Cultural Sensitivity Part II

Went to my exercise class today fully expecting the instructor to ignore my request that she refrain from playing the Jesus music. All week I was imagining how a confrontation with her would go, how I'd tell her I was disappointed with her, thinking maybe I'd create some drama and leave the room when she played the offending song, or maybe I'd talk to the owner directly and encourage him to have a little chat about how it's not good business to piss off the members.....I successfully resisted all impulses I had to send her another email telling her what I really thought about the lame response she had when I raised the Jesus music issue.

We greeted each other nicely at the start of class and I just waited. When it came time to play the Jesus song, lo and behold, she played something else! So, notwithstanding her earlier protestations that she had no control over the music, she took the high road. So all the speeches I was ready to spew about respect, and the tyranny of the majority, and cultural sensitivity, were not needed.

I thanked her for jettisoning the song; she replied that she doesn't know things unless people tell her (I still say her judgment was lacking).

So all is well here in suburbia today. Now I'm off to be a good Samaritan for a temple member who needs it; later off to a Penguins game with the hubby and sons #2 & 4.

Of Computers and Cruise Ships, and Blessings

And today’s lesson, children, is that we must always remember to count our blessings. Let us not allow ourselves to be dismayed by life’s little annoyances when we have so much to be thankful for.

If someone had said this to me yesterday afternoon, I might have responded with something like “Hey, why don’t you lighten up a little, I’m busy trying to get these (insert multiple expletives) surround-sound speakers that I got on ebay to work!” Actually, my teenage son got them on ebay, having convinced me that he had thoroughly researched sound systems and these were the greatest deal to be had anywhere on the planet. Then he wore me down with days, weeks, nay, months, of “Can I get the speakers, Mom? Can I, huh? Can I, can I, huh, huh?” So I confess, I caved. I didn’t even ask why he needed five speakers in his bedroom when I have zero speakers in mine.

Within minutes of connecting the subwoofer that was supposed to deliver superior quality 5.1 surround-sound through the five lightweight mini-speakers, my son determined he had been duped. Only one speaker produced any sound at all; the subwoofer, when it wasn’t buzzing loudly, produced no sound whatsoever. Sometimes, between the pathetic tinny strains that were supposed to pass for music coming from the one speaker that did work, you could hear FM radio over the buzzing noise.

I checked the seller’s feedback on ebay. It wasn’t universally terrible. Maybe the seller wasn’t just an evil demon peddling hyped-up junk to the unwary, as we had begun to suspect. I was willing to consider that perhaps the mistake was on our end. Maybe we connected the wrong wires to the wrong jacks. I emailed the seller, who emailed back that I should check the sound card. “Hmmmm, the sound card,” I thought, “I’ve heard of those.” So I got on a live chat with the computer manufacturer to see if they could provide any information on the sound card.

Let me just say this: while the tech support was polite, not openly deriding me for asking about the sound card instead of the more technically-savvy “audio card,” the “tech” was clearly lacking from the “support.” I received the following advice from “Erica”: try plugging your speakers into the phone jack on the back of the computer (can’t be done.) From “Henry”: try downloading new drivers for the card (not humanly possible). From “Debra”: try resetting your BIOS. My what? I managed to follow her directions, with no results. Then we were back to “Erica” again but before she could tell me to click my heels together three times and say “There’s nothing like surround-sound, there’s nothing like surround-sound, there’s nothing like surround-sound,” I lost my internet connection. So much for tech support.

This whole episode lasted about three hours and by dinner time I was swearing a blue streak and it was time to start chauffeuring the kids around to their various activities, which are all mysteriously scheduled the one day of the week that my husband is always out of town. One more of life’s little annoyances but I don’t complain since he is just trying to provide us with food and shelter.

When I returned home at about 8:15, thinking about how good a sledgehammer would look protruding from the computer monitor, my son Noah met me at the door.

“Grandpa called,” he said. “Something happened on their cruise and a bunch of people were killed. He called to say if you see it on the news, don’t worry, they’re okay.”

What? Noah didn’t have any more information than that. I had no way of contacting my in-laws, who were in Chile on the Celebrity Millennium cruise ship. They had been excited about the trip, an exotic 14-day tour up the coast of South America, through Panama, ending at Fort Lauderdale, not far from their home in Boca Raton. Was it a terrorist attack of some kind? I’ve heard of pirates attacking ships at sea. An on-board explosion? I could not even guess.

Forgetting my earlier fantasies of tossing my computer out the second story window, I raced upstairs and got on the internet. I quickly learned that a bus carrying tourists from the Celebrity Millennium had plunged over a mountain cliff, killing at least twelve passengers and severely injuring the rest. If my father-in-law called, I reasoned, they weren’t on the bus. They were not killed, not injured, not in any danger. I breathed a sigh of relief for my family, even as my heart began to ache for the survivors of those killed. Surely they were someone’s parents, in-laws, grandparents.

So today when I woke up, I didn’t bother with the speakers. I didn’t complain when my knees hurt as I crawled out of bed. I greeted the plumber warmly when he arrived to unclog the drains. I smiled when I saw gargantuan piles of clothes and college brochures littering my son’s bedroom floor. I listened to the birds singing as I walked my youngest child to school, holding hands, barely noticing the lack of sun.

Life’s too short, I thought. And thus today’s lesson. I have many blessings to be thankful for, and today I shall count them, one by one, starting with my in-laws. Without them I wouldn’t have my husband, and thus my son. Who by the way asked me today if he can get a new car. An Alfa GTV6 he found on ebay. He says he researched it. And for that I am also thankful.

Barnes&Noble Writing

Here I am sipping a perfectly lovely cappucino at Barnes & Noble, where I've settled in as part of my continuing quest for that perfect writing space, the one that will inspire me to finish the short story I've been working on. I hope to perfect my "show, don't tell" technique and produce a literary work that also appeals to the masses. Not that the masses read short stories. Do they? Who exactly are the masses anyway? Karl Marx said religion is the opium of the masses. Does that mean my exercise instructor is part of the masses (see previous post)?

But back to writing. Originally I planned to go hang out at our newly renovated public library, which lacks a cappucino maker but more than adequately compensates with its comfortable writing space and free internet access. Not wireless, mind you, but I recognize that it will not kill me to walk ten feet to one of their computers. I only nixed the library idea because I have to get my writing done AND all my grocery shopping in the a.m. But since the library and the grocery store are about 15 miles apart, with home being smack in between, the library didn't make logistical sense. With the SUV as my sole mode of transportation and gasoline hovering at $2.50 a gallon, it made fiscal and environmental sense to somehow combine the two tasks. So I headed north toward the grocery store where there was sure to be a Starbucks nearby. In my wallet sits a partially used Starbucks gift card so I wouldn't be spending anything more than I would have at the library and I've found I can write at Starbucks, as long as the door doesn't keep opening and closing and blowing cold air on me. So if I could just find a Starbucks, I could nourish my craving to write as well as satisfy my yen for caffeine.

I began to think as I proceeded north, hmmm, where exactly is there a Starbucks in the vicinity of the grocery store? I may have passed one on the way but the only one I could think of was way over on 228. I didn't feel like fighting traffic. That's when I saw Barnes & Noble, and I remembered how good their cappucino is, and thought about how I could browse in the bargain book section, where I usually have luck finding some nugget of literature I've been meaning to read. Found a great parking spot (it's early in the day so the shoppers have not yet turned out in force) and went in. Immediately found a book that looks promising--something called "The Wife" by Meg Wolitzer (described as "a rolicking, perfectly pitched triumph..." by the L.A. Times...I can read it at the gym)--for a mere $4.98. Used fortitude to stop myself from also picking up "World War I Poems" and "Pere Goriot". They'd look good on my bookshelf but it's already brimming over with classics I've picked up here and there with only the best intentions of improving my mind but haven't gotten around to actually opening.

So anyway, I proceeded to the cafe and ordered my cappucino (it is damn good by the way! Hot and frothy and so perfect with 1 1/2 packets of sugar in the raw) I must say I am very comfortable writing here at my table for four. Only drawback is the man at the next table who seems to be conducting his whole business day from his cell phone, quite loudly. When he really gets going he wanders around the room as he talks. Does he really want all the strangers sitting here in Barnes & Noble to know all about his business dealings? Too bad it's not a video conference. At least then he might look good as he yammers on. Instead he's wearing a ball cap, a gray NFL licensed sweatshirt, baggy jeans and leather shoes of some kind. It's actually rather surprising that he's not wearing sneakers with this ensemble. Maybe he figured since it's a work day he'd dress it up a little. Very little.

Hey there's a hiatus in his calling at this moment. Maybe he finished plowing through his rolodex. I can't complain too much though. It's a public place and not a library so I guess he can blab on as long and as loud as he likes. I just can't figure out why he'd want to. Would his clients/associates/bosses want him to be broadcasting business that way? I doubt it.

Does this count as writing writing? It's amazing the word count I can produce when I'm annoyed about something. Now if I can just apply that principle to my fiction....

Semantics

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised, given who I'm dealing with here. The exercise instructor referred to in my previous post responded to my email questioning her choice of music (overtly Christian) by "I'm sorry that you were offended." Not "I'm sorry I offended you." Nice dish of responsibility from her to me. The semantics are important here. Because her response says "I'm not sorry at all. I didn't do anything wrong. You are at fault for being different from me. And I'm sorry you're different." Whereas, had she responded "I'm sorry I chose that particular song, I should have realized nonChristians don't want to hear about how they have a friend in Jesus," her message would have truly been one of recognition of her insensitivity.

In the final analysis, she's no Christian. She's not "doing unto others" as she would have others do unto her. But the new Christians seem only to care about making unto others as they make unto themselves. Maybe I should just get it over with and convert to Judaism.

Cultural Sensitivity

I love my little town. I really do. It's full of people who march to their own drummers. Business owners, blue collar workers, retirees, growing families. The yards are all big and private and wooded, and overall people respect each other's space. But my little town (just one square mile in size) is unfortunately located smack in the middle of a vast suburban landscape filled with shiny new housing plans (with names like "Grey Oaks" (notice the pretentious spelling of "Grey"), Highpointe (what is that "e" doing at the end?) and "Greenbriar" (like that plan has anything in common with the resort).) And there is an unsettling sameness to the population, which leads to an astonishing cluelessness on the part of a disturbingly large number of people.

Allow me to illustrate: Today I was happily working up a nice sweat in my exercise class with a bunch of other suburban housewives. The instructor, who when she's not working out is studying to be a minister, decided it was appropriate to have us exercise our biceps to a song called "Spirit in the Sky". The chorus of this song goes "You've got a friend in Jesus." Now, one could debate whether I've got a friend in Jesus, depending on one's perspective and country of origin. I don't think my rabbi would particularly agree that Jesus is my friend; my high school math teacher (a nun) would have a different view. But what makes this instructor think that it is even remotely OK to play that kind of music to a room full of people of whose religious inclinations she has not the slightest idea? (In case you were wondering, in this setting, the music is an integral part of the exercise because we incorporate the music into the moves. So you have to listen to it. It's not like it's just in the background.) This is not the first time this has happened. I thought about leaving an anonymous comment in the suggestion box at the club but decided to take the high road and sent an email to the instructor, with my name of course, to air my grievance. Don't worry, it was a nice email, very pleasant and completely devoid of insults. I think. We'll see if/how she responds.

But while we're on the subject of insults, this same instructor, disliking one of the songs she played, said to the room "That song is so retarded!" Am I just hypersensitive today? Or maybe it's that having a close relative with Down Syndrome makes me realize that calling something you don't like "retarded" is really an insult to those in our community and families who are stuggling with mental retardation. I'm astonished at the number of people, even highly educated professional people, who use the word "retarded" to describe something they think is stupid or something they hate. Look up "retarded" in the dictionary. It means to keep delaying; to hinder; to render more slow in progress. "Retarded" does not mean stupid. It does not mean dislikeable. It does not mean annoying. If anyone is reading this, the next time you want to insult someone/thing by saying they're/it's "retarded", remember that (1) you are insulting everyone out there that is dealing with mental retardation, and (2) you would be using of the word improperly anyway. (I did not mention this in my email to the lady. I confess I totally wimped out on it. I really don't feel that people will understand my complaint. I should have more cajones.)

I guess the thing that really gets to me about this episode is that this instructor plays mentor to people in her religious community; she's a mother; she's had every privilege in life; and she's typical in her unwitting insensitivity. Typical in that she's a white christian "educated" person who has no idea that she lives in a bubble almost wholly unrepresentative of the rest of the world. Does that sound harsh? I put "educated" in quotation marks because she, like many of us out here in suburbia, has numerous degrees to her name. But what does she really know about the things that matter? I wonder.