The Gray Studebaker

      She drove a Studebaker and she lived in a little one-room house down the hill from the town cemetery. The house was gray and square. There was no yard and no flowers except the occasional wild crocus or the wandering daffodil. The ground was hard, bare, and barren. If the woman had ever been married, it had been a long time ago and she wasn't married now. If there were children, they didn't live in town and they never came to visit her. She lived alone. Like the house, she seemed gray, square and resigned to fate. The Studebaker, with its stylish, distinctive design sat gloriously in the front yard. It too, was gray, and seemed unhappy with the choice. It seemed oddly out of balance with its surroundings.

      There were two double beds opposite one another inside the large front room of the house. A row of kitchen cupboards, a kitchen sink, and an old stove ran the length of the front wall, interrupted half-way by the front door. The wood stove sat in the remaining front corner. On the back wall another small door opened into a tiny bathroom added on in later years when indoor plumbing became the vogue. Homemade curtains made the two windows look even sadder and no family photos or paintings adorned the walls. 

     The child, just a little thing, sat dangling her legs over one of the beds. She could think of none of the curious questions with which she usually peppered older people. The woman paced back and forth across the room in a nervous way. The child and the woman were new to one another that day. But the child knew the gray Studebaker. She saw it speeding down the street quite often and  whenever she did, the playing in the barn or in the old abandoned car down by the vegetable garden would screech to a stop as the child gazed and dreamed. She loved that Studebaker almost as much as she loved Zorro.

     "What shall we do today while your Daddy and Mommy are in Holbrook," the woman brusquely asked. Her tone hinted that she wouldn't have minded if the child stayed put and dangled her legs over the bed all day. This was indeed a woman unacquainted with children. The child, in her Sunday best dress with her white anklets and black patent leather shoes, had to process the question for a moment. She was the youngest of a gaggle of cousins and she had never been asked what she would like to do by anyone. What a novel idea. Carefully, she considered her options. 

     The one thing the child wanted most of all was the one thing she dared not ask. A ride in the front seat of that big, gray Studebaker. With the windows down and the wind blowing her detestable curly hair straight out. She wanted to whiz down the road past the cousins' house and casually deliver a limp wave in their general direction as they gazed from behind the broken picket fence. Who knows why children love the things they do, but this child loved that Studebaker. 

     Time has erased the memory of the moment the child and the woman agreed upon a ride in the Studebaker. Timidly. Oh, so carefully. With perfect politeness. "Can we go for a ride in your car?" The woman's face broke into a careless grin and the child, suddenly sure of welcome, flew from the bed and across the room to her. Together, they walked out of the gray, square house and to the Studebaker. It was an afternoon of sheer delights for two kindred spirits cruising the streets of the little town, speeding down the dirt roads of the surrounding farmer's fields, and traveling down the gray-topped highway toward the White Mountains. 

     Many years ago, the woman moved up the hill to the cemetery. The house, while still standing, has fallen into disrepair. The rafters have collapsed and only the strong adobe bricks support what is left of the roof. Cows graze among the carcasses of old discarded cars and farming machinery. The Studebaker, that blazing dream of possibilities, is of course, long gone, too. And that's a good thing. I could not bear to see it abandoned and rusted, sitting on its axles. 

     Neither time, nor distance, nor age, nor circumstance has dimmed the memory of a little girl in her white anklets and the woman in her sensible shoes and their wonderful afternoon together in a magnificent gray Studebaker. 

     That's how I remember it. 

For better or worse, in sickness and health . . . . . . .

Everyone draws a line in the sand sooner or later. We may not realize we have drawn one, but Karma kicks in sooner or later. We either set that sandy line in stone or we erase it. Our choice. Our consequences.

For me, that moment came knocking yesterday. The topic of open marriage, not a favorite one among my friends and family, was forced upon me without warning. I rapidly became involved in a hotly contested online argument. To use the word 'debate' would lend the conversation a respectability it does not deserve. I'm no stranger to controversy, but the ferocity of this exchange surprised even me. Among other even less complimentary adjectives, I was called an 'ass'. Duly noted.

I have spent the better part of the last ten years advocating for Marriage Equality, a position that has cost me the esteem of many of my personal friends and family. Time and again, I have stood alone in the face of considerable religious, social, and family pressure. I believe and I will always believe that marriage is a civil right that ought to be extended to all couples, regardless of orientation. Marriage is a sacred sacrament. It is a legally binding document. It is real. It embodies not only many privileges, but also many responsibilities and promises.

I feel betrayed. Yesterday, as I listened to a few shrill voices bat marriage around as if it was so much dirty laundry, I began to look at my hard fought advocacy as a king-sized waste of time. What on earth was I fighting for? Personally, I have enjoyed the myriad benefits of marriage and family for a very long time. I have no 'skin in the game' and I could have lived a much calmer, more serene life without even bothering to care about the rights of a sizable minority.

Open Marriage is a flimsy excuse used by some who have become disenchanted with the hard work and sacrifice of living in monogamy. Hard to hear? I'll bet.

Open Marriage is demanding the right to be unfaithful to someone that has been promised the very best part of yourself - and then demanding a merit badge for it. Hard to hear? I'll bet.

Open Marriage, while some may believe that the arrangement is only the business of the couple involved, affects children, parents, in-laws, neighbors, friends, employers,  . . . . . . . but this is the crux of the matter, isn't it? It's actually NOT all about you. Which is kind of the problem. Open Marriage is about willful selfishness. It's a pathetic attempt to have your cake and eat it, too. Hard to hear? I'll bet.

Open Marriage. What to do, what to do? What if your 'playmate' decides that he or she has actually done a dumb thing and fallen in love with you? Friends, what we have here is the plot for a very scary movie. Oh. Wait. That's been done. It was called 'Basic Instinct'. Remember the pet rabbit? Or what if either spouse contracts a serious STD, because, darn it, the people participating in Open Marriages have probably been with a few sexual partners. How will the spouse feel when he or she is given a healthy dose of genital warts? Will the bloom be off the rose, then? Hard to hear? I'll bet.

Open Marriage. Oh, yes. Those pesky children. How do we explain multiple sexual partners to them? Telling them it's none of their business just isn't going to go down very well. But it really is all about you, isn't it? Your desires. Your marital 'arrangement', your fantasies, your unfulfilled libido. Hard to hear? I'll bet.

Open Marriage: Elevating rationalization to an art form. Hard to hear? I'll bet.

Yesterday was hard for me to hear, too. But it galvanized me in a way that I needed to be. I listened as several people engaged in such tortuous rationalizations for their behavior that I actually felt embarrassed for them. I want them to know that I did NOT advocate for Marriage Equality just so I could watch a vocal minority degrade what I hold sacred and what I did my best to extend to my gay friends and neighbors.

I was not in this fight for you, my Open Marriage friends. I will never be in a fight to protect your 'rights'.

Count me out. You'll have to figure it out on your own. You can bet on it.

BJ

Why The Equal Rights Amendment Mattered - And Still Does

      In October of 1978, The Equal Rights Amendment granting fair and equal compensation to women in the workplace was narrowly defeated. With just two states left to ensure ratification of the Amendment, three states including Utah and Arizona voted 'No' and consigned equal rights for women to the dustbin of history.

     Why did it matter? Why did it matter to anyone except working women? Here's my 2 cents and it's worth every penny.

     1978 was a much different social environment than 2015. Women, for the most part, stayed home and raised kids. It was 'Ozzie and Harriet', 'My Three Sons', and 'I Dream of Jeanie'.  The people I admired and trusted deified the likes of Phyllis Schafley and her 'Eagle Forum', and demonized pesky 'bra burning' feminists like Gloria Steinem.

     I have always been bothered by the role I played in helping to defeat the ERA. I was a young, typical housewife with two babies already. My ecclesiastical leaders and the Church I belonged to were staunch opponents of the ERA. My Church played a formidable role in the state politics of both Utah and Arizona. As a young wife, I wanted to do the right thing. I wanted to be seen as an obedient follower. I was Moldable. Malleable. Gullible. And Dumb.

     I have been wanting to get this off of my chest for a long time. When I consented to the use of my name in the signing of blanket opposition statements and mailings to government officials, when I stepped onto the bus headed for the Capitol Building in Phoenix for an anti-ERA rally, I was wrong. When I was tutored not to let anyone know that I belonged to a concerted, powerful Church-sponsored campaign to defeat the ERA, and I agreed to that deceit, I was wrong. Let me repeat that. I was wrong.

     I am sorry. For every woman still working at 70 percent of the pay scale that her male counterpart earns doing the same job, I am sorry. For every divorced, single, or widowed woman counting on a fair paycheck to support her family, I am sorry. To both of my well-educated daughters, who STILL face sexual harassment and discrimination in the workplace, I am sorry. To every single woman who has faced painful, agonizing decisions requiring that she return to an uneven playing field called the 'workplace', I AM SORRY.
 
There are a myriad of reasons why women have returned to the workplace in ever rising numbers. When they get there, they still face hurdles that my generation should have had the courage to overcome for them. I am sorry.  To my daughters, my seven granddaughters, and all the young women whose lives have touched mine, forgive me. When I should have stood alone, I was afraid and naive. My soul, my heart, told me that the defeat of the ERA would have long lasting consequences. I was young and anxious and scared.

It will never happen again. I am a FEMINIST. And I'm not ever getting on the bus again.




   

Say You're Sorry

Welp. It's been something like 36 hours since I returned home from a long trip and I have already had an opportunity to say I'm sorry not once but twice. Once to my husband for calling him an unfortunate name, and twice to my daughter for . . . . .oh, I'll let her tell you.

So let's get down and dirty here. Why should I even bother to say it? "Hey, I'm really sorry about what I just did. It was a mistake and I hurt your feelings. I feel bad." Why can't I just get away with whatever surprise is coming out of my mouth and ignore responsibility for what I say? Because that is NOT the way it works, my friends. And family. And acquaintances. And leaders.

When a person says, "I'm sorry for having hurt you", that person is accepting responsibility for inappropriate actions and words. There is acknowledgement. There is an effort to make amends and to make things right with other human beings. Asking somebody for their forgiveness requires a humbling of a proud heart. If it's done right, there is growth and understanding. There is a promise to do better the next time around. Saying you're sorry makes you more human and yes, more divine.

It's so ironic. We tell children all the time that they should be sorry. In addition, they ought to think of some way to make the hurt they may have caused go away. We could learn a lot by sitting in a nursery class and observing. Children understand. They get it. They know that being contrite will make their little nursery world more civilized.

How healing it would be if government leaders, ecclesiastical leaders, families and friends could say they were sorry. How wonderful if we could all remember that no one is above seeking forgiveness for mistakes.  Rectifying the wrongs. Binding the wounds. Healing the broken hearted.

So think about it. If, like me, you're just as surprised at what comes out of your mouth as anyone else, you will have plenty of opportunities to humbly ask for forgiveness. Say you're sorry. Be sincere. Mean it. Change your behavior. Show forth afterward an increase of love.

I'm going now. I need to call my daughter. Say I'm sorry. Tell her that I love her. And that my offense to her spirit won't ever happen again.

Life is beautiful when things work out, isn't it?

DONE. WITH. THAT.

Hi. It's been awhile since I wrote anything on this blog. I'm not sure why. I still have stuff to say that I really shouldn't tell people. Perhaps I have lost my nerve. Or I decided that no one was listening. Nothing I have to say would make any difference, so why bother?

WRONG. Regardless of whether you listen or not, whether you agree or not, whether you ever speak to me again, I've got something to say. Hang on.

I began this blog shortly after returning from India in 2012. I have always enjoyed writing, though it's a difficult mental exercise and sometimes it's an emotionally draining experience. When I started
stuffishouldn'ttellpeople.blogspot.com, it had a very different purpose and a different tone than the blog I wrote from India. Sometimes, my topics were all too personal and I addressed controversial subjects near and dear to my heart. I'm sure some of what I wrote offended some. That's a risk I took.

It's a difficult thing to really hang yourself out there for all the world to see, especially when there's a chance you are going to be losing friends. Blogging can be fun. It can be therapeutic. It can also be dangerous. Sometimes the comment section can be a hurtful experience.

This morning, I realized that by my silence, I have voluntarily surrendered my freedom of expression. I am still that little girl trying to be all things to all people, afraid of censure, unwilling to churn the waters. . . . . . . . DONE. WITH. THAT.

That changes today.  I'm done with the pretense. Done with disguise. Done with acquiescing. Done with silently standing by while actions are taken in my name that I adamantly oppose.

Spend some time reading a little bit of what I have already written. If you are uncomfortable with it, your options are very clear. Stop reading my blog. If yours is a tone of condescension or condemnation, or even worse, silent exclusion, you are in the wrong place.

I have big fish to fry. Welcome to the picnic. And I don't mind if you take a pass. We will both be happier.

The Dungeon of Dissent

     In 1933, an evil and corrupt regime took control of a wonderful country. When the horror ended twelve years later, fifty million men, women and children lay dead. Germany, the birthplace of Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart, had conceived and carried out mass genocide on such a scale that even now, seventy years later, we are still numbed with shock. How did it happen?

     For such evil to flourish and grow, average people like you and me were recruited. Mass murder was not the work of just a few psychopaths. It required cooperation. People allowed themselves to be deluded into believing that they possessed an inherent God given right to rule over their less worthy and somehow flawed brothers and sisters. As thousands of families trudged wearily to their deaths outside the villa gates, in the gardens ordinary people played silly childhood games with their children, the 'chosen' race.

     Evil people are manipulators extraordinaire. They seize upon irrational fears, unfounded ignorance and centuries old prejudice. They accentuate differences and they isolate and separate those who are different or deemed inferior. Theirs is the politics of exclusion. Shamefully, these masters of confusion, call forth the name of Jesus Christ, the Savior of all the world, as their exemplar and justification for what they do.

     Are we losing our courage to speak up and speak out? Have we forgotten how to use our most precious gift of free agency? Are we fearful when our Christian brothers and sisters question our commitment to God? Are we allowing someone else to approve who is and who is not invited to the table of Christ? When someone insists on interpreting scripture to fit a personal bias, with our silence do we tacitly approve the politics of exclusion?

     Of course I'm fearful. Simply advocating for the right to dissent marks me as 'disobedient' and 'disloyal' in the minds of some. God gave us a brain for a reason. We're supposed to use it. At all times and in all things and in all places. Since the world began, 'exclusion' has been a deadly weapon savagely wielded by Satan. He can buy nations, churches, homes and individual souls by accentuating our differences and separating us from one another.

     I choose inclusion. I choose acceptance. However you may be different from me, or I from you, I choose to enter eternity next to you. Excluding the heart and soul of another is not an option. When the forces of exclusionary practices and beliefs come for me, I won't be hiding. I choose the Dungeon of Dissent.
    

    

How To Raise A Girl.

     I'm no authority on this subject. Is anyone? I used to get sucked into believing that everyone knew more than I did about how to raise a girl.  I threw away parenting books almost as rapidly as I bought them. One day, I filled the trunk of my car with parenting 'help' books and puttered off to a book donation drop. I resolved to never again rely on a stranger's advice regarding my kids. And I haven't.

    I have formed some opinions. On how to raise a girl.

    Girls are not toys. They have formidable talents and intelligence. They are capable, enterprising, tenacious and ambitious. However girls choose to expend their energies, let's make one thing perfectly clear. Girls are not toys. They are valuable in their own right. They were not created to meet the needs or expectations of men.

    Girls have options. None of those options should include dependence upon men or a self image linked to how many men a girl can attract. From the clothes designed for girls, the movies, television, advertising - daily, the message to girls is that attractiveness is their sole important asset. If a girl can't snag a man, she's somehow deficient. Stomp out those messages. Don't let that attitude anywhere near a girl.

     Girls deserve and should receive a complete education in their chosen field. It's the best insurance policy around. Acquiring training and expertise means self determination and self-satisfaction. It also means that a girl is self-reliant. When push comes to shove . . . . . . . wait. Nobody pushes or shoves a confident, self-reliant girl around.

     Girls don't want to be lifted on a pedestal by men and worshipped as a 'goddess'. Girls want to be treated fairly in the workplace, at home, and at Church. A girl who is confident in her own abilities, skills, and intelligence will be equal to anyone whatever the circumstances.

     A girl who knows that she is not a toy weighs her options on an even playing field. She knows she is worthwhile and of infinite worth. She is educated and confident. That's the kind of girls I raised when I threw out all of the parenting books. Good luck to everyone lucky enough to have a girl.

    Oh. And one more thing. Remember that one day your girls will be your best friends.