Tonight was one of those times when pulling into the driveway after a round of evening errands to find the cars your children drive safely parked, floods the heart with relief.
Jimmy and I enjoyed our little shopping excursion just hours earlier on this Wednesday. Though not feeling energetic, he kept his promise to escort me on the balance of my appointed daily rounds when he returned home from work as I'd not completely finished my To-Do list. There's something a bit lonely about running around town alone in the dark. I'll do it if push comes to shove, but I don't like it.
We had only to maneuver the slightly curved and haphazardly lit stretch of Haynes Drive between Thompson Lane and our house in the eight-count cul-de-sac subdivision named after a local farming family. It's a 30mph road. A touch narrow in spots. Easy to speed up without realizing one's right foot has become leaden.
"What happened?" my husband asked. I didn't immediately see what he discerned just ahead and to the left . . . and I was driving. Two cars were pulled over. A teenage girl ran across the street to three other cars pulled into a side road. A woman spoke into a cell phone next to one of the cars and we asked if help was on the way. She mumbled something. As I was thinking to myself that things didn't look so bad, despite the scrim of smoky haze in the air and the greasy smear of skid marks on the pavement, our point of vantage changed as the truck cruised slowly forward.
And there it was. In a darkened yard, beyond the crushed mailbox, in front of a maple or oak tree, with more teens milling about in various states of being (where did they all come from?) -- sitting, standing, on the phone, quiet, dazed, chattering things like, "It's bad. Really bad!" -- the shadowed bulk of an overturned vehicle sat front and center. I later recalled it as a dark small SUV; my husband remembered it as a small black car. As they say, it all happened so fast: seeing it, digesting the images. Loud music thumped and threatened to drown out everything. It was coming from the wreck. The driver, a high school boy by the looks of him, lay perpendicular to his upended auto, unmoving, while an unknown person spoke to him at his head. Some of the people in the yard were residents of the homes. The carried home phones and wore shocked expressions. A few of the kids' faces appeared so slack, I wondered if they were involved somehow. Though it didn't seem feasible that anyone had come out of that pile of wounded metal and fiberglass in a safe manner. We must have missed the accident by less than a minute, two at the most. No emergency responders could be heard wailing in the distance, though by the time we got home, their siren calls broke the crispness of our fair fall night.
There's this thing I do whenever I come across such scenes as this. Or when I register the sounds of ambulance, police, fire, or medic. It started soon after my niece and nephew died in 2003. Because once you experience the unexpected tragedy, the kind which results in late night knocks at the door or unpleasant phone notifications while at work, you find that you are forever connected to every other tragedy by wit of unwillingly joining a sadly elite club. Tragedy ripples the pond, resonating to the far edges without fail, touching more than just those at the epicenter. So, I pray. Out loud. In the car. With or without the children or husband. For His grace and calm, His protection and comfort, to be present and in control. To halt any further trauma for everyone involved. I ask that He prepare families, emergency personnel, doctors and nurses, pastors and priests and the like, and even the auto and medical insurance companies. I thank Him. In the name of His son, Jesus. Amen. And then I move on because I can do no more.
Tonight, as I reel in the gratitude which accompanies the sure knowledge that my children are in the house and safe, I also wonder after the boy and his family. I cried for him. For me there is only a slight comfort in knowing it is another address where shock and pain will reside for a time. I want him to be okay. I wish I knew if he was alive. I contemplate what the good Samaritan who kept him company may have said or done. I am reminded of a very late-night scene upon which good friends of ours happened many years ago in Broomfield, Colorado. Two boys raced their cars down a deserted stretch of wide open road. When they crashed, our friends, a married couple with no kids at the time, discovered them before the EMT's arrived. While the entire story eludes me, what does stay fixed firmly in my mind is that the husband held one of the boys in his arms while he lay dying. Our friend realized that the boy's scalp was not attached to his skull; he tried to keep it on. Surreal. Unexpected. Heartbreaking. As you can imagine, this horrific chance encounter deeply impacted our friends for quite a long time.
There are no promises, folks. Because I have faith in a power outside of myself, I daily entrust my children to the Lord. Reminding them not to text and drive, stop for red and go for green, stay with the speed limit, etc. does not guarantee their safety. A deer or coyote, even a cat, could alter their trajectory in a hot second. I can't be next to them for every mile, each outing, all challenges. The picture I continue to see in my head of those tires in the air, no solid ground beneath them, urges me to forget not the swiftly changing nature of life.
But I didn't really feel I needed that reminder tonight.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Not Bad At All, Perez Hilton!
Leonard Pitts Jr. of the Miami Herald penned a column which appeared in Murfreesboro's local newspaper, the Daily News Journal, on what he calls 'citizen journalism.' Under this umbrella, he included bloggers. He opened with this salvo, "[Yet] I remain convinced that, with exceptions, citizen journalism is to journalism as pornography is to a Martin Scorsese film; while they may employ similar tools — i.e., camera, lighting — they aspire to different results." His very significant example of what he feels is a fad revolves around one James O'Keefe III, a blogger/filmmaker who employs journalistic-type practices, and last year garnered attention via an undercover camera sting operation of the ACORN group. Among other things, ACORN helped poor and middle income folks, and was rumored to have a hand in irregular voting.
I remember seeing this in the news though he does not report for any news organization. (No longer required to get the exposure.) O'Keefe posed as a pimp and his video shows him supposedly getting advice on how to run his business. A female cohort was trashily clad as one of his prostitutes. The ladies on 'The View' had a lively discussion about it. News organizations everywhere ran clips. That's about the extent of my memory.
But based on what Mr. Pitts had written, I thought to dig further. Online, of course, because that is what's at my disposal. The hits on O'Keefe are far too numerous to mention, though it is significant to note that the House of Reps and FOX news considered him to be somewhat of an investigative journalist hero after the story broke. And, being the right-wing media darling that he became for a time, the bias on either side could fill two separate library wings. However, I read enough, both in my online hunting and in this mentioned article itself, to discern what's at the heart of the matter. The sharp-edged object which sticks in the craw of the columnist, was, and is, the foundation from which O'Keefe's work springs and how he goes about the business of gathering his information and disseminating it. Near the end of the October 10th, 2010 column which started this whole blog entry of mine, I came across the perfect summation by a trained and practicing writer for the public, "You cannot be a journalist — citizen or otherwise — if credibility matters less to you than ideology."
There is evidence that young O'Keefe is not above possibly breaking the law by misrepresenting himself as a telephone company employee to gain access to a public officials lines, or trying to pull an elaborate prank on a female CNN reporter who he considered a vacuous blond only out to make him appear stupid in the liberal press. His ACORN footage, or rather the cut-and-paste job, is also in question. His brain power is not in question. His eagerness is not at fault. But he should probably decided if he wants to be taken seriously or not because there are people out there who were taking him at his word.
There's research, and then there's backing up that research with facts. There are interviews, and then there are the countless contacts with the interviewee subject(s) to clarify points. There often exists video documentation; it must be edited responsibly and without omitting key images, without the intent to mislead or further a cause. At least, that's the case in journalism. The model, let's say.
But maybe that's where it all goes wrong in the point of this article. Or maybe it was just a missing point. Or, more likely, the designated word count for the column space kept Leonard Pitts Jr. from venturing any further into the fray he so, for the most part, dislikes.
While in my role as a blogger I write for practice and to express opinions and feelings to a rather small group of readers, countless bloggers have more specific and finite purposes behind their Internet ventures. Quite often, that drive is generally spurred by a need to be widely seen and heard, and inflammatory language and provocative methods are enacted to further this cause -- whether that cause be political, religious, etc.
Case in point is Perez Hilton, a pop-culture blogger enjoying widespread fame and attention; he largely lambastes the famous and the closeted gay community without any reining in of expression. But recently he appeared on Ellen Degeneres' show and promised to turn over a new leaf, not wanting to appear bigoted or hypocritical any longer in light of recent stories in the news about youth suicides stemming from bullying, some of them gay kids. Now, though not a fan of his, I did like something he said about the future of his website, "I'm not going to go the mean route. I'm going to force myself to be funnier or smarter . . . not out people."
Because bloggers don't have any rules they must follow, the content of any site is only edited by the writer. This allows enormous openings for ego, slant, full-on lies, and all manner of personal perspective unfettered by possible discipline or loss of employment. And off of these qualities, more than a few individuals have managed to capture the attention, and intelligence, of the American reader. (I'm NOT addressing the entire planet here. Nor do I include the multitudes of delightful blogs on art, cooking, family, etc.)
In my writing, I attempt to research before I write on a subject outside of my own experience. Further, there is never an intent to inflict emotional harm on a person or group of persons to make my own writing sound juicier or more interesting. And guess what?! Even with those guidelines, I have managed to unwittingly injure a reader or two by crossing a line I didn't see; I absorbed those stings with a lesson learned, eager to fold it into my craft, ready to improve as necessary. Even apologizing as needed.
But in this day of 24-7 news and bully-pits, we are all subjected to vast amounts of information, not all of it good or healthy or worthy. It requires us to exercise insight to read between the lines. And more than a few pairs of sturdy canvas gloves to weed through the invasive overgrowth of pseudo-news. Where's the line, anymore? More than that, when did fairness and fair play, on all sides and the middle, go out of fashion? Not to mention true humor and circumspect intelligence, which is what Mr. Hilton intimated per his own desire to alter his methods. Honestly -- and quite surprisingly to me as I never saw myself praising Perez Hilton for anything -- the gauntlet has been thrown down. Whether it's in the rule book or not, bloggers should bear the burden of their writing in the enormous public forum of the Internet. It's been a free-for-all for far too long. Surely our brain cells can be stimulated without titillation every time we focus our eyeballs on the screen?!
Interesting, really. Smart and funny seems to be what a majority state as qualities they seek in a good friend or mate. It appears they can be applied elsewhere with the same effect. Hmmm.
I remember seeing this in the news though he does not report for any news organization. (No longer required to get the exposure.) O'Keefe posed as a pimp and his video shows him supposedly getting advice on how to run his business. A female cohort was trashily clad as one of his prostitutes. The ladies on 'The View' had a lively discussion about it. News organizations everywhere ran clips. That's about the extent of my memory.
But based on what Mr. Pitts had written, I thought to dig further. Online, of course, because that is what's at my disposal. The hits on O'Keefe are far too numerous to mention, though it is significant to note that the House of Reps and FOX news considered him to be somewhat of an investigative journalist hero after the story broke. And, being the right-wing media darling that he became for a time, the bias on either side could fill two separate library wings. However, I read enough, both in my online hunting and in this mentioned article itself, to discern what's at the heart of the matter. The sharp-edged object which sticks in the craw of the columnist, was, and is, the foundation from which O'Keefe's work springs and how he goes about the business of gathering his information and disseminating it. Near the end of the October 10th, 2010 column which started this whole blog entry of mine, I came across the perfect summation by a trained and practicing writer for the public, "You cannot be a journalist — citizen or otherwise — if credibility matters less to you than ideology."
There is evidence that young O'Keefe is not above possibly breaking the law by misrepresenting himself as a telephone company employee to gain access to a public officials lines, or trying to pull an elaborate prank on a female CNN reporter who he considered a vacuous blond only out to make him appear stupid in the liberal press. His ACORN footage, or rather the cut-and-paste job, is also in question. His brain power is not in question. His eagerness is not at fault. But he should probably decided if he wants to be taken seriously or not because there are people out there who were taking him at his word.
There's research, and then there's backing up that research with facts. There are interviews, and then there are the countless contacts with the interviewee subject(s) to clarify points. There often exists video documentation; it must be edited responsibly and without omitting key images, without the intent to mislead or further a cause. At least, that's the case in journalism. The model, let's say.
But maybe that's where it all goes wrong in the point of this article. Or maybe it was just a missing point. Or, more likely, the designated word count for the column space kept Leonard Pitts Jr. from venturing any further into the fray he so, for the most part, dislikes.
While in my role as a blogger I write for practice and to express opinions and feelings to a rather small group of readers, countless bloggers have more specific and finite purposes behind their Internet ventures. Quite often, that drive is generally spurred by a need to be widely seen and heard, and inflammatory language and provocative methods are enacted to further this cause -- whether that cause be political, religious, etc.
Case in point is Perez Hilton, a pop-culture blogger enjoying widespread fame and attention; he largely lambastes the famous and the closeted gay community without any reining in of expression. But recently he appeared on Ellen Degeneres' show and promised to turn over a new leaf, not wanting to appear bigoted or hypocritical any longer in light of recent stories in the news about youth suicides stemming from bullying, some of them gay kids. Now, though not a fan of his, I did like something he said about the future of his website, "I'm not going to go the mean route. I'm going to force myself to be funnier or smarter . . . not out people."
Because bloggers don't have any rules they must follow, the content of any site is only edited by the writer. This allows enormous openings for ego, slant, full-on lies, and all manner of personal perspective unfettered by possible discipline or loss of employment. And off of these qualities, more than a few individuals have managed to capture the attention, and intelligence, of the American reader. (I'm NOT addressing the entire planet here. Nor do I include the multitudes of delightful blogs on art, cooking, family, etc.)
In my writing, I attempt to research before I write on a subject outside of my own experience. Further, there is never an intent to inflict emotional harm on a person or group of persons to make my own writing sound juicier or more interesting. And guess what?! Even with those guidelines, I have managed to unwittingly injure a reader or two by crossing a line I didn't see; I absorbed those stings with a lesson learned, eager to fold it into my craft, ready to improve as necessary. Even apologizing as needed.
But in this day of 24-7 news and bully-pits, we are all subjected to vast amounts of information, not all of it good or healthy or worthy. It requires us to exercise insight to read between the lines. And more than a few pairs of sturdy canvas gloves to weed through the invasive overgrowth of pseudo-news. Where's the line, anymore? More than that, when did fairness and fair play, on all sides and the middle, go out of fashion? Not to mention true humor and circumspect intelligence, which is what Mr. Hilton intimated per his own desire to alter his methods. Honestly -- and quite surprisingly to me as I never saw myself praising Perez Hilton for anything -- the gauntlet has been thrown down. Whether it's in the rule book or not, bloggers should bear the burden of their writing in the enormous public forum of the Internet. It's been a free-for-all for far too long. Surely our brain cells can be stimulated without titillation every time we focus our eyeballs on the screen?!
Interesting, really. Smart and funny seems to be what a majority state as qualities they seek in a good friend or mate. It appears they can be applied elsewhere with the same effect. Hmmm.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
The Flavors Of A Sunday
My church had a baby dedication this morning. Unlike the Catholic church, this is not a baptism into the faith but a covenant between the parents and the church and the Lord: we mere mortals promise to exhibit and profess the love of Jesus Christ through action and prayer as the child grows, learns, and moves toward the day he is able to make his own profession of faith and THEN be baptized into His fold.
I was struck by the loveliness of it all. The young radiant mother so fresh faced and pretty as she stood by our pastor, who held her infant son as he entreated those of us in the seats to recognize this significant moment. In unison, we all agreed to do right by the child. He joked of how every baby he ever deigned to cradle during these dedications cried; there was no wailing or gnashing of gums this time around. Later, I learned that the mama -- who was once youth pastor to my kids more than a few years back -- had reworked the sleeping schedule to facilitate a more peaceful ceremony. Clever woman! Them there's mothering instincts at work.
I was moved by the display of freedom evident in the mere exercising of this event. That a group of fellow believers could leave their chairs and gather around four generations and pray for their lives and the future of their newest member with no fear of retaliation or negative consequences?! I never want to take that for granted. There was such power in being present and involved and a contributing part to the whole. And that it could be documented as a part of our church history through the photographic talents of our pastor's wife -- who, aside from being a fine pastor's wife, is a person of many other worthy facets -- makes it all the more meaningful.
From beginning to end, I was personally moved to tears and intense emotion. My heart and mind were about the business of internalizing, examination, recollection, and prayer. I hadn't known that this dedication was scheduled on this most auspicious date of 10/10/10. It dovetailed with the one year anniversary of the accidental death of our Cousin Josephine's eldest boy, Jonathon. And, for the past week, thoughts of my young niece and infant nephew, who were killed in 2003 by my little sister in a post-partum fit of psychosis, have kept me regular company. So today was the bitter with the sweet. As real as it gets.
At one point, a slide show played while a young woman sang. Images of the start of this baby's life came alive on double screens fully visible to everyone. There was a shot of our one-time little neighbor girl holding her tiny relative, her fall of white blond hair a perfect frame for their faces. I thought of Grace, my niece, when she sat in the rocking chair at the medical center in Lamar, and proudly held her new baby brother for the very first time. I took that picture. I remembered the tenderness with which my son held his infant cousin when it came his turn. I took that picture, too. I had been struck by the loveliness of those moments as well.
As the slides progressed, displaying various friends and family members enjoying their turn at celebrating this precious new arrival, another of my pictures came to my mind. A mother sitting on porch steps with her close-knit brood surrounding her, smiling into the camera, not thrilled with the paparazzi but clearly pleased to have her seven boys and girls in the shot. It was the last group photo taken of Cousin Josephine and her family before inclement weather and bad roads claimed the life of her college-aged son. The night before she buried her child, I had the privilege of praying for her in the quiet of her living room amidst laundry and a collection of mementos which had belonged to Jon. At the funeral, I joined others in singing songs intended to both soothe and stir. I watched the procession of grieving folks who mourned alongside this dear family. And no words would do.
The promise of a child, once as tender and newly welcomed as the baby at church this morning, cut short because there is no guarantee of everlasting life on this plane of existence. No momentous ceremony, no amount of planning, no safety course in anything has the power to hold our sons and daughters to us despite our desires to the contrary.
In a wave which threatened to overwhelm me, except for the grace of Christ which held me, the grief shook me in places where doors have not previously been open. There were entire rooms furnished in sorrow, accents of guilt hanging in the corners. I thanked the Lord for the brief gift of these lives He had allowed, lives partially grown and then lost. My limited mind imagined His hand reaching down to touch the faces of my cousin and my sister. Gently easing the lines around their eyes and the creases about their mouths. I saw my great-grandma seated with other elders long gone to us here, clapping their hands with joy as Grace twirled her petite self at the feet of God on His throne. I can only imagine as the modern song of worship goes. I can only go on the faith I choose to believe and profess despite the scoffing of intellectuals and the ridicule of non-believers.
I asked the Lord to air out those rooms, allow the grief to rise, be addressed and felt, and then to vacate and never return. Even as I cried, which I was a bit dismayed to do at this joyous occasion, I was grateful for the internal excavation. Once the cumbersome and weighty furnishings were removed, the spaces could be filled with the fully functional presence of a Lord who has sustained me and given me cause to comfort others from the well of my own experience.
For me, this was a day that the Lord hath made.
I was struck by the loveliness of it all. The young radiant mother so fresh faced and pretty as she stood by our pastor, who held her infant son as he entreated those of us in the seats to recognize this significant moment. In unison, we all agreed to do right by the child. He joked of how every baby he ever deigned to cradle during these dedications cried; there was no wailing or gnashing of gums this time around. Later, I learned that the mama -- who was once youth pastor to my kids more than a few years back -- had reworked the sleeping schedule to facilitate a more peaceful ceremony. Clever woman! Them there's mothering instincts at work.
I was moved by the display of freedom evident in the mere exercising of this event. That a group of fellow believers could leave their chairs and gather around four generations and pray for their lives and the future of their newest member with no fear of retaliation or negative consequences?! I never want to take that for granted. There was such power in being present and involved and a contributing part to the whole. And that it could be documented as a part of our church history through the photographic talents of our pastor's wife -- who, aside from being a fine pastor's wife, is a person of many other worthy facets -- makes it all the more meaningful.
From beginning to end, I was personally moved to tears and intense emotion. My heart and mind were about the business of internalizing, examination, recollection, and prayer. I hadn't known that this dedication was scheduled on this most auspicious date of 10/10/10. It dovetailed with the one year anniversary of the accidental death of our Cousin Josephine's eldest boy, Jonathon. And, for the past week, thoughts of my young niece and infant nephew, who were killed in 2003 by my little sister in a post-partum fit of psychosis, have kept me regular company. So today was the bitter with the sweet. As real as it gets.
At one point, a slide show played while a young woman sang. Images of the start of this baby's life came alive on double screens fully visible to everyone. There was a shot of our one-time little neighbor girl holding her tiny relative, her fall of white blond hair a perfect frame for their faces. I thought of Grace, my niece, when she sat in the rocking chair at the medical center in Lamar, and proudly held her new baby brother for the very first time. I took that picture. I remembered the tenderness with which my son held his infant cousin when it came his turn. I took that picture, too. I had been struck by the loveliness of those moments as well.
As the slides progressed, displaying various friends and family members enjoying their turn at celebrating this precious new arrival, another of my pictures came to my mind. A mother sitting on porch steps with her close-knit brood surrounding her, smiling into the camera, not thrilled with the paparazzi but clearly pleased to have her seven boys and girls in the shot. It was the last group photo taken of Cousin Josephine and her family before inclement weather and bad roads claimed the life of her college-aged son. The night before she buried her child, I had the privilege of praying for her in the quiet of her living room amidst laundry and a collection of mementos which had belonged to Jon. At the funeral, I joined others in singing songs intended to both soothe and stir. I watched the procession of grieving folks who mourned alongside this dear family. And no words would do.
The promise of a child, once as tender and newly welcomed as the baby at church this morning, cut short because there is no guarantee of everlasting life on this plane of existence. No momentous ceremony, no amount of planning, no safety course in anything has the power to hold our sons and daughters to us despite our desires to the contrary.
In a wave which threatened to overwhelm me, except for the grace of Christ which held me, the grief shook me in places where doors have not previously been open. There were entire rooms furnished in sorrow, accents of guilt hanging in the corners. I thanked the Lord for the brief gift of these lives He had allowed, lives partially grown and then lost. My limited mind imagined His hand reaching down to touch the faces of my cousin and my sister. Gently easing the lines around their eyes and the creases about their mouths. I saw my great-grandma seated with other elders long gone to us here, clapping their hands with joy as Grace twirled her petite self at the feet of God on His throne. I can only imagine as the modern song of worship goes. I can only go on the faith I choose to believe and profess despite the scoffing of intellectuals and the ridicule of non-believers.
I asked the Lord to air out those rooms, allow the grief to rise, be addressed and felt, and then to vacate and never return. Even as I cried, which I was a bit dismayed to do at this joyous occasion, I was grateful for the internal excavation. Once the cumbersome and weighty furnishings were removed, the spaces could be filled with the fully functional presence of a Lord who has sustained me and given me cause to comfort others from the well of my own experience.
For me, this was a day that the Lord hath made.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Not-So-Random Gay Thoughts Part 1
Dictionary.com app definition on the iPhone for the word 'gay':
1) having or showing a merry, lively mood: gay spirits; gay music
2) bright or showy: gay colors; gay ornaments
3) given to or abounding in social or other pleasures: a gay social season
4) licentious; dissipated; wanton: The baron is a gay old rogue with an eye for the ladies.
5) HOMOSEXUAL
6) of, indicating, or supporting homosexual interests or issues: a gay organization
7) a homosexual person, esp. a male
8) in a gay manner
Encarta World English Dictionary definition for the word 'gay': (my copy published in 1999)
1) HOMOSEXUAL homosexual in sexual orientation
2) MERRY full of light-heartedness and merriment (dated)
3) BRIGHT IN COLOUR brightly coloured (dated)
4) CAREFREE having or showing a carefree spirit (dated)
5) DEBAUCHED leading a debauched or dissolute life (dated)
6) HOMOSEXUAL especially a male homosexual
In the Random House College Dictionary given to me upon my high school graduation in 1988 by then vice-principal of Livingston High School, Joan Orr, the meaning for 'gay' still centered around a joyous mood or convivial aspect of person. The 5th definition, listed as a slang use, was for homosexual.
A Webster's New World Dictionary: Basic School Edition, copyrighted lastly in 1971 -- which was either found by me at a garage sale or given to me by a friend who herself unearthed it at a garage sale -- contains only two adjectival references referring to happy, and bright and showy. (An interesting sidebar: the printing company was based in Nashville, Tennessee. Just up the road from me.)
I won't test your patience with entries from my collection of thesauri (or thesauruses, take your pick) to point out the order over the decades of varied and sundry synonym forms for 'gay.' The message is clear: the English language has changed over time. And, depending upon the scope of the dictionary, whether published for an American readership or a more international audience, the use and significance attributed to the word can vary. This seems to dovetail with an e-mailed tidbit a friend shared with me recently, whereby he noted that American English seemed to differ from European English in key areas. Please note this is not a controlled scientific study, but more of an observation based on what I've come across in my research for this particular blog entry. But I do wonder what group of contemporary experts decided what definition would be best suited to the particular publication. And what were their criteria? Were any of them happy? Or homosexual? Or, perhaps, both?
The obvious question to anyone who doesn't know me very well or who has not exposure to my Facebook wall is why all of this somewhat academic attention to the word 'gay?' There may be a follow-up question concerning my familiarity with, and ownership of, dictionaries in general. Both are to be expected and welcomed.
In early July of this year, I began a daily feature on my Facebook page called 'Random Gay Pic of the Day.' It started with an exasperated comment made by my younger, but considerably taller and blonder, brother. I spent almost three weeks in California visiting him and our baby brother. In the process, my camera and iPhone were kept quite busy chronicling the journey. I may have crossed the line into paparazzi-ish type behavior every now and again, taking big sister special company liberties. It was our last night together. His wife had prepared a lovely supper which we ate on the patio in the mellowing sunset, accompanied by glasses of red wine and dishes of homemade vanilla ice cream.
In the middle of our conversation, I was struck by his casual pose and quickly took the shot so as to upload it for my fans of the Gloria status updates. In a tone encompassing a candid trifecta of sibling affection, brotherly annoyance, and personal resignation to circumstances beyond his understanding and control, he intoned, "Oh, great! Another random gay picture for your Facebook page." Though I knew his usage of the word to be in keeping with the modern perjorative employed mainly by middle and high school kids, but widespread in certain sectors of worldwide communities, I chose to post his picture with the phrase because his statement pleased me, tickled me, colored me happy. Yes, I really do give that much thought in the merest of seconds to any number of things which enter my brain through the senses God gave me.
By the next day, friends on my wall had commented with delight and the question was asked as to when the next Random Gay Picture would make an appearance: it had become a Title overnight! People specifically wanted to see it continue. They looked forward to checking in on a daily basis. I loved the idea. Facebook was, and is, my playground, open to friends and family and fun. Not to mention pictures upon pictures. To me, the online social site is a mode of connection and communication, usually more casual and less serious, though levity is at times temporarily suspended out of necessity. In general, my thought life, and much of what I deal with on an everyday basis, is quite serious and heavy. Facebook is one of the few regular forums at my immediate disposal for lightheartedness.
So, that one carefree photo post morphed into days, weeks, and almost three months of pictorial posts featuring very random moments, objects, and people in various states. There was no rhyme or reason other than they captured my attention in a small space of mental time and begged to be the subject for the day. One day's shot was a moist sponge -- humorous to me because a girlfriend of my daughter's had an aversion to the word 'moist' which I found peculiar. I had launched into a friendly defense of the word, pointing out that the best cakes and brownies could not be adequately described without employing it. I tagged her after uploading. Another time, more than once I believe, roadkill piqued my antennae. What can I say? It interests me, the way animals end up caught in these odd squashed poses of finality. They are almost beautiful. And, these days I can't see a dead-by-Michelin racoon or skunk without recalling a man I saw on 'Sunday Morning' who went about collecting freshly deceased highway fare and preparing it for his dining pleasure. His freezer was full of carefully cleaned and cut fauna of the less traditional sort.
My last official Random Gay Photo (I vacillated between 'pic' and 'photo') was a still life of my high school daughter's hair piece. She bought the thing to beef up her already long full locks for last year's prom. One of her girlfriends showed her how to maintain the rather costly piece of synthetic vanity, and she's taken to wearing it almost everyday since summer ended. It cracks me up. On this particular evening, I happened across it on the coffee table. All alone. Bereft without its owner. I tossed it on the carpet and forever captured it on digital. It's likeness on Facebook attracted several entertaining comments. Mission accomplished.
But I also received a very thoughtful and uncharacteristically long Facebook e-mail message from a friend who fits the aforementioned first and sixth definition of Encarta's entries. He was contacting me at the behest of several of his straight friends who had happened upon my feature and found it offensive. Though his personal knowledge of me had tempered his concern over my use of the word 'gay,' and he actually found himself defending me, they brought up valid points which he gamely tried to convey. He included a link to a website which he felt stated more clearly what he was attempting to carefully but emphatically express: http://www.thinkb4youspeak.com/glsen/consequences/ .
Reading that e-mail and checking out the website enhanced my perspective and instantly changed my playground into an internal forum for an intense, and not altogether comfortable period of time.
More on that tomorrow.
1) having or showing a merry, lively mood: gay spirits; gay music
2) bright or showy: gay colors; gay ornaments
3) given to or abounding in social or other pleasures: a gay social season
4) licentious; dissipated; wanton: The baron is a gay old rogue with an eye for the ladies.
5) HOMOSEXUAL
6) of, indicating, or supporting homosexual interests or issues: a gay organization
7) a homosexual person, esp. a male
8) in a gay manner
Encarta World English Dictionary definition for the word 'gay': (my copy published in 1999)
1) HOMOSEXUAL homosexual in sexual orientation
2) MERRY full of light-heartedness and merriment (dated)
3) BRIGHT IN COLOUR brightly coloured (dated)
4) CAREFREE having or showing a carefree spirit (dated)
5) DEBAUCHED leading a debauched or dissolute life (dated)
6) HOMOSEXUAL especially a male homosexual
In the Random House College Dictionary given to me upon my high school graduation in 1988 by then vice-principal of Livingston High School, Joan Orr, the meaning for 'gay' still centered around a joyous mood or convivial aspect of person. The 5th definition, listed as a slang use, was for homosexual.
A Webster's New World Dictionary: Basic School Edition, copyrighted lastly in 1971 -- which was either found by me at a garage sale or given to me by a friend who herself unearthed it at a garage sale -- contains only two adjectival references referring to happy, and bright and showy. (An interesting sidebar: the printing company was based in Nashville, Tennessee. Just up the road from me.)
I won't test your patience with entries from my collection of thesauri (or thesauruses, take your pick) to point out the order over the decades of varied and sundry synonym forms for 'gay.' The message is clear: the English language has changed over time. And, depending upon the scope of the dictionary, whether published for an American readership or a more international audience, the use and significance attributed to the word can vary. This seems to dovetail with an e-mailed tidbit a friend shared with me recently, whereby he noted that American English seemed to differ from European English in key areas. Please note this is not a controlled scientific study, but more of an observation based on what I've come across in my research for this particular blog entry. But I do wonder what group of contemporary experts decided what definition would be best suited to the particular publication. And what were their criteria? Were any of them happy? Or homosexual? Or, perhaps, both?
The obvious question to anyone who doesn't know me very well or who has not exposure to my Facebook wall is why all of this somewhat academic attention to the word 'gay?' There may be a follow-up question concerning my familiarity with, and ownership of, dictionaries in general. Both are to be expected and welcomed.
In early July of this year, I began a daily feature on my Facebook page called 'Random Gay Pic of the Day.' It started with an exasperated comment made by my younger, but considerably taller and blonder, brother. I spent almost three weeks in California visiting him and our baby brother. In the process, my camera and iPhone were kept quite busy chronicling the journey. I may have crossed the line into paparazzi-ish type behavior every now and again, taking big sister special company liberties. It was our last night together. His wife had prepared a lovely supper which we ate on the patio in the mellowing sunset, accompanied by glasses of red wine and dishes of homemade vanilla ice cream.
In the middle of our conversation, I was struck by his casual pose and quickly took the shot so as to upload it for my fans of the Gloria status updates. In a tone encompassing a candid trifecta of sibling affection, brotherly annoyance, and personal resignation to circumstances beyond his understanding and control, he intoned, "Oh, great! Another random gay picture for your Facebook page." Though I knew his usage of the word to be in keeping with the modern perjorative employed mainly by middle and high school kids, but widespread in certain sectors of worldwide communities, I chose to post his picture with the phrase because his statement pleased me, tickled me, colored me happy. Yes, I really do give that much thought in the merest of seconds to any number of things which enter my brain through the senses God gave me.
By the next day, friends on my wall had commented with delight and the question was asked as to when the next Random Gay Picture would make an appearance: it had become a Title overnight! People specifically wanted to see it continue. They looked forward to checking in on a daily basis. I loved the idea. Facebook was, and is, my playground, open to friends and family and fun. Not to mention pictures upon pictures. To me, the online social site is a mode of connection and communication, usually more casual and less serious, though levity is at times temporarily suspended out of necessity. In general, my thought life, and much of what I deal with on an everyday basis, is quite serious and heavy. Facebook is one of the few regular forums at my immediate disposal for lightheartedness.
So, that one carefree photo post morphed into days, weeks, and almost three months of pictorial posts featuring very random moments, objects, and people in various states. There was no rhyme or reason other than they captured my attention in a small space of mental time and begged to be the subject for the day. One day's shot was a moist sponge -- humorous to me because a girlfriend of my daughter's had an aversion to the word 'moist' which I found peculiar. I had launched into a friendly defense of the word, pointing out that the best cakes and brownies could not be adequately described without employing it. I tagged her after uploading. Another time, more than once I believe, roadkill piqued my antennae. What can I say? It interests me, the way animals end up caught in these odd squashed poses of finality. They are almost beautiful. And, these days I can't see a dead-by-Michelin racoon or skunk without recalling a man I saw on 'Sunday Morning' who went about collecting freshly deceased highway fare and preparing it for his dining pleasure. His freezer was full of carefully cleaned and cut fauna of the less traditional sort.
My last official Random Gay Photo (I vacillated between 'pic' and 'photo') was a still life of my high school daughter's hair piece. She bought the thing to beef up her already long full locks for last year's prom. One of her girlfriends showed her how to maintain the rather costly piece of synthetic vanity, and she's taken to wearing it almost everyday since summer ended. It cracks me up. On this particular evening, I happened across it on the coffee table. All alone. Bereft without its owner. I tossed it on the carpet and forever captured it on digital. It's likeness on Facebook attracted several entertaining comments. Mission accomplished.
But I also received a very thoughtful and uncharacteristically long Facebook e-mail message from a friend who fits the aforementioned first and sixth definition of Encarta's entries. He was contacting me at the behest of several of his straight friends who had happened upon my feature and found it offensive. Though his personal knowledge of me had tempered his concern over my use of the word 'gay,' and he actually found himself defending me, they brought up valid points which he gamely tried to convey. He included a link to a website which he felt stated more clearly what he was attempting to carefully but emphatically express: http://www.thinkb4youspeak.com/glsen/consequences/ .
Reading that e-mail and checking out the website enhanced my perspective and instantly changed my playground into an internal forum for an intense, and not altogether comfortable period of time.
More on that tomorrow.
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