One beautiful Fall day I was sitting in a quiet, sunlit nook in the library at Western Kentucky University when my peace was mightily disturbed by a distraught classmate. She was leaving the anthropology program to major in art. Why?
"People are awful to each other and that's all we talk about! I CAN'T STAND IT ANYMORE!"
Okay, to be fair, we had that one weird chick who plastered Amnesty International and Southern Poverty Law Center stickers all over everything she owned that we were pretty sure she never paid for. That wasn't what made her weird, though. She managed to work xōchiyāōyōtl* into every classroom conversation. If allowed to go undirected this always veered off into the details of Aztec Five Suns rituals and her breathless description of the priests lifting the still-beating hearts out of the chests of their victims. It could be unsettling if you weren't expecting it.
No. It wasn't just her. It was all of humanity. They -we- although I prefer to think of myself as a misplaced neanderthal, were rotten to the core.
Yeah, we can be awful. We can be shadows of the magnificent creatures we evolved into being. We can be heartbreaking and maddening. We can be so morally bankrupt that it staggers the imagination. Last week, I saw this firsthand with people who are supposed to be healers when they flat out lied about large, raised welts and bruises on my arms. I was taught that raising my voice, that getting angry meant I automatically lost the argument. Now, I wish I had bared my teeth and let them know how angry I was. I sat in a parking lot and cried for I don't know how long. (I had my first improv class that night. What rotten timing. I was exhausted by then. Really, God?)
A little later that day, I went to the last post0surgical appointment with the woman who restored my sight. She and her staff are far more wonderful than the people who made a bruised, gory mess of my arm were evil. Just spending time with them and talking about the progress I'd made and what to expect next was healing. Stuff balances out.
Getting back to my classmate, she said she wanted to hide away from the world and make art. Not sure it works that way, but, okay. I never saw her after that and hope that the person who showed her a reproduction of Guernica was gentle.
Go hug somebody,
Jas
*Nahuatl for "Flower War" Sometimes we pronounced it "Xylitol" just to irritate her. Did I mention that I am not a nice person at times?
"People are awful to each other and that's all we talk about! I CAN'T STAND IT ANYMORE!"
Okay, to be fair, we had that one weird chick who plastered Amnesty International and Southern Poverty Law Center stickers all over everything she owned that we were pretty sure she never paid for. That wasn't what made her weird, though. She managed to work xōchiyāōyōtl* into every classroom conversation. If allowed to go undirected this always veered off into the details of Aztec Five Suns rituals and her breathless description of the priests lifting the still-beating hearts out of the chests of their victims. It could be unsettling if you weren't expecting it.
No. It wasn't just her. It was all of humanity. They -we- although I prefer to think of myself as a misplaced neanderthal, were rotten to the core.
Yeah, we can be awful. We can be shadows of the magnificent creatures we evolved into being. We can be heartbreaking and maddening. We can be so morally bankrupt that it staggers the imagination. Last week, I saw this firsthand with people who are supposed to be healers when they flat out lied about large, raised welts and bruises on my arms. I was taught that raising my voice, that getting angry meant I automatically lost the argument. Now, I wish I had bared my teeth and let them know how angry I was. I sat in a parking lot and cried for I don't know how long. (I had my first improv class that night. What rotten timing. I was exhausted by then. Really, God?)
A little later that day, I went to the last post0surgical appointment with the woman who restored my sight. She and her staff are far more wonderful than the people who made a bruised, gory mess of my arm were evil. Just spending time with them and talking about the progress I'd made and what to expect next was healing. Stuff balances out.
Getting back to my classmate, she said she wanted to hide away from the world and make art. Not sure it works that way, but, okay. I never saw her after that and hope that the person who showed her a reproduction of Guernica was gentle.
Go hug somebody,
Jas
*Nahuatl for "Flower War" Sometimes we pronounced it "Xylitol" just to irritate her. Did I mention that I am not a nice person at times?
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