labeling and generalizing as liable to injure as much as the lack of consciousness of some consumerists. Not all cultural appropriations spell disrespect.
We live in a multicultural world, America being one of the most diversely populated. Adapting the behaviors, clothing, styles and language of other cultures organically arises from living among others. What matters–the same always–are words and actions consciously spoken and taken.
To love another culture so much as to adapt it is not uncommon. People move to other countries more suitable to their natures. Look at Cat Stevens, who left American fame and fortune to live in a culture more nourishing to his spirit. One can question his or anyone’s motives for “abandoning” his or her birthright, but why, what’s the point?
The people my daughter–and her social network–criticize, live inauthentically and thereby injure others, I suspect. To affect the style of another group is an act of honoring, blind imitation, or malicious mockery, depending on the intentions of the adapter.
But all behavior may be measured as moral, immoral or amoral, depending upon the degree to which the actor moves beyond him or herself toward another–and with a conscious intention of producing good or ill will.
Mindfulness is an overused term, quickly turning trite. But in truth, to bring mind to bear on everything we do matters most. Morality is another term that gets maligned in its use, overuse and abuse. But the morality that the philosophers hypothesize about in classrooms, bars and libraries through time immemorial informs the morality I believe defines mindfulness: an ethics of right behavior toward others, which is situationally switched on by a mind and heart likewise opened and active.
I am not foolhearty enough to believe in a “correct” behavior for every situation, but the footpath toward morality starts with a consciousness of the causes and effects of what we do, otherwise known as awareness. Thinking awake and remembering that we belong to a community are two steps in the right direction on that path.
At the conclusion of our call, I asked her what I should write about next, after plastic bags and waterless urinals. She offered sex work and cam girls. Um….wait, what?
credit: socialwork.simmons.edu
Read the full article of the excerpt I posted a few days ago, as it appears at The Mindful Word.
Walking out of the market, it suddenly hit me. Something different. Oh, that’s right. No one asked me if I would like to buy a bag for ten cents, and my two hands carried one plastic food-stuffed bag each. I wondered how long I had been unaware of the … (read more here)
Mayhem in the morning, it felt like
a kind of dismemberment of the mind from the neck down.
Nothing a silent session of steep stretching would not cure.
Sometimes sleep affects the whole day that way,
with a whisper of promise, something more like
a train ride through a New Mexico sweep of pronghorn elk.
That trip through the beltways and tracts of the country,
the clacking wheels syncing the spin of my mad days,
in orange rinds left on the porch swing as evidence of hollow thirst.
credit: dougwebbart.com
Should vivisection on animals be universally banned?
California’s gun control laws are the strictest in the nation and do not need tightening.
Costa Rica’s Preventia policies are unjust and inhumane.
The papparazzi need to be reigned in from their reign of destruction.
Coed education beats same-sex education miles high.
Long Beach police officers are doing a great job despite the public outcry against police brutality.
The higher divorce rate among military families compared to non-military familes cries out for resources.
Street art is not graffitti!
Torture has its place in terrrorist prevention.
Inception is not a coherent thriller.
It’s end of the summer semester research term paper time. So many arguments, so many readily available resources, and so many fallacies. My students, weaned on the Internet, both master and destroy logic. Familiar with the bounty that is the network–social, educational and otherwise–they can research. They find stuff. However, likewise products of the world wide of webbings, traps for the unweary, they believe without discernment.
Teaching young minds to think in verticals and horizontals tasks the impatient and weary. Entitlement does not only measure ownership attitudes; the right to be right falls in the heap of our stuff. Ours. Mine. Not yours.
How else does the abounding madness of polarizing non-sense stop: me vs. you, right vs. wrong, with us or against us? Isn’t that the major premise of Saul Alinsky’s Rules for Radicals--keep the pressure on with conflict so power can slip in its agenda?
I responded to a social media prompt on a relative’s Facebook page about the minimum wage not being about bickering over which unskilled worker should get two dollars more than the other. Two good responsive posts about the issue over dignity of work, skilled vs. unskilled worker…and then it came: the post about me, me, me and what I do and don’t blame me for trying to work and make money.
Buzz kill. There is no response to a hijacked discussion of a public issue by someone’s feelings about his or her life or imaginary persecution–a failure to read and understand a public forum’s purpose in the shades of meaningful and polite interaction.
Teach a mind to think, reason and discern: rule one of a civilzed nation.
credit: http://static.squarespace.com/
A small thread, a half inch or so, little more, plays peek-a-boo on my sleeve,
one minute spied from an eye corner, the next invisible to squint-study sight.
Poking up among the finely woven linen threads formed to panels, collars,
buttons and tails, a renegade refusing submission, seeks its tenant’s notice.
Like a bee, child, snake or lover, it tentatively positions itself seen and unseen,
always at vision’s edge, reminding, teetering, like all teeming imperfections.
And when I spy its frayed head atop my wrist swathed in tapestried symmetry,
like chance, options, luck, sleep, hope, and calm, I reach to pluck it, and it’s gone.
Like Mary’s lamb, Betty walked us to school each day.
Athough, the street crossing delimited her hospitality.
She left us, standing her curbside guard as we passed,
rounding the corner to the garden playground tarmac,
launching little ones to the land of rowed rote learning.
The morning ritual drew her celebrity as the cut-tail cat,
the shepherd of the suburban neighborhood children.
She pranced for pets, then skittered past to prod them,
“Don’t be late,” as if urging them to the teachers’ walls,
brick-lined in students armed with backpacked lunches.
And thus she bid the morning watchfully, awaiting 2:42
when full of 2+2 and rainbow-colored painted clothes,
her charges returned to their tri-colored ambassador,
strolling four-footed assured along a territory secured
in pats and giggles, amazement and chase of the calico.
A man walks in to the bar and sidles up to me, stool side snug,
gives a side glance quick-like, casual, and motions for the boy;
at least he looks like a boy, tatted up the arm muscle contours,
blues and greens twitching and bulging in the heaves of lugging.
But his face smiles baby-faced 21, hype curbed in sedative cool.
Fleshy-courteous grin, his lips precede his face to our bar seats.
“Scotch, straight up,” he orders as if awaiting a standing ovation.
I make for my screen, avoiding an audience for what’s on Twitter,
scrolling in feigned interest, the intensity frosting an act of denial.
A momentary pondering how my deft fingers in memory motion
flick images by the dozens past, rehearsed in the skin of bones,
I lose sight of him who I spy in the heat of electromagnetic sense.
But he makes himself known with shoe scuffle and breathy groan,
the kind that signals satisfaction of the quaff, smack of the throat,
wedging himself in the blankness of space I apportioned off to me.
“What are you drinking?” the gargling chuff of each word spit out
in rhythmic steam of Scotch, cloying ambition, and blind incursion.
Lifting my head with a start, I flash from half-mast to widened lids.
“Liquid, something liquid,” I reply, speaking to the drop on his lips.
His chin is at 5 o’clock, at shadows, retiring, and sun-downed dark.
Slicked, stay-put hair, one rogue strand licking forehead to cheek,
peppered head to toe with an in-between-ness of age and youth,
he stares, hiding discomfort behind the glaze of liquid eye screen.
“My optometrist knew my diet by my crystal clear corneas,” I offer.
Then he smiles, his eyes disappearing inside of his face in pause.
Deliberately he turns away, glass in one hand, the other propped,
a podium for his head, as his eyes bore holes in the wet, oak bar.
I study his exposed cheek a minute, while he recomposes himself.
Will he strike again from his fox hole retreat, re-armed and ready?
Then likewise turn my head downward, alit to a screen of options.
photo credit: beeroftomorrow.com
My first piece published as a contributing writer for this wonderful journal, The Mindful Word, came out today. Please enjoy this esssay about writing and teaching students old and young about the craft I attribute as salve for what ails us in the human condition of illusory separateness.
Peace,
the Gaze
She had green eyes underneath the brown;
her mouth screamed red ringed with violet.
What color is death?