Category Archives: ideas

communication, dogs, ideas, music, travel

Still learning new things from a 1996 trip to Turkey…

Last night, while Bill was enjoying an online session with his American Jungian therapist who lives in Berlin, I was getting annoyed by comments on a Washington Post article I read (temporarily unlocked). The article was about how many Americans are taking their dogs everywhere with them, and how–maybe– the dogs don’t actually want to go. I realize I should have known better than to leave a Facebook comment, since most people didn’t bother to read the article before doing their chiming. But, since I live in a country where dogs are welcome in most places, I felt compelled.

The first comment I got from someone was vaguely accusatory, and their comment got a bunch of “likes”. Below is what I posted, and the response:

Mine loves to go with us, but we live in Germany, where it’s normal for dogs to be out with their owners. He’s a big guy who gets nervous, so we don’t bring him often.

I don’t think anything is wrong with this comment. But, someone responded with this:

Out of curiosity, how does he love it if he gets nervous?

I didn’t actually type what I was tempted to post, which was “Do you not ever have the experience of being nervous and then enjoying yourself, once you’ve had a chance to relax? The two conditions aren’t mutually exclusive.” Instead, I responded calmly and rather politely:

He eventually relaxes. We have a wine stand in our neighborhood. We can walk to it. We will take him to that. He starts out nervous and excited, then calms down. And he always likes car rides and walks to new places, but things like umbrellas and sudden noises scare him. He is a street dog from Kosovo.

We don’t take him to big events because it can be too much for him, and he takes up the entire back end of our SUV. But we will take him to Biergartens or smaller events, and he does fine after a little while. This is a totally normal thing in Germany. It’s less normal to leave your dog home alone. In fact, there are laws against leaving dogs home alone for more than a few hours.

I was relieved when that comment didn’t invite any unpleasantness. But then someone else chimed in with this:

it’s normal in the US too…

I wasn’t sure what side of the argument this person was on, so I wrote this response:

Things in the States must have changed a lot since I left. I don’t necessarily think it’s a bad thing, as long as dogs are trained how to be in public and people are considerate. Here, people really train their dogs, so even though they are often in restaurants, you’d never know. We don’t take ours to indoor establishments, but we have seen some dogs that were so well behaved that we didn’t notice their presence until they were leaving.

Personally, I’d rather leave mine at home most of the time, but sometimes it’s fun to bring him. It’s the only way he will learn how to behave in public and realize that humans besides us are good. And he does love the change of scenery.

She came back with this:

they’re everywhere here. Ubiquitous

So I wrote:

Well, it’s been nine years since I was last home. Based on the comments, it sounds like maybe dogs in public are a problem.

Then she posted this:

not really. Most people love dogs.

I didn’t want to continue to engage. Fortunately, she got the hint when I wrote this:

Good. I’m glad.

But then another person– a curmudgeon of sorts– wrote this:

more’s the pity

Despite what the woman above posted to me, a lot of people in the USA don’t seem think it’s a good thing to take dogs in public places. They have lots of reasons for their thinking. And, just like a lot of Americans have extremely rigid ideas about topics such as spaying and neutering, and how it must always be done at six months of age (which is not always a good idea, pet overpopulation concerns notwithstanding), some people are equally lacking perspective about the subject of dogs in restaurants and such.

I was getting a little agitated by the hostile and rigid posturing in the comment section, and had just remarked to my friends that Americans need to travel more. But then someone posted that most Americans can’t afford to travel… which wasn’t really the point. The point is, a lot of Americans seem to think our way is the only way of doing things, and they lack any desire to explore different places or discover new things.

Even a lot of Americans who live in Germany with the military are stuck in that US centric mindset, and they see no reason to evolve or expand. A lot of us don’t have any perspective of life beyond two feet in front of us, let alone how things are in other parts of the world. I was trying to share a different perspective in the comment section, even though I know better than to even try. For my efforts, I got a vaguely accusatory comment, and a comment that seemed to imply that I’m somehow naive, or out of touch with reality. That kind of makes me not want to try to share with others.

Why do people have to be so negative whenever someone shares their experiences and perspectives? Why can’t people be more open-minded and willing to listen? So often, we don’t even let people finish their sentences before we interrupt them. Bill did that this morning; he cut in with an inappropriate response before I’d even finished my thought. But if he’d been a little patient and just listened, rather than focusing on coming up with the wrong response, it would have spared us both time and annoyance.

Living abroad has forever changed me. I suspect that when I go back to the United States, I’m going to feel very frustrated. I love my family, for instance, but I suspect that talking to some of my cousins again someday will be disturbing on many levels. A lot of them are firmly mired in Trumpland, southern culture, and conservative Christianity, and no amount of cajoling will get them to broaden their perspectives on certain topics. But sometimes, I do get a rewarding glimmer when another American gets it. That’s what today’s post is all about.

***

Last night at about 9:00 PM, Bill finished his session with his therapist. He was in good spirits, because he and the therapist have a very good rapport. As he enjoyed the rest of last night’s wine, Bill told me that he and the therapist got into a discussion about music. He said he’d told his therapist about how I had introduced him to a lot of new music, and how sometimes I “drunk download” stuff. I have very eclectic tastes in music, so it usually works out fine. I’ve found some really great stuff that way.

Sometimes I discover some amazing finds while traveling– especially when it comes to music and art. When we went to Latvia last summer, I found a fascinating all women’s folk group (Tautumeitas) when I went into a jewelry store. I liked it so much that I downloaded the album as soon as I had the opportunity. Ditto to Finland, from where the wonderful band, Frigg, hails.

I discovered Frigg when I read an article about traveling to Finland. I was reading the article because I’d just visited Finland myself. Someone in the comment section mentioned discovering Frigg when they went to Finland, and they emphasized what a great band they are. I decided to investigate, and it opened a whole new world to me. I have shared Frigg with Bill, and with people who read this blog, although I don’t think many people have bothered to listen to the links I included in my post. In fact, not many people bothered to even read the post, which is too bad. If you are reading this, I challenge you to click the link in this paragraph, and just listen to Frigg for a minute. See if you don’t agree that Frigg is at least very talented, if not downright awesome! I dare you! You probably won’t be able to unhear the awesomeness. 😀

Anyway, the therapist asked Bill about the kind of music that puts him in “the mood”… for sex, I guess. Bill got a big smile on his face, because we do, in fact, have an album we have historically listened to when we’re in the mood for lovemaking. It’s one I discovered in Istanbul, back in 1996.

My friend Elaine and I had traveled by bus from Yerevan, Armenia to Istanbul. In 1996, it wasn’t so easy to take cheap vacations out of Armenia. Flying on scary Armenian Airlines was way too expensive for me, as I didn’t have any money in those days. Elaine was kind enough to lend me a few hundred bucks so I could go with her on vacation to Türkiye (Turkey) and Bulgaria, which were pretty inexpensive then. It took three days to get to Istanbul, and parts of the trip, while beautiful, were also kind of scary. We were also exhausted when we finally arrived in the city.

After a night in the Aksaray district of Istanbul, which is in the Asian part of the city, Elaine and I relocated to Taksim, which is on the European side. Taksim was definitely more western than Aksaray was, and there was a lot to see and do there.

There was a big shopping boulevard near our hotel, and I remember walking up and down that street a bunch of times during our time there. One day, Elaine and I were passing a music store on that street, and we heard the most intoxicating, enchanting sounds… It captured both of us like Wonder Woman’s golden lasso, and we were compelled to go into the shop and find the source of that gorgeous music. They were playing music by a Turkish folk band called Kizilirmak.

Kizilirmak is the name of a river in Türkiye, but when I see or hear that word, I’m reminded of a band that captured my soul on first listen. Elaine and I both bought cassette copies of their album, Rüzgarla Gelen. We both loved what we heard, just passing by that music shop by chance while we were visiting Istanbul in 1996. On that trip, I also bought a cassette of Bulgarian music by Trio Bulgarka when we went to Bulgaria. Trio Bulgarka has famously collaborated with my musical hero, Kate Bush, but before they did that, they made beautiful folk music. I hadn’t heard the Bulgarian music first; I just knew Trio Bulgarka had sung with Kate Bush. I bought the music entirely based on that fact, and didn’t regret it, even though it was just an 80s production of Bulgarian folk songs.

Years later, when I married Bill, I played Kizilirmak’s cassette for him, and he also loved it. Indeed, it was very good music for moments of intimacy. At least, for us it was. Maybe it wouldn’t be for other people. Still, when I hear the below folk song, I smile and remember the early days of our marriage, when we were younger and much randier.

It’s a folk song, but I find it kind of erotic… or, at least very soothing. The whole album is interesting and timeless, and it never gets old. I hope one or two of my readers will investigate it and be enriched.

So there Bill and I were this morning, learning more about the above song, “Kirvem”, which it turns out is a folk song that has been done by a number of people. If you go on YouTube, you’ll find different interpretations of it. The link below is not Kizilirmak, but it is a very beautiful version of the song I first heard done by Kizilirmak…

Sigh… makes me want to learn this song. Music really is an international language that knows no bounds.

Now, because of that therapy session Bill had last night, and the trip I took to Istanbul in 1996 with my friend, Elaine– who had made it possible for me to go by lending me some money–, we will be passing along this gem to someone else. Perhaps Bill’s therapist’s life will be enriched by hearing “Kirvem” done by Kizilirmak. Maybe he’ll pass it along to another person.

So true…

I realize that my own former therapist, who is now a friend, also contributed something to this revelation. The above photo was posted on his Facebook page, and it struck a chord with me. Because I recently went back to Armenia, and found out that the time I spent there hadn’t been wasted… I had made a difference by spending two years there, and in fact, I made a difference by going back to visit a couple of weeks ago. I exposed Bill to a place that means a lot to me, and he learned new things, which he’s shared with friends at work and his daughter. I’ve learned new things in my travels, which I’m sharing with you, and anyone else who cares to pay attention. Maybe you’ll pass on some of what I’ve learned and am sharing to someone you know… See what I mean?

So, while I find that a lot of Americans– or really, a lot of people– can be stubbornly resistant to having their perspectives challenged, I have also found that if you’re open to it, you can be exposed to some really wonderful things. It’s not unlike leveling up when you play a game.

Are you ready for the next world? You have to be brave enough to take the first step. That means leaving your comfort zone and trying something new. But that can be very scary for some people. I know it’s scary for me sometimes. Change can be hard… but sometimes, change is vital. Sometimes you have to change or you will literally die. Maybe you can’t afford to travel. Can you afford to be influenced by someone who travels and sees the world? Could you expand and evolve that way– until you do have the chance to get out of your comfort zone? Are you willing to listen to someone who’s seen and done things you haven’t seen or done yet? Maybe you can learn something new that way.

Anyway, that was just a profound thought I had this morning, as Bill and I were sharing something I discovered in Istanbul, Türkiye, back in 1996. That trip is still teaching me new things, which I can share with you. That thought kind of blows my mind.

The featured photo was taken somewhere in eastern Turkey in 1996…

Standard
ideas, memories, musings

Going down the ever treacherous path called Memory Lane…

Fair warning… this is a stream of consciousness post that tackles many seemingly unrelated topics. Proceed with caution.

Bill is away again, so I’m left to my lonesome self. I usually teetotal when he goes away, but I had a beer when Bill made me lunch yesterday. Then I had another one last night while I watched The Boy in the Plastic Bubble on YouTube, starring John Travolta, Robert Reed, Ralph Bellamy, and Diana Hyland. I’ve seen that movie many times, and it’s always entertaining. Last night, it was strange to watch it, because I suddenly realized just how long ago I was born. I was about four years old when that TV movie aired in 1976. Now I’m 51, and all of the trappings of my childhood seem hopelessly antiquated.

It may seem strange that I’d be watching a 70s era TV movie, especially since I’ve seen it so many times. I love old shit like that, though. I’d rather watch campy crap from the 70s and 80s than most of what’s on TV today. I guess that means I’m really getting OLD.

The Boy in the Plastic Bubble actually has some personal meaning to me. I grew up during the era in which there were a couple of boys who lived in “plastic bubbles”. One was Ted DeVita, who had aplastic anemia and died in 1980. The other was David Vetter, who was born without a functioning immune system (he had a condition called SCID–Severe combined immunodeficiency).

David Vetter was less than a year older than I am, so he was one of my peers. He passed away in 1984, when he was just 12 years old. If he’d been born today, he never would have had to spend years in a bubble. Today, we have the technology to treat SCID with bone marrow transplants. Vetter himself had a transplant, but the bone marrow he received from his mother was infected with a dormant Epstein-Barr virus. It activated after it was transplanted and he wound up with a devastating form of lymphoma that killed him very quickly.

When I was in high school, I actually knew a guy who had aplastic anemia, like Ted DeVita did. I didn’t know him very well; he was a popular guy who played football, and football players weren’t interested in me. But everybody pretty much knew who Mike Haury was, back when we were in high school. To this day, he is memorialized at my high school. I believe there is a tree planted in his honor, as well as a weight room that was funded by people who wanted to memorialize him over 30 years ago. I found a new fundraiser online last night in Mike’s honor, by people who wanted to update the weight room at our high school, originally built in Mike Haury’s memory. In our day, the weight room at our high school was located in a boiler room. Mike’s death from aplastic anemia had led to the creation of a proper weight room. Too bad he never got to see it or enjoy it.

I remember Mike Haury went to the National Institutes of Health in Bethesda, Maryland, the same place where Ted DeVita spent most of his life. I remember Mike died on December 7, 1988, and I remember how his death was announced to us in school. You could have heard a pin drop. I wonder if Mike had to stay in a “plastic bubble” during the last weeks of his life. Mike’s cousin, Neil, was in my high school class. Neil left us in 2000… a victim of suicide.

Years later, December 7, 1988 would be significant to me for a different reason, when I moved to Armenia to serve as a Peace Corps Volunteer. That was the day a massive earthquake hit Armenia, destroyed buildings and infrastructure in a couple of northwestern cities, and ended 25,000-55,000 lives. About 130,000 people were injured. In 1995, when I arrived in Armenia, there was still a lot of wreckage and debris left from the earthquake. They hadn’t had the money or manpower to fix anything, what with the 1991 collapse of the Soviet Union, and all. It was still there in 1997, when I left Armenia to go home to the United States. I’m sure by now, things are different. I’ll find out in a few weeks, when I go back to Yerevan for a visit.

Today, Armenia has other problems, to include the struggle over Nagorno-Karabakh– an enclave known as the Republic of Artsakh by Armenian natives. This is a part of the Caucasus region that has historically been populated by ethnic Armenians. Back during Josef Stalin’s reign in the 1920s, as he was forming the Soviet Union, Stalin decided the land should be part of Azerbaijan. Things were, on the surface, peaceful during the Soviet years. But when the Soviet Union fell apart in December 1991, so did the surface peace in Artsakh. Armenians and Azeris have been fighting over the land ever since.

A few days ago, the Azeris seemingly “won” Artsakh, as Armenians agreed to stop fighting, and now hundreds of Armenians are fleeing Artsakh to the mainland. They fear ethnic cleansing, which is understandable, as Armenians have faced genocide in the past. As I was reading about this situation, it made me realize just how profound one man’s legacy can be. Not long ago, I read a book about a woman who fled Latvia, as it was becoming part of the Soviet Union. The woman’s story included a lot about Josef Stalin, and how his disastrous and cruel policies ruined and ended a lot of lives. I couldn’t help but think of that story as I read about how today’s Armenians are still affected by Stalin’s policies. I suspect we Americans will someday see Donald Trump in much the same way.

This situation actually affects me, in a weird way, not just because I used to live in Armenia and served as a Peace Corps Volunteer there, but because of my husband’s work today. He works for the US Army here in Wiesbaden, for a department that does work with countries in Europe and its environs, including Armenia. This situation with Azerbaijan– largely caused by Russia’s distraction with the war in Ukraine, and Vladimir Putin’s affinity for Azerbaijan’s current leader– affects Bill, because the US military is now working with the Armenians.

A few weeks ago, one of Bill’s colleagues actually talked to me for a couple of hours to get some perspective on Armenia and its people. When Bill told her about my experience in Armenia, she was quite excited, as she doesn’t know much about the place, and former Peace Corps Volunteers, especially those who were in Armenia in the 1990s, are in short supply in these parts.

As I sit here thinking about that, I realize how my time in Armenia and my marriage to Bill, both seem to have come about entirely by cosmic chance. I remember how I felt like I was wasting my time in Armenia back when I was there. Now, it seems like I was supposed to be there. And maybe I’m meant to be where I am today, here in Germany, doing exactly what I’m doing now. I’m sure it will fit in the long run. It always does.

Last night, as I was about to fall asleep, I started reading early blog posts on this incarnation of The Overeducated Housewife. The earliest posts on this blog were made when I was using a different blog layout, so some of the posts need to be edited. Some of the posts were also password protected and/or made private, because back in 2019, my privacy was being violated. That’s why I moved the blog in the first place. As I was reading those old posts, I was reminded of how totally mentally fried I was at the time, and how angry I was. In fact, just before I started writing today’s post, I read an old post of mine that inspired today’s…

The old post from 2019 is very profane, and also kind of funny, because I was legitimately VERY ANGRY. Some people might think my reasons for being so angry were petty. Maybe they were, in the grand scheme of things. I look at what Armenians from Artsakh are dealing with right now, and I realize that my issues with our ex landlady were not really that earth shattering. And yet, I remember feeling very frazzled and upset during that time, so much so, that I wrote this very profane, sarcastic, and frankly quite funny post in my blog. And that post led to today’s post, which has left me with some rather profound insights…

The main reason why I was so very angry on August 30, 2019 is because, yet again, I was being unfairly judged by someone who doesn’t even know me. Months after I left her hellhole rental house, ex landlady was in my head, mainly because we had decided to fight her legally, rather than letting her just take our money. Former landlady– fixated on her petty bullshit and hunger for money– determined that I’m some kind of worthless, filthy pig. She treated both Bill and me with extreme contempt over a couple thousand euros. She expected us to be perfect, which no one can be, while she blatantly did things that were illegal. She brazenly tried to steal from us, as she accused US of stealing and personally insulted us (especially me), to boot. I was PISSED, and determined not to let her get away with it.

Making matters worse is that, through her lawyer, she was making defamatory accusations against us the day before we would lose our beloved Zane forever. We spent what turned out to be his last full day alive answering her ridiculous false accusations and threats, when we should have been loving our beloved beagle family member, who meant so much more to us than she ever could. The reality of how we spent Zane’s last day made me even more determined to make sure she was forced to pay.

In the end, we didn’t let ex landlady get away with what she was doing. She did have to pay us. It wasn’t easy or painless, but she did pay. I was glad she paid, and it was definitely worth suing her, but we would have preferred not to have to go the route we did. Because, in spite of her erroneous perceptions, I AM NOT A BAD PERSON. I just want to be treated fairly and live my life in peace!

Quite often, when something like this comes up, Bill and I simply let the other person have their way. Fighting over money often isn’t worth the hassle. We are usually big fans of the “pick your battles” mindset. But, this particular fight was more about our self-respect, and being tired of being bullied, harassed, and abused by someone who feels entitled to act like a complete cunt, with no repercussions whatsoever. Sometimes, the answer to such behavior is a hearty “FUCK YOU!” And that is what ex landlady got. Now that I think about it, it’s probably what people in the future will get when they try to pull that kind of shit with us. Because most people get to a point at which they’re no longer to roll over for obvious bullshit, which is what this was.

Still… that bullshit is NOTHING compared to what a lot of people go through. Just reading this blog post and thinking about some of the folks I wrote about today makes me realize that we’ve been pretty lucky. We mostly have to deal with bullies and narcissists. Not that dealing with narcissists isn’t painful, because it is… But once you realize what and who narcissistic people are, you realize that they’re basically empty shells of pain. And, just like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, you always have the power to go “home” again… All you really have to do is click your heels and walk away. Sometimes it does feel good to give them something to remember you by, though… 😉

As you can see, when I’m alone, I do a lot of thinking. My thoughts often end up on a straight path, where one thing leads seamlessly to another. Before I know it, I have a long string of seemingly unrelated thoughts and memories that somehow fit, that I feel compelled to write about… much like my seemingly worthless and highly unorthodox existence seems to fit in implausible places. Here I am, an “overeducated housewife”, writing these blog posts when I could be doing something “useful”, like working in a cubicle somewhere, driving a teenaged kid to an activity, tending to an elderly parent, nursing an injury of my own, giving someone a baby shower, or attending a fundraiser… normal things all of my old friends seem to be doing.

Things I always thought I would be doing with MY life… But that isn’t how my life has gone.

A lot of people seem to think I’m a silly, amoral, feckless twat. I’m pretty sure that was former tenant’s and ex landlady’s collective impression of me. They didn’t know me. They never took the time to get to know me. They never cared, because they were not interested. That’s fair enough, I guess. I do wish if that was how they felt, they’d at least allowed me to be strange in private.

They didn’t realize there’s someone worth knowing, deep beneath the surface of my loud giggles, weird jokes, copious flab, and profanity… someone strong, who loves fiercely, feels deeply, thinks constantly, and deserves basic respect and simple regard. The people who casually dismiss me, or make a habit of dismissing anyone else, really, ignore those basic truths at their own perils.

Well… today’s post is a rambling toxic creek of different stuff. If you managed to wade through it, I do appreciate the effort. Like everyone else, I hurt sometimes. I have a very long memory, and a long history of people treating me like trash. I don’t have the type of personality that handles that kind of treatment with much grace or patience, hence these weird blog posts that some people think make me seem “unhinged”.

I’m not crazy, y’all. I think I’m just kind of fed up with everything. 😉 Being fed up means I have to empty the bins. Because I’m not an OCD nightmare like ex landlady, I don’t scrub away the shitty residue. When things start to stink, I have to flush. So that’s what today’s post is.

Time to move on with the day. Got to fold laundry, walk Noyzi, play guitar, and buy more beer. So, until the ‘morrow, I bid you all farewell.

Standard
fiction, funny stories, humor, ideas, silliness

A very special double repost…

I’m running short on ideas today, and I’m feeling a bit silly. I ran across this post from October 2018 on my original blog. It’s a ridiculous story idea I had back then involving Pernell Roberts, Howard Keel, and Mr. Yuk. I used to write a lot of fiction stories to pass the time, as well as to creatively express myself when people got on my nerves. I don’t write much fiction these days, but since these two posts made me laugh, I’ve decided to share them today. I doubt anyone will read them, but at least they won’t cause controversy.

An erotic story involving Pernell Roberts, Howard Keel, and Mr. Yuk… (originally written October 10, 2018)

I’m sure I could find any number of outrageous news stories to rant about today.  I will probably do just that in a little while.  It’s just that I’ve noticed my blog is not as much fun as it has been in the past.  I’ve been dealing with a little depression and anxiety lately, which has had a noticeable effect on my writing. 

Yesterday, I had a random idea of writing a fiction story about the late actor, Pernell Roberts.  I know him best from his years as Trapper John, M.D., but other people remember him from Bonanza.  I remember he also starred in a Lassie movie back in 1978.  In that film, he played a bad guy.

Sexy Pernell Roberts… there was a time when my dad could sing sort of like this.  I can appreciate it now, but didn’t so much when I was growing up.  Pernell Roberts had a lovely singing voice, though.  Many people thought my dad had a lovely voice, too.  He probably did and I just didn’t like it because of our fucked up father/daughter relationship.  Oh… and the fact that he wasn’t trained.

I think Mr. Roberts is on my mind because I somehow wound up subscribed to a YouTube channel honoring him.  Someone uploaded a bunch of episodes of Trapper John, M.D. and I started watching them last night because Bill is in Italy.  He’ll be back tonight– it was just a one night trip– but I’ll still be alone until after bedtime.  Maybe I’ll watch more Trapper John, M.D., or maybe I’ll make music.  Who knows?  Or maybe I’ll spend the day writing silly stories for those who enjoy my warped sense of humor.

Anyway, I noticed that a number of female commenters on the YouTube videos were saying they thought Pernell Roberts was “sexy”.  I have to admit, now that I am myself middle aged, I agree that he was rather sexy in those days.  Of course, Trapper John was a typically strong male character on the TV show.  He was authoritarian, particularly with his female patients.  Some women are turned on by a strong man who tells them to get in bed and stay there.  Actor Gregory Harrison, who played hospital Lothario Gonzo Gates, was probably there for the younger crowd.  Both of them were such caring dudes… and so skilled as they saved their patients from whatever devastating malady they had while romancing them under the sheets.

Then, as I started thinking about Pernell Roberts, I remembered the late actor Howard Keel and how he always reminded me of a horse peeing on a rock.  I mean, he was really tall and probably made a lot of noise because of the length his whiz had to drop.  I remember seeing him in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, which was filmed in the 1950s, when he was young and studly.  But as a child of the 70s and 80s, I remember him best when he was on Dallas, playing Clayton Farlow.  Maybe it was because all of the horses they used on that show and the fact that I’ve spent a lot of time around horses and know what they sound like when they pee… especially the geldings.

Damn… I would love to have a horse that did this!  Cleaning up horse pee is no fun, especially when it’s hot outside.

The guy who officiated at my wedding, then a Presbyterian minister and now a Certified Nurse’s Aide and Catholic, asked me if my erotic story involving Pernell Roberts would involve surgical instruments or horses.  And that just made me think of Howard Keel peeing on a rock again.

Oh my God… speaking of piss.  This is probably one of the most cornball pop songs of the 1980s.  What in the hell possessed Howard Keel to sing this over any one of the classic standards he did in his prime?  

So then, just as I was gathering ideas about other things I could put in my erotic story, I caught this clip from 1988, starring the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders.  Front and center is current Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader Director, Kelli Finglass, back when she was in her prime and still on the squad…

I was about 16 when they did this.  Look at that hair!  And those shorts look almost like granny panties compared to what they wear today.  My hair was never quite that big.  For the record, I prefer Kelli’s hair the lovely shade of red it is now.  Frosted, frizzy blonde doesn’t flatter her.

Finally, someone shared this picture of Brett Kavanaugh, who will always be a glorified frat boy to me…  

And I was reminded of this…  I wonder if Kavanaugh has ever made this face before having sex with someone.  I wonder if anyone has ever made this face before having sex with him…

Wow… they could be brothers.

Maybe I should write a story involving all of these people.  It wouldn’t even have to be erotic.  I could probably have some fun with it, kill some time, and stay out of trouble.  I do have a very strange mind sometimes, especially when I’m bored.

My latest book is about the East German police, so it’s probably just as well if I write some fiction or something, before I start having nightmares about the Stasi.  Shit… I might as well do it.  

And here it is…

Mr. Yuk gets a treatment he’ll never forget… (written later on October 10, 2018)

Let’s see where my warped imagination takes me…  This story is pure fictional nonsense, pulled straight from the bowels of my mind.  It took about an hour to write this and it probably shows.


It was an unseasonably cool, fall afternoon at San Francisco Memorial Hospital.  The year was 1982.  Dr. John McIntyre, otherwise known as Trapper, was looking dashing in his surgical scrubs, having just removed Clayton Farlow’s appendix.  He was feeling pumped up, because he’d just told Farlow to go to bed and stay there.  It gave Trapper a rush to tell people what to do, especially guys who were taller and more famous than he was.

Farlow was lying in bed, groaning because the incision where his appendix had been removed was a little itchy.  But because Trapper was both authoritarian and a little kinky, he’d had Farlow’s wrists tied to the bedrails.  It was only because Farlow was just coming out of the anesthesia and might try to monkey with the tubes and such.

“Don’t worry, Kid,” Trapper had told him as he tenderly adjusted Farlow’s oxygen mask, “we’ll untie your wrists when you have your wits more about you.  I’ll be back later.”

Farlow grimaced as he watched his sexy doctor prance away.  Farlow wasn’t into men sexually, but he’d been in show business longer than Trapper had and learned to appreciate the beauty in everything and everyone.  Besides, whatever drugs Trapper had given him were wonderful, even if his incision was a little itchy.

For all of his fame on Broadway and primetime television, Farlow had not managed to score a private room.  Lying in the bed next to his was a guy popularly known as Mr. Yuk.  His name was actually Brett, though, and he was quite the whiny brat.  Farlow cast a disapproving look at the young man– all of seventeen years old– lying in his hospital bed looking really disgruntled and bored.  He looked like this…

Farlow wanted to ask Brett why he was so yucky.  The boy had a constant scowl on his face, like he smelled something disgusting or had just walked in on his parents having sex.  But the oxygen mask prevented Farlow from saying anything intelligible and he was embarrassed about his wrists being restrained.  So Farlow remained curious while Brett clicked the remote control on the boxy TV, trying to find something interesting to watch.  He finally stopped on a channel featuring a certain female collie named Lassie.

“Yeah…” Brett snarled.  “This is more like it.  I like watching bitches on TV.”

Good entertainment for the sick…

Farlow rolled his eyes as he recognized familiar faces…  There was Mickey Rooney, Pernell Roberts, who looked a whole lot like Trapper, James Stewart, Alice Faye, and music by his old friends, Pat Boone and daughter, Debby.  Good old fashioned, wholesome, kid friendly entertainment!  It was just what the doctor ordered!

“I really could use a beer.” Brett snarled to himself.  “Fuck being stuck in the hospital.  This place sucks!”

Just then, a pretty nurse named Kelli came into the room.  She was all smiles and had a figure that could stop traffic!  Her hair was as big as her smile was, and Brett could see that her starched white nurse’s uniform was just a little shorter than it should have been.  Casting his eyes downward, he could see the nurse’s adorable knees covered by her white tights.  He looked at her shoes.  They were sensible nurse’s shoes, showing that the woman was just as intelligent as she was sexy.

“Hello Mr. Farlow.” Kelli chirped as she checked his vital signs.  She moved like a dancer, her catlike grace surprisingly apparent as she moved about the tight quarters, cleverly keeping her sweet ass away from Brett’s reach.  “You’re looking much better today.” she said, checking his temperature. “Your fever is almost gone!  Trapper will be happy to hear this!  Yea!”

Farlow looked hopefully at his wrists, but the nurse didn’t seem to notice his distress.  Instead, she adjusted the oxygen mask one last time and turned her attention to Mr. Yuk, aka Brett the brat.

“How are we feeling?” Nurse Kelli asked as she recorded Brett’s blood pressure.

“This place sucks.  I have so many calendars I need to update.  I need to get back to school.  I’m missing so many keggers it’s not funny.” Brett whined.  “I’m being held against my will.”

“I’m sure you’ll be out of here before you know it.” the nurse said.  “You know, once you’re eighteen, you can check yourself out whenever you want.  For now, we have to wait for the doctor and your parents to say it’s okay.”

Kelli turned away from Brett, who then took the opportunity to pinch her ass.

“Ouch!” Kelli yelped.  “I see why they call you Mr. Yuk now!” she scolded as Brett’s face turned into that familiar scowl.  “You really are a naughty boy.  We’ll have to see what we can do about that.”

“Stop trying to impugn my character.” Brett snapped. 

“I’ll be back later.” Kelli promised.  “Enjoy the movie.”

With a heavy sigh, Brett turned his attention back to Lassie and her young master, on the run from Pernell Roberts’ evil character, Jameson.  He was about to start singing along with Pat Boone when Trapper barged into the room.  He started checking Farlow and then untied the man’s wrists. 

“You seem ‘with it’ now.” Trapper said as he patted his patient on the head, patronizingly. 

Farlow eagerly reached up and pulled the mask off his face.  “Can we get rid of this damned thing too?  It feels like a gag.” he complained.

Trapper frowned a bit, looked concerned, and said, “Well, not so fast… let’s not rush things…  You’re going to be in here for a week.  What’s your hurry?”

He glanced up at the television and saw Pernell Roberts chasing Lassie, calling her Heatherbelle.  “Man, I hope that guy gets his dog back.” Trapper said under his breath.

Trapper moved over to Brett, who was looking really disagreeable.  “Fuck this place.” Brett muttered.  “I just want a motherfuckin’ beer.”

“Now now, young man…” Trapper said.  “Take it easy.  You’re in a hospital.  Time to rest.  Let Kelli take care of you.”

“Tell her to bring me a beer… and pizza.  This hospital food sucks.” Brett said with a scowl.

“Young man, your attitude could use some adjusting.  Perhaps it’s time I prescribed a treatment to help you with your problem.” Trapper suggested.

“Fuck that, and fuck you.  I need to get out of here and on with my life.  I have social ladders to climb and women to plumb.” Brett hissed. 

“You really don’t get it, do you?” Trapper asked incredulously.  “You don’t realize you’ve entered another dimension.”

“The only other dimension I want to enter is a beer and nurse Kelli’s vagina.” Brett snapped.

“I see…” Trapper said, his voice steady.  “Well that makes me think you really do need treatment for your problem.  I may have to introduce you to another doctor… a woman who really knows your mind.”

“I don’t need that.  I just want to party.” Brett said.  “Why is that so hard to understand?  And why do I have to stay in this Godforsaken place?  My home is on the East Coast, with all the other snot nosed brats.”

“I see.  Well, I think it would do you some good to talk to Dr. Ford.” Trapper said.  “She’s a maverick in her field, but I think she can straighten you out… maybe get that yucky look off your face.”

“I don’t want to talk to her.” Brett sniveled.

“Okay… well then maybe Nurse Kelli can give you an enema to help kill the bug up your ass.” Trapper suggested.  “You seem a bit constipated.”

“Hmmmph.” Brett huffed, sullenly turning his eyes back to the TV.

Farlow was watching this scene with interest, although he really needed to pee.  He somehow found the energy to ask Trapper for help going to the bathroom. 

“Sure pal.” Trapper said.  “Usually, I’d let the nurses handle this, but I can see you’re a man’s man.”  The bearded, distinguished doctor came over and helped Farlow out of bed.  He was grateful Nurse Kelli had already removed the man’s catheter.  They went into the bathroom and Farlow let out a long and very loud stream of piss that reverberated throughout the semi-private room.

“For God’s sake!” Brett complained.  “Do you have to be so loud?  You sound like a horse peeing on a rock!”

“Sorry… I really had to pee.” Farlow apologized. 

“Well do you have to be so fucking loud?” Brett scowled.  “No fucking class!”

Farlow gave Trapper a grateful look as he rolled his eyes. 

“That kid is such a brat.” Trapper said sympathetically.  “Sorry you have to share quarters with him.”

“No worries… I once shared a house with six brothers.” Farlow said.  “And they were all horny because they were looking for wives.”

“I think that’s Brett’s problem, too.  He’s a spoiled, horny, little bastard.” Trapper said.  “And he’s also a drunk.  He needs a good spanking to teach him some manners.  I’m tempted to let Nurse Kelli practice some procedures on him, but he’d probably enjoy that too much.”

“I’ve never seen anyone scowl so much.” Farlow admitted as he washed his hands.  “He really is very unpleasant indeed.”

“Nurse Kelli will fix him… with help from Dr. Ford.” Trapper promised as he walked his patient back to bed.

Farlow was safely tucked into bed, where he nodded off. He was right in the middle of a pleasant dream in which he was at Southfork Ranch, making mad passionate love with Miss Ellie, when he was awakened by a blood curdling scream.

“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME!” Brett was screaming.  He had climbed out of bed and was cornered by a couple of beefy orderlies who were holding a straitjacket. 

“Now, now, Mr. Yuk…” one of the orderlies soothed. Farlow blinked his eyes and realized the head orderly was a very muscular woman. She was flanked by two huge guys who looked like they could be linebackers for the Dallas Cowboys. Behind her was Nurse Kelli with a syringe at the ready. A cameraman stood in the corner, filming everything. It looked just like a dramatic scene on Trapper John, M.D.

“Get away from me! I haven’t given you CONSENT!” Brett fumed.

The head orderly advanced at her patient, and with one swift move, pinned him to the bed.  He shrieked in fear as another orderly placed his hand over the young man’s mouth and the other orderly efficiently wrapped him up in the straitjacket.  Nurse Kelli then gave him an injection that rendered him more compliant.

“Wha…” Brett stammered. “What are…”

“Shhh…” Nurse Kelli said, her Pepsodent smile radiating across her pretty features.  “It’s just part of your treatment.  Dr. Ford will be with you in a moment.  Just got to wait for you to relax a bit.  That way it won’t hurt as much.”

The orderlies tucked their patient into bed, put up the siderails, and left the room while Nurse Kelli stood by, monitoring the young man with the Mr. Yuk scowl. 

“This would go so much better if you’d just cooperate.” Nurse Kelli said.  “Take your medicine like a good boy.”

“Fucking bitch!” the young man shrieked.  “I’ll get you for this.”

“Right… I’m sure you will.  Just relax.  Dr. Ford will see you at her convenience.” Nurse Kelli said.  “If you’re lucky, she won’t make you wait for what’s coming to you.”

Brett scowled again as he glared at the nurse.  Her chirpy demeanor and perfect smile were pissing him off even more as he struggled against the rough canvas of the straitjacket.  Farlow glanced over at the spectacle, suddenly glad his own medical bondage scene had been short lived.

A minute later, the door opened and there stood a middle aged blonde woman in a very stylish business suit.  She wore glasses and sensible heels as she strode over to her unruly patient. 

“Hello Dr. Ford.” Nurse Kelli said, her voice rich with admiration.

“Nurse…” the doctor said.  “So this is the patient.  He’s permanently scowling, isn’t he?  Needs a little help with his attitude…”

“Yes, I think so.  I’ve heard you can do amazing things with the mind.” Nurse Kelli gushed.  “I would love to study under you…”

Brett and Farlow both looked at the attractive psychologist and thought the same thing.  But Farlow was smart enough to keep his mouth shut and Brett was too busy scowling to make his feelings known.

“You know…” Dr. Ford said.  “I don’t think I’m going to be able to reach him with just simple conversation.  I think it’s time we forced him to watch something other than Lassie.”  She nodded at the television.  “Change the channel… Lifetime should do it.  A nice long marathon of movies about women who have been sexually harassed and date raped ought to be a good start.”

Nurse Kelli’s eyes widened.  “Do I get to stay in the room and supervise him?” she breathed.

“I’m not opposed to it.” Dr. Ford shrugged.  “That’s just the beginning… we’ll start with Lifetime TV, then move on to Dr. Phil.  Then a steady diet of Kathie Lee Gifford…”

“What?!” Brett shouted.  “I’ve never even heard of these things!”

“Lucky for you, I’m from the future.” Dr. Ford said.  “You’re going to get a headstart on the 1990s and the 2000s.  Then I’ll go back to the future.”

“Why?” Brett asked plaintively.

“Because big things are in store for you… and if you don’t get straightened out now, you will fuck up a lot of lives.” Dr. Ford said, smoothing her blonde hair.

“I don’t have time for this.” Brett sneered.

“We’ll see that you make time.  And if you’re difficult about it, I can think of some very fun ways to make you comply.” Dr. Ford said.  “Don’t try me, young man.”

Brett sighed heavily.  “Yes Ma’am…  Let the re-education begin.”

“I’m sure you’ll be good and ready for the future after a few Lifetime movies.  Every man should watch them so they can learn proper respect.” Dr. Ford said.

END

And here is the one comment I got on this tripe…

I like it, an instant story! Write more.

Maybe I should… especially now that my former monitor is no longer monitoring me.

Standard
communication, ideas, karma, language, social media

Sometimes being bitter is better than “keeping sweet”…

This morning, as I was waking up next to Bill, I looked at my Facebook memories and came across today’s featured photo. It came from a page called A Debt Paid In Ink: The Writing Of Clyde Hurlston. I liked the quote, which comes from novelist Anne Lamott. I don’t know anything about Anne Lamott. Like most people on social media, I didn’t take the time to explore her history when I saw her quote. I don’t know the context of why or how she came up with that thought. All I know is that it really resonates with me.

A very quick look at Anne Lamott’s work on Google tells me that the quote probably came as a way of encouraging fledgling writers. I see from this link that in 2019, she did a TED Talk called “12 Truths I Learned from Life and Writing”. I’m reading it now, and I would encourage you to read it, too, if you have the time and inclination. Anne Lamott is a very wise person. Today’s quote sort of comes from her list of twelve things she’s learned, but the other eleven things she learned are just as important and insightful, and they’re worth sharing. So I hope you will take a moment to consider the rest of Anne Lamott’s list.

Today, though, I would like to focus on that one thing in the featured photo…

“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”

~Anne Lamott

This particular quote doesn’t appear verbatim in Anne Lamott’s list. She writes “…the two most important things about writing are: bird by bird and really god-awful first drafts. If you don’t know where to start, remember that every single thing that happened to you is yours, and you get to tell it. If people wanted you to write more warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better…”

If you’re one of my regular readers, you might know that I’ve pissed off a few people by writing about them in my blog. The most recent incident happened in May, when I vented about a relative by marriage who kept giving me false compliments about my looks. I had shared a post on Facebook that included a photo of an overweight woman. This person who was on my friends list thought it was me, and said I looked “great”. I got annoyed, because the person had completely missed the point of my post. Then, when I pointed out that I wasn’t the woman in the photo, instead of an apology, I got an “oops” and an emoji giggle. That reaction struck me as disrespectful and kind of demeaning.

My choices in that scenario were to: call out the offender on my Facebook page, possibly starting a shitshow for all of my “friends” to see. Swallow the embarrassment and disappointment and suffer in silence (or vent privately to Bill or other people). Process my feelings in a blog post from which other people might get something useful. I chose to write the blog post. I think it got a total of nine hits. One of those hits came from the “offender”, who was so upset about it that they hit the block button. I guess things might be awkward at the next family gathering, if we’re both there.

I suppose I could have sent a private message to my former friend, but I didn’t feel like that would have been productive. Given their reaction to my blog post, I can see that they weren’t really a friend, after all, and never really cared about me. A person who cared would have wanted to have a conversation to preserve the friendship, especially over something as ultimately trivial as that situation was.

Moreover, I don’t think I started the conflict. I shared a post that resonated with me, and my former friend didn’t read it carefully and responded inappropriately. I was legitimately offended, both by their initial response, and their discounting response when I pointed out their mistake. Maybe some people might think I shouldn’t be offended by something like that… but I was. My way of processing the offense was to write about it. Their way of processing my writing was to banish me from their life. To quote the great Kurt Vonnegut, “so it goes.”

Anyway… not to rehash that business. It was just one example of my using things that happened to me to generate content. I write every day. It’s possible to write every day, because something happens every day. Sometimes, the things that happen are mundane. Sometimes, they’re not. I think that was mostly Anne Lamott’s point, that you can find content in everything that happens to you. And if someone inspires a less than flattering account, that’s not necessarily your fault.

Not everyone is a writer, though. Some people process things that happen to them by engaging in another form of creativity, like painting, composing music, dancing, or singing a song. Some people do something athletic. They go for a run, play basketball, or hit the slopes. Some people read a book, watch television, talk to friends and family, or get drunk or high. There’s an endless list of ways people can process things that happen to them, whether those things are good or bad.

For me, personally, writing works very well. In fact, those of you who have known me awhile, might remember that a few years ago, I was having a terrible drama involving our former landlady, who, from my perspective, was treating us very badly. Complicating matters is the fact that I blog, and the landlady’s former tenant was following me and, apparently, sharing my blog with the former landlady and her daughter. Former tenant would, on occasion, ask me to change things I’d written in my blog. One time, I mused about how she and her husband had left the rental house halfway through their three year Germany stint. I wondered if they left because former landlady had been abusive to them, too. It was maybe two sentences in a pretty long post, but those two sentences really upset former tenant, and she told me so. So I edited for her, but I became pretty suspicious, and I started making plans for what we’d do after we moved out of that hovel. And I realized, then, that the former tenant was a liar. I don’t know why she was so concerned about being friends with the landlady, or why her friendship with the landlady had anything to do with me. It’s all moot now, anyway, as the former tenant exited life last year on her own terms.

Sure enough, though, ex landlady tried very hard to steal our deposit. She was quite shameless about it, and flagrantly broke several laws. We sued her, and she ended up settling the case. She had to repay most of our deposit, and she was responsible for paying court fees and lawyer costs (although she tried to get us to pay for our own lawyer). It ended up being a very expensive lesson for all of us, but especially her. One of the main reasons why we were so successful, though, was because I blogged most every day, and I had comments from the former tenant that she’d forgotten to delete (she had a habit of “dirty deleting” things). I also had a lot of photos. A couple of the photos were pretty damning, and the ex landlady must have realized that if we went to court, she would definitely lose. She had accused us of stealing from her, and we had proof that hadn’t happened. So, in that case, writing my story was a very positive thing.

For me, writing is a way of preserving history… and making sense of the crazy. I write about Ex a lot, because she has a way of revising history and promoting false narratives. She gaslights. When I document things she says and does, I provide evidence against the lies she spreads. And sometimes, that evidence comes in handy.

I was curious about other people’s reactions to the post shared on Clyde Hurlston’s page. Quite a few people posted negative reactions to Anne Lamott’s quote. Below are a few examples of what people wrote in the comments:

“Folks generally have a different perspective on events. Maybe you think they wronged you and maybe they think you wronged them. If you don’t want to talk it out like adults, just walk away. What would be the point of spreading just your version of the truth about another. Plus we all have our bad days & are far from perfect.“

There’s some truth in what this person wrote. However, there’s nothing to prevent the other person from writing about their perspective. Maybe it would even be helpful in resolving the conflict. I find that writing helps me clarify things. But I know, not everyone writes. Besides, not everyone is capable of just “walking away” from conflicts. Sometimes, it’s crucial NOT to walk away. In the case of our ex landlady, it felt like a duty to sue her, because we got the sense that she had treated other tenants in the same despicable and abusive way she treated us. And Bill and I have both been doormats for other people way too many times.

A lot of people seem to be projecting their own bitterness or frustrations onto the OP. I took it as an encouragement to actually writers for including their personal experiences in their work. For some people writing is the way they work through things. Or life experience inspires their stories. I did not take it as an encouragement to just go around telling anybody and everybody about every time anyone has ever looked at you wrong. That’s silly. We all have a limited perspective and we have all harmed others.

I like what this person wrote. This is kind of my take, too. Writing helps me maintain my mental health. Yes, I could keep what I write private, and sometimes I do that. But keeping things private means that I don’t get the opportunity to learn from other perspectives by discussing things with impartial people. Sometimes, the things I write are helpful to others who can relate, or are in a similar situation.

Forgiveness is a thing too. Forgiveness doesn’t absolve the person who hurt you from their actions. Forgiveness sets you free from hate, and allows you to be even stronger than before! Try forgiveness…When you live in the past, you stagnate.

You can forgive someone and still write about what happened. The two actions are mutually exclusive. The writing doesn’t have to be angry or bitter. It can be matter-of-fact, or funny, or even spun in a positive way. Like, for instance, my recent post about how ditching my sister at our parents’ house gave me the strength not to stand for Ex’s bullshit the following year, when she tried to force me to spend Christmas with her. At the time we ditched my sister, it was a very negative event. Years later, I realized doing that was a building block for dealing with Ex and the former landlady. And those experiences will be building blocks for dealing with other people who try to bully and exploit us for their own gain.

Lol you mean “you own everything that didnt happen to you. Tell your lies. “So many people are either complete drama queens adding in lies to make the story sound better or more in their favor, or complete compulsive liars. Our society has very few truths anymore. Its all rewritten history and fabrications. The truthsayers are shit on and are treated poorly.

Well, this person just sounds like an empathy challenged asshole. Glad I don’t know her.

I lost a job over this – how dare I *speak* about how I was being treated by coworkers. I have a lot of emotions over it and keep going between what could I have done differently and they were gaslighting bullies and I’m better off. Definitely sucks.

Sounds like a toxic workplace, anyway. You deserve better. Get away from the gaslighting bullies and find somewhere healthier to work. And write your story, if you want to. It’s your right.

Some things are better left unsaid. Memories are past experiences. Don’t manifest the negative ones into your present life. Instead, move on to allow for wholesome positive experiences.

You can move on and still write your story. The most important thing is to learn and grow from your experiences. And sharing the experiences can help other people grow and learn, too, as long as you’re being constructive.

There was one more comment from someone who responded to a person who agreed with Anne Lamott’s quote. The person– who appeared to be a male Hispanic– wrote a very discounting comment that I can’t find at the moment. But the gist of what he wrote was, “That sounds ‘bitter as fuck’.” He implied that the woman he was responding to was wrong for reacting to a slight by writing about it. He seemed to be promoting “toxic positivity” by encouraging the person he was responding to to not be “bitter” and just turn the other cheek.

The Hispanic guy’s comment is what inspired today’s post title. That is– sometimes being bitter is better than “keeping sweet”. In our culture, we are often pressured to keep quiet when someone does us wrong. We are encouraged to accept bad behavior and disrespectful treatment, let bygones be bygones, and forgive and forget. Sometimes, that’s not bad advice, as some things are not worth causing a fuss over. But… when it happens repeatedly, and the behavior never changes, there’s a problem. Speaking up about abuse or bad behavior isn’t wrong, as long as it’s done honestly and constructively.

“Keeping sweet”, as a lot of people– especially women– are encouraged to do, can be very harmful. It can keep people trapped in bad situations. Owning and writing one’s story can be healthy and liberating. Besides, everyone has the ability to share their own stories. So, if someone has shared a story that from their perspective that misses the mark, there is nothing to prevent the other side from being shared. As long as people are basically honest and not trying to destroy others with their tales, it shouldn’t be wrong to write them. Of course, it’s probably wisest to obscure the details, to protect the innocent… or the guilty.

Standard
art, ideas, musings

Repost: Are art teachers “stupid”?

This post appeared on my original blog on May 16, 2016. I am reposting it because I think it’s a thought provoking essay. It’s mostly “as/is”. The featured photo was taken by me at the Uffizi Art Gallery and Museum in Florence, Italy in April 2022.

Just to be clear, I don’t think anyone who teaches art or any other humanities or creative class is stupid.  I think a good art teacher can be a lifesaver to some kids.  However, I know there are “practical” minded people out there who think anyone who chooses to teach art or music or any other course that isn’t an “essential subject” must be an idiot.   

“The real question is, how stupid do you have to be to pay for a degree to teach art? Financially doesn’t add up.“

This was posted in a Facebook group I used to frequent. It was full of overly pragmatic people with “military mindsets”.

Some people who read this blog may know that I am a graduate of Longwood University.  Longwood is well known in Virginia for turning out great teachers.  I didn’t become a teacher myself, but I do have a lot of friends and one relative who earned teaching endorsements at Longwood.  I’m not sure what the laws in Virginia are now, but I do remember that the year I entered Longwood, the “elementary education” major was discontinued.  Everyone who wanted to be an elementary school teacher had to major in a subject and then take additional education courses.  And while some of the subjects seemed fun, they were also a lot of hard work.  I can’t count the number of times I watched my friends laboring over colorful projects involving contact paper.  You’d think it would be fun to make teaching aids and bulletin boards, but those projects required time, patience, creativity, and most of all, money.  They weren’t fun and games. 

I often hear people talking about how art, music, dance, and theater are “fun” majors that are ultimately useless.  They have no respect for people who study the arts because they perceive those subjects to be easy.  What some people don’t seem to understand is that it takes actual talent to major in those areas.  Moreover, the arts make the world a better place.  They stimulate creativity, which leads to innovation and discussion.  Arts of all kinds get people talking and thinking and make the world more exciting.  People who teach artistic subjects inspire young people and, in some cases, can actually be lifesavers.

When I was in school, the local school system employed a husband and wife who taught art.  The wife taught art to 7th and 8th graders and her husband taught at the high school.  Mr. and Mrs. Bergh were definitely “artsy” people.  In 7th grade, I took Mrs. Bergh’s class.  I had always enjoyed art and thought her class would be fun.  I actually found Mrs. Bergh’s class difficult.  I will never forget trying to draw a perfect sphere, my hand, or my shoe.  It was really hard.  I don’t think I got higher than a B in that class.  But I did learn something from Mrs. Bergh.  She taught me to “draw what I see”, and that changed my whole perspective.  

Before I took Mrs. Bergh’s art class, I would only draw what I thought I saw.  I wouldn’t actually look at something and try to create it on paper.  I would just create something from my thoughts, never even observing the thing I was trying to draw.  While a lot of great art comes from imagination, there is a lot to be said for taking a minute to look at reality and recording it accurately, as you actually see it with your eyes.  Mrs. Bergh taught me to look closely at an object and draw what my eyes were actually seeing, not what I thought I was seeing.  I must admit, learning to draw what I see was a difficult skill to master, but it changed my worldview.  I could apply that lesson to more than just art.  Mrs. Bergh taught me to look at things objectively rather than subjectively.  That’s a skill that transcends all subjects.

I never took any of Mr. Bergh’s art classes.  I am not a particularly talented artist and I found his wife’s class to be enough of a challenge.  However, many of my friends took Mr. Bergh’s classes.  He was a popular teacher who managed to make a career in art even though he had one prosthetic eye.  Some of my friends were struggling with adolescence.  At least a couple of them were not doing so well in their academic classes, but they excelled in art.  Mr. Bergh’s class gave them a place to express themselves and may have even prevented a couple of them from committing suicide.  He was a good teacher, but he was also a valued friend to most of his students.  He made high school more bearable for a lot of kids.  

My sister majored in art.  She is not a teacher (thank God), but she is a very talented artist.  She’s always been employed, generally in her field.  Years after she completed her art degree, she went on to earn a master’s degree in journalism.  The two areas of study complement each other.  Though she probably could have majored in something others would consider “practical” like accounting or nursing, my sister would have been mediocre and miserable in those fields.  She’s an artist and her work has value.  She got to where she is because people in her past chose to be art teachers.  It’s because someone taught art that my sister isn’t torturing some poor soul in the hospital with a cold bedpan or fucking up someone’s taxes. 

Today’s post was inspired by a rant one of my friends posted about an art teacher calling her daughter stupid.  My friend was understandably upset about the teacher’s conduct.  Another friend said the music teacher had also behaved unprofessionally.  There was a lot of talk about how difficult it is to be fired from the government system and that’s why these teachers were getting away with behaving so badly.  As the discussion continued, someone mentioned that art teachers are usually not very good teachers because their field is not in high demand or they couldn’t hack a “real” subject like English or math.  There may be some truth to that idea.  It could also be that some of the people teaching art and music would rather be creating art and music.  They became teachers because they thought they had to teach in order to make a living.  Maybe they’re burned out or not suited for a career in teaching. 

I think a lot of people go into teaching because they simply want to be employable.  I almost did that myself.  Originally, I planned to get a teaching endorsement to be a high school English teacher, even though I had no desire to teach.  Having taught English as Peace Corps Volunteer, I now know that it would have been a mistake for me to be a professional teacher.  But even as an 18 year old, I knew that I wanted to be able to find a job.  Not being a particularly worldly 18 year old, I thought teaching was the obvious practical skill to fall back on should I ever find myself faced with the prospect of living in a van by the river.    

I majored in English because I love writing, but I believed it was unlikely I would be able to write for a living.  So, being a somewhat practical sort, I figured I could teach.  I know I’m not the only one who’s done that.  Fortunately, I wised up and abandoned my plans to teach.  It would have been a mistake for me to be an English teacher.  I would not have been very good at the job.  Had I decided to be a teacher, some poor kid would probably be complaining to their parents about me.  Or maybe I would have been fired and still ended up in a van by the river.  

Too many Americans have the mindset that they have to follow a set path.  Yes, it’s important to have solid skills that lead to gainful employment.  We do need people in fields that require a specific skill set.  But the world also needs creators and dreamers and people who think outside of the proverbial box.  People who mentor the world’s dreamers have an important job.  Art, music, dance, and theater are very important, especially to young people who are developing their critical thinking skills and their creativity.  We should have more respect for those who choose a career in the arts and those who are brave enough to teach in the arts. 

The world doesn’t need more mediocre scientists, nurses, accountants or teachers.  I know some people think studying the arts with the intention of launching a career is a “stupid idea”, but I would submit that it’s actually stupid to expect everyone to go down the same narrow path.  If you broaden your mindset, you may find that any course of study can be useful and worthwhile.  Moreover, it’s often the creative types who find ways to use arts training to make the world better while they earn a living.  Limited thinkers are those who believe wholesale that art teachers are inherently “stupid” or “can’t hack teaching a ‘real’ subject” simply because they choose to teach art.  

Standard