Think About Marketing Images

There's nothing quite like sitting around on a Sunday and reading a bunch of sociology articles/blog posts to get a person all worked up about the state of our society. Sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who notices what's going on in the world of marketing and consumerism; and, on one hand, it was refreshing to read sentiments that echo my own, to know that I'm, indeed, not alone in my thoughts. On the other hand, though, it is incredibly frustrating to realize how many people passively accept these marketing tacks, particularly the ones that objectify women. 

All it is is marketing; and, if you buy into it, you're supporting it: You're supporting the objectification of women. I don't care about Miley Cyrus. I don't care about twerking. I'm dumbfounded by the people who try to create controversy out of what she does. IT'S MARKETING! Let her do what she does. IGNORE HER. If you talk about it, even against it, you're supporting it. That's what "they" want. (Now, forget you read that because I don't want to be a part of the segment of the population who contributes to her popularity, both negative and positive.)

And while I'm ranting here.... When I was a kid, Halloween was about scary costumes; it wasn't about sexualizing 5-year-old girls. We made our own costumes. We were monsters, witches, devils; we were whatever we wanted to be. It's one thing if an adult woman chooses to be a "sexy devil"; it's quite another when costumes aimed at elementary school-aged children markedly indicate a difference between the devil costume for a boy and a (usually "sexy") devil costume for a girl. Then, there's this: Boy Pterodactyl Costume.

Make your own choices, follow your own instincts, BE CREATIVE, and, for crying out loud, don't let chauvinistic marketing ploys win (even better, don't let consumerism win--see the "BE CREATIVE" part above). 

There, I think I"m done for now.

Think About Roots

I love walking barefoot. I like the comfort of cool dirt on my soles, and I enjoy the simultaneous scent of an evening's dusty trail as it hits my olfactory unit, reminding me of summer camp as a child, when the counselors would trek all of us kids down to the lake shortly before dusk. I remember seeing the sun set through the trees, over the dock; I remember the chill of evening after the swim, as I wrapped myself up in a beach towel and longed for the warmth of my sleeping bag, although my feet . . . they weren't cold. 

But what do bare feet have to do with one's roots, one's origin, one's connection to a place?

  

Nothing.

  

Everything.

After not having written much poetry for a few months, I wrote a poem this past weekend. It flowed out in one extended pen breath, so freely and quickly that I didn't even think about what I was writing until after the words were already on the page. Then, like any studious English major, I dissected it and looked for a deeper meaning, as if it weren't even my own poem. While not an especially deep (or, probably, even good) poem, in it I saw that I equated bare feet with freedom, motion, and contentment. The barefooted heroine of the poem tells my story in this partial stanza: " . . . there isn't a road / that can carry me back / to somewhere I don't want to be."

I read those lines multiple times, hearing something different each time. I played with word associations, and the first word that came to mind was roots. And I thought about a time when I wanted to be from someplace, to have a place to root myself--as if my identity depended on it. After moving several times in my twenties, bouncing from state to state to state, and from apartment to apartment to apartment to apartment to. . ., I wanted to settle somewhere. I found a new town, a new job, and I bought a house. Roots, I thought. And for a few years, it felt good to be in a "permanent" place, to have ties to somewhere, to have stability: Isn't that the so-called American Dream?

But at some point, it ceased being "home." It wasn't a place I wanted to be from anymore; it certainly wasn't a place where I wanted to have roots. And when you can't grow anymore in a place, when you've taken everything that a place has to offer, you know it's time to move on. That's what my poem was telling me.

That's when I realized that roots (of place, at least) are a myth of sorts. I felt most at home in places where I was living "temporarily," with no intent of staying for more than a couple or three years. Those are the places I miss, because I stayed just long enough but not too long.

And that's when I realized, also, that roots aren't where you live; they aren't a place. They are, instead, your experiences, thoughts and ideas, friends and family, and the imprint you leave on the world--what you do to help others and make the world a better place to inhabit. Roots are you, who you are, and the dreams you heed. Roots are your heart, if you follow it. Your roots are who you've been in the past, who you are now, as well as who you're becoming. Because people are (hopefully!) always changing, so are their roots.

So, where am I from? The actual place of my roots--where my ancestors came from--is a country I haven't been to yet. Otherwise, I'm not sure that I'm from anywhere. I can tell you where I grew up, where I've lived, or where I currently live, but I'm not sure that's the same thing. Where I live is just a rest stop on the way to another rest stop. There are no destinations in life; there's only movement--motion--so one's roots will keep changing, growing, expanding.

While I've always considered myself an intuitive and perceptive person, in the past six or seven months I've learned to listen even closer to my heart. Sometimes you just know when something is right or, inversely, when something's not right.

"time to leave my shoes behind, / to let my naked soles pray on hot asphalt, / to renew their calluses and faith in being, / to let my dirt-caked feet catch fire, / and dance once again"

You just know.

Think About the Lessons from Walden Pond

When I was about 20 years old, a poet friend told me that I was an enigma. I probably looked a little dumbfounded, because he quickly added (presumably so that I would know it was a compliment) that it was a "very endearing quality." He was quite a bit older than I was (of course, when you're 20, anyone over 30 is "quite a bit older"), but it was one of those rare moments in life when you feel like someone has caught a glimpse of what's inside you and has understood, on a deeper level than most people, who you are.

That's what--and who--a poet is. 

And I don't mean someone who writes verse: You don't have to write verse to be a poet (likewise, one is not necessarily a poet just because he or she writes verse). A poet is the person who sees and understands the enigmatic elements in another person, and a poet is also the enigma. Round and round, back and forth: This is why poets--thinkers, bohemians, artists, and other authentic selves--are drawn to each other.

And Henry David Thoreau was most certainly a poet.

I think that Thoreau's Walden is one of those books that people want to have read but don't actually want to read. In eleventh grade, we had to read a snippet of an already small snippet of Walden out of our literature textbook. It contained the passage that most people recognize and equate with Thoreau: "Our life is frittered away by detail. . . . Simplicity, simplicity, simplicity!" We probably even discussed it for half a class period.

But how many people have read that passage and thought about what it really means? How many have gone even further and actually applied it to their lives?

And why is that the only passage from Walden that students tend to be exposed to in school? I typed out three (single-spaced) pages of my favorite quotes from the book. I considered them "favorites" because I found them thought-provoking and/or applicable to my life. Or I found them to be things I think--or have thought--only not with as much clarity or eloquence as Thoreau. Consider, for instance, his perspective on clothing: "As for Clothing, . . . perhaps we are led oftener by the love of novelty and a regard for the opinions of men, in procuring it, than by a true utility." Think about this the next time you put on a skirt, dress, or pair of pants that doesn't have a pocket.

Another choice quote: "While civilization has been improving our houses, it has not equally improved the men who are to inhabit them."

And his take on education: "We boast that we belong to the Nineteenth Century and are making the most rapid strides of any nation. But consider how little this village does for its own culture. . . . It is time that we had uncommon schools, that we did not leave off our education when we begin to be men and women."

It is surprising to me how so little changes in so much time (about 160 or so years since Thoreau penned Walden) . . . especially when so much has changed.

Thoreau writes that he is "convinced, that if all men were to live as simply as I then did, thieving and robbery would be unknown. These take place only in communities where some have got more than is sufficient while others have not enough." How come this was not the passage we discussed in eleventh grade English class?

But the reason I know, with certainty, that Thoreau was a poet is because of the line he wrote for me (and for every other poet): "The one who came from farthest to my lodge, through deepest snows and most dismal tempests, was a poet. A farmer, a hunter, a soldier, a reporter, even a philosopher, may be daunted; but nothing can deter a poet, for he is actuated by pure love." This, too, is what makes poets different.

If you can get past Thoreau's periodic bitterness and arrogance, Walden is actually a smart, occasionally humorous, readily accessible, and, perhaps most importantly, relevant book. It should not be taken merely as literature, as a crazy man's two-year living experiment in the woods. That negates its usefulness. It should be read and considered as actual lessons for living.

I'm Madder Than Hell and I'm Not Going to Take it Anymore...

If you don't stand up for an injustice, then you're allowing it to continue. Silence is acceptance.

Why are people so afraid of upsetting the status quo? Why do so many people blindly accept what should be changed?

I'm appalled by passivity, just as I'm appalled by unfairness. Unfortunately, the two often go hand-in-hand. In fact, people often tell me to not "make waves." They give me varying reasons--not unfounded reasons, I'll admit--relating how my actions now will affect my future. This is true, but it also goes against my nature and what I believe: If something is unacceptable, if someone is treating you (and/or someone else) in an unacceptable manner, I think it's one's right--nay, one's duty--to stand up for oneself (and for those who may not have a voice). Doing so also affects one's future, but it affects one's present well-being, too. In the grand scheme of things, there is more at stake than, say, just a job reference. Change doesn't happen unless people "make waves," unless they disrupt the status quo.

Think of all the news stories and social media memes regarding people affected by bullying. While it's an overused word (in my estimation), it's a very real act. And it happens everywhere--not just in cyberspace or in schools. It happens in the workplace: Corporation as bully, management as pawns, silence as approval.

In ninth grade science class (and in homeroom), due to abhorrent alphabetical seating, an annoying kid sat behind me kicking and shaking my desk all class period, all semester (and, in homeroom, all year; but for as little time as was spent in homeroom, that was inconsequential). At first, I was fairly passive. I'd get to the class early and move his desk several feet away from mine. But as soon as he came to class, he'd either sit down and ram his desk into the back of mine or he'd slowly inch his way toward me (which was preferable--sometimes I'd have almost two-thirds of the class period free from his idiocy). Trying to reason with him didn't work either (as one might expect); instead, he added poking me with a pencil to his repertoire. Ultimately, I went to the teacher and asked if I could change seats. He wouldn't let me. (I did anyway, without permission, but my tormentor occasionally followed me.) Speaking up doesn't always make a difference, but at least you have the satisfaction of knowing that you've done something.
 
If you don't speak up at all, though, the bully--be it a person, a company, an organization, or a general unjust act or rule--wins. Triumphs, in fact.

Don't accept the unacceptable. Question. Speak. Act.

Think About Cultural Values and the Color Pink

I greatly dislike the color pink. Maybe it's not the color so much, though, as what it represents. I hate that the color pink is equated with girls and all things female. And I want to know why that came to be, and I want to know why so many people buy into society's obsession with it, and--most of all--I want to know how it can be changed.

In a recent online discussion, a classmate of mine made a statement about cultural values (and their associations) being part of our "adaptive unconscious." Someone else asked when and how we learn our "cultural values." Yet another classmate offered that we begin learning these cultural values from the very beginning, when we are introduced, for example, to gender-specific color schemes and themes.

My classmate wrote it a little differently, but I read it and felt my blood start to boil. . .because my classmate was right. See, repetition normalizes certain ideas for us (both individually and as a society). We internalize them; we accept them.

No questions asked.

Therein lies the problem. It doesn't matter how illogical an idea is (e.g., pink for girls; blue for boys), we accept it and perpetuate the irrationality of it, simply because we don't know any differently and don't think to wonder why. Among other dreadful things, our culture seems to constantly be shouting that pink is for girls and blue is for boys.

But here's what I think: I think that if we don't understand something, we shouldn't blankly accept it.

A couple of weeks ago I set out to buy a birthday card for a 7-year-old boy. In the kids' birthday cards section, there was a distinct division between boy cards and girl cards. I honestly don't remember ever seeing such an obvious separation before. There could have easily--and logically--been just one sign for all the kids' cards. Instead, though, pink signs denoted the girls' cards section; blue signs denoted the boys' cards section. It was sickening. The girls' cards were mostly pinkish and "girly." The boys' cards were mostly shades of blue (some red) and "manly" (trucks, superheroes, trains). Not one gender-neutral card! 

I did not buy a card there. The boy I was buying a card for is a very smart and perceptive boy; and, last summer, I (inadvertently) taught him the word "sexist." So, he definitely deserved better from me than a card that perpetuates gender stereotypes.

I went to one other card shop. I took one look at the nauseatingly pink section and that blasted blue section and was out the door, dismayed at what our society has become.

Distinct boy culture and distinct girl culture seem much more defined now than they did when I was a kid. And there are many reasons for this, not the least of which are the prevalence of mass media and technology. Up there also is the consumer-driven materialistic culture we live in. I certainly had a lot of "stuff" when I was little, but being the youngest of four siblings, as well as the youngest of all my cousins, I had a lot of hand-me-downs, both in toys and in clothing. Additionally, my mom was fond of secondhand stores and garage sales. Up until I was a teenager, I had only been to a mall a handful of times, and I don't ever remember going to a (specifically) toy store. I was never exposed to this pink princess-oriented hoopla which seems so prevalent today. Did it exist back then? If not, where did it come from? How can we get it to go away?

And can we, please, just let kids decide what their own interests are without influencing them with market-driven ploys? Don't color-code the toy sections (or card sections). And don't gender-code. Certainly some girls will embrace the pink princess culture regardless, but when it's their own choice, that's acceptable. Let the child think for him or herself. Because a child who thinks for him or herself will likely become an adult who thinks for him or herself.

And we could certainly use more of those around.



***
I do have to confess that my favorite toy when I was little was a pink stuffed dog (whom, I must add, I considered to be male), but I didn't like him because he was pink; I liked him because he was a dog. That he was pink was irrelevant. (He also didn't stay pink very long--he was dropped in more than his share of mud puddles.)

Think About the Fragility of Life

Twenty-one years ago today, one of my high school classmates was murdered. I was a 15-year-old tenth-grader sitting in la clase de español when the principal made the announcement over the PA system. It was the last day of school before the holiday break. 

I can feel the moment as if it were yesterday, the way the news hung in the air, the silence and shock that followed. I remember my fear and the sleepless nights. I remember the well-intentioned sentiments of those who told me I had no reason to be afraid because the suspects (one of whom had sat next to me in band the previous year) were in custody. But what they didn't understand (which I probably didn't understand either) was that my fear wasn't so much for my own life; my fear was at the finality of death, the suddenness of it. The then. The now. I remember the lump in my throat when I went back to school after the break and saw the empty seat next to me in the one class I had shared with the victim. 

You don't forget certain things. For me, it's usually the emotions of a moment and the clarity (or lack thereof) of thought that I remember. Sounds (certain songs, especially) and scents provoke memories and feelings. It's like time travel (for example: whenever I hear a Guns 'n Roses song, I'm suddenly in 8th grade again). My mind goes back and forth between the past and present. 

It's hard to believe it's been 21 years since my classmate was murdered. In fact, it seems impossible that it's been that long. But it also feels like it was a lifetime ago. And it was--it was more than a lifetime, in fact, for my classmate, who was only 16 when she was killed.

Whenever there is a tragedy--be it a school shooting, a natural disaster, or other loss or trauma (either personal or public)--I think of the survivors who will relive the event hundreds (or thousands) of times; it will shape the rest of their lives. They will grieve indefinitely and will keep progressing through life, remembering. Even if they forget momentarily, they'll always remember again. But how long will people not directly affected by the tragedy/loss remember? 

I wonder why it sometimes has to take devastating events to remind us to think of and help others; to remind us of what/who is important; to remind us of those who are suffering all over the world; and to remind us, ultimately, of life's fragility. 

Think About This...

Every time I read a quote on Facebook (well, almost anywhere on the internet, actually), I'm skeptical about its attribution (and its accuracy). I don't expect people to cite their sources on social media (though it wouldn't hurt...); but, realistically, how does one, in fact, find out who actually said/wrote a particular statement? Is it even possible? (I know there are books of quotes (for every occasion!), but who's to say that those were documented properly to begin with?)

In the book Walking on Water: Reading, Writing, and Revolution, one of author Derrick Jensen's epigraphs is thus: "If they give you lined paper, write the other way." He follows it up with this "attribution": "(I don't know who first said this. It might have beeen [sic] Ray Bradbury, William Carlos Williams, e.e cummings, or Juan Ramón Jiménez.)" I commend him for covering his bases: He lists all the options that come up if you google the quote. (Also, if you google it, there's a version which comes up as "ruled paper" instead of "lined paper.")

Then, there's the current flurry of Facebook activity around the Morgan Freeman statement (regarding the Sandy Hook tragedy), which apparently he didn't say. Or...did he? What if the hoax alert is a hoax? And maybe it matters, and maybe it doesn't. I'm certainly not going to believe something or agree with something just because a celebrity says it anyway.

These are the thoughts that keep me up at night.