Thoughts on Justice

“Justice is what love looks like in public.”
Dr. Cornel West

Sometimes, living in the United States of America means that very little debris appears in the streets to be wracked about by cars and gusts of wind. Living in the United States of America means that people generally feel some obligation to follow traffic laws. Living in the United States of America means that if you are pulled over by the police, you will probably receive a ticket for the violation you have committed.

Of course, some judges may be bribed. And the Whitehouse itself is full of lobbyists with pockets full of cash. Some cities are run by gangs. Some towns are run by one family.

Justice is not everywhere.

But where we see it, we must applaud. We must applaud justice loudest when we are its recipient: a speeding ticket, an honest witness, a fair judge; a refusal to hire even though we have an uncle there.

Where I'm From

(This was an assignment based on the poem by George Ella Lyon: http://www.georgeellalyon.com/where.html )

I am from Waynesboro,
Pennsylvania,
the United States
of America,
the Central Mountains,
specifically the valleys.
I am rural
but not boots
raised on a farm.
Instead, sneakers
worn down from sidewalks.

I am from Nancy and Ralph,
Helen and David.
Babysitters who were family,
and family who were strangers.
From teachers and nurses

people trying to be faithful.
From church seats to pews to folding chairs--
One Jesus.

I am from early mornings and toaster breakfasts,
mashed potatoes and gravy, homemade chicken soup,
leftovers, and no recipes. Mismatched dishes, a
cluttered kitchen table, a TV on in another room.

I am from the cinema in winter, park in summer--
sunburns and freckles, chapped lips and runny noses--
snowfights and long walks to school with a delay.

I am from the sunset, quiet evening, iced tea,
prowling cat in the bushes of a fading day.
From the back porch overlooking a slanted field;
the field filled up,
now it's Crown Circle.

I am from tears and hope,
shouting and laughter,
trial and defense,
discord and peace.

Loop Inspiration

An exercise for inspiration: begin to write (write!) for two minutes. But you MUST stop after two minutes. Then circle any word from that piece, and begin writing with that word for another two minutes. Repeat. Here is my first loop.
____________________________________

Travel Time.
When you leave the house eventually,
maybe early in the morning,
with no guarantees.
Maybe you will not sleep in a bed tonight.
Maybe you will not sleep, because you are stopped at the border between the U.S.A. and Canada. And the police are inspecting your car.
____________________________________________

Guarantees.
You said "I do."
You exchanged rings.
And yet
it's just whatever.
People tell you both that
breaking this union is
unholy, impossible,
even. Just as you can't
pull apart a golden
circle.
Oh
but you can melt it in fire.
What better symbol can
we exchange?
A heart? A lung?
Bone of my bone
flesh of my flesh.
_______________________________________________

Impossible.
She only has one arm that works. But she is determined to climb the rock wall. So she gets the harness situated, with help. And Wendell holds the ropes, and she begins an ascent.
Impossible.
But she is not alone. Her twin sister uses her two good arms to hoist herself up, just beside her. And with the strength of three arms, they go up, up--to the top.

Hurtful Words

"Oh, that word," Grandpa responded. I looked up into his big eyes, so full of mystery to me then. "That's a hurtful word. People say it when they want to hurt us, son." He was grieved, "But it doesn't hurt us. It only hurts them."

"Is that why they look so angry, Papa?"

"That's why they look so angry. They are hurting a great deal inside."

Everything Natural

I have a hole in my vocabulary: I don't know how to describe landscape. It may be the result of a lack of nature reading. But I am more prone to believe that it comes from a lack of nature. What is a rill? A hummock? What exactly is an escarpment? It sounds like a place where fish might be bred. It gets worse when we're talking about specific types of herbage. As I read James Herriott, a Scottish author, I found myself at a blank when I tried to imagine his environment. I finally gave in and web-searched what peat moss and heather looked like.

My vocabulary hole is even more apparent when I try to write about my environs. I don't even know the name of the tree outside my window. In the summer, its greenery is vibrant enough to obstruct intrusive eyes. In the wintertime, said tree drops its leaves onto our porch from which they are swept into the road to be removed by the street cleaners (which I never see, but know exist, because they are religious about ticketing vehicles). Even after discarding its leaves, long green pods remain on the branches. Throughout the winter, these pods become more and more translucent, revealing small black seeds inside, which obligingly take up the office of the leaves and scatter themselves about our porch, to be swept into the road and then removed by the unseen, yet fastidious, street cleaners. Through my long and fervent commerce with this tree, I have yet to learn its name, or any of its virtues as a plant. As a city-dweller, it merely gets in my way; much like the tree a few houses down which excretes a sap that smells like vomit, and has accordingly been dubbed the vomit tree.

I'm out of touch, you see.
I don't know nature,
and she doesn't know me.
I haven't felt the earth with
my bare, soft feet
in I-don't-know-how-long!
...It may be getting to me.

I remember living in smaller towns growing up. I wasn't so far removed then. I could hike in the woods, and did often. I knew the smaller parks and hiking trails nearby with an almost shameful intimacy. I didn't often feel hungry or tired there. Sometimes, it was a marvel how deeply I lost myself in sunlight and trees. I wanted to be a part of them. Some force would pull me off the trail, to know the outside of the trail, and maybe actually know it... nature, something. Once off the trail, my desire would only grow. There was more, where was it? Knowing tree names wasn't enough, I had to be a part of it, get inside. I would climb a tree, or stoop to the mosses, inspecting the insides of logs. But that tugging does not just go away. Sometimes, in fact, my dissatisfaction rose to anger.

Not long ago, I was visiting Longwood Gardens with my grandparents. While there, I compared it to my first time to Longwood, ten years ago. I had felt that dissatisfied longing to be in nature. I remember how awful it was to be in such an achingly beautiful place, and somehow not really know it. But something was different this trip. As I walked through the conservatory, I felt like singing to God! I felt as though I had to worship and adore the Creator, or I would burst all over the lovely orchids. I smiled dumbly, room after room of incredible colors, each representing a vast framework of design. The longing was still there, but smaller. As I thanked God in prayer for His unrestrained, immoderate beauty, I knew that I was a part of it.

The Bad Boy Question

Why do nice girls fall for bad boys? I think Jodi and I may have routed out an acceptable, though incriminating answer. We have seen it often enough. It sure looks like a plausible answer to what has plagued onlookers for ages.

It seems to be a latent power struggle. A girl sees a young man who respects no one, has an authority problem, digs "freedom," that is, autonomy. He has ascribed to some number of undesirable trends that make her parents cringe a bit when he enters the room. She just laughs at their galled souls, feeling that she has won her own independence.

But this young guy apparently really loves this girl, whom everyone has always called simply "nice." He hangs on her every word. He promises to change, all for her. And maybe he will. But he probably won't.

The girl will tell herself that she owes it to the world to go on trying to reform the reprobate. It is her duty, after all. She is all that he really trusts, all that he really believes to be genuine.

Then they will argue. And he will not give in. And she will be hurt, unwilling to believe that he would refuse her the only thing that she ever thought she was gaining: ultimate control. She selfishly loves him for how she might wield him, like a sharp knife or a sleek gun.

RateMyProfessor.com

seems to be a site where people go to complain that college is hard.

Suck. It. Up.





(Or blog about it...)