#51 - Defining a Bigot

What exactly is a bigot?

Here is a nice little compact definition:

big·ot (bĭg'ət) n.
One who is strongly partial to one's own group, religion, race, or politics and is intolerant of those who differ.

Here is a question for everyone...

Can you be a follower of Jesus and be a bigot?

Let's take a look at Jesus' words:

"Love your neighbor as you love yourself." MATT 22: 39

You know... you could probably spend a whole lifetime working on these 7 simple words.

And I wish that folks who go out of their way to attack others who are not like themselves...

well, I wish they would expend their energies on something more productive, and loving.

The action of attacking others in the name of Jesus seems to me to be nothing but bigotry.

And the antithesis of Jesus' teachings.

How can one claim to practice agape love and expend energy hating anyone?

Why are so many who call themselves Christians bent on going after everyone else?

Is that what Jesus asked us to do?

I don't think so.

RESOURCES:

bigot: Definition and Much More From Answers.com

#50 - ONE Campaign - Petition signing

Click the banner to sign the petition.
Consider using your website or blog to display a banner and increase awareness of the need to eradicate world poverty.

Much Thanks!

#49 - Dear Miss Period, Thanks for the Memories

I have reached the five year anniversary of the hysterectomy.

I know, I know... it should be HERsterectomy.

My period and I were permanently separated from the day of that surgery, never to cross paths again.

The morning of said surgery, I had a cheerful helpful nurse relay to me how much better I would feel once I was relieved of that naughty old uterus.

Hmmm...
What was she on?

I did not want a hysterectomy.

I did not want taken from me the core of my physical being that I felt at that time defined my feminity.

I was scolded and coerced by several physicians that I NEEDED the surgery.

I was actually told that they would discharge me from the hospital (I was doing the revolving door at the time) if I would just let go of Miss Period and her troublesome womb.

Too sick and in way too much pain to argue anymore, I surrendered the very core of my life as a female.

My uterus was never too cooperative.

She rebelled from the tender age of thirteen and she never quite got on track.

I don't blame my uterus. Not her fault after all.

We were born into a rather hostile world.

A world in the 1960s that was terribly conflicted regarding what a woman should and should not be.

And personally, I was born into a situation that led to a sexual assault by an extended family member.

I was permanently scarred from that... emotionally and physically.

Miss Period's arrival was more like a validation of the pain and suffering, as opposed to heralding the dawn of my womanhood.

And Miss Period brought out silent screams every month, which caused intense pain, swirling headaches, flailing emotions that I had yet to learn to master, and real bite down on your lips and try not to scream complications inside my gut.

Miss Period took away my ability to give birth.

She scarred my internal organs and attached my uterus to my bowels.

She scarred the bowels so bad, that surgeons had to take some of it away in order to prevent a painful death.

Miss Period was an angry banshee, who refused to be subdued.

Lord knows, I tried.

I became a chemical testing ground for hormones, first the Pill, and later injections to put me into early menopause.

But, the Pill made me manic and once the injections ceased, Miss Period would go at it again, carving a path of destruction with her endometrial tissue that refused to stay in utero.

When the surgeons decided enough is enough... they told me she had to go.

And so did my uterus and my ovaries.

Bye- bye... we have nothing left to offer.

I was not ready to let go.

I told my husband to buy me curlers when I came home from the hospital.

I wore nail polish, I put on make-up when normally I wouldn't, I curled my hair and did everything in my power to carry all the trappings of what I believed to be feminity... my birth right.

I even held on to Miss Period's monthly supplies. Somehow in my deluded early (way to early) menopausal brain... I was thining she may return... best to be prepared for that.

But, Miss Period was not coming back.

And neither was my old life as I knew it.

Physicians can be very dismissive about female castration.

I can not even count how many times I have wanted to scream at my male doctors, "Let's cut away your testicles and whatnot.. see if that makes life easier for you!!"

But, I haven't thus far.

I dropped the exterior trappings quite a while ago.

Curling my hair doesn't make me a woman.

Painting my finger nails and wearing make-up does not make me a woman.

And owning my uterus, although I really would like to have her back... well, that did not make me a woman either.

I am 100% woman.

Yes, I wear an estrogen patch.

But, I am a woman, because that is how I was born and that is how I will see the world until my dying days.

I am a woman because I have never had the power of male privilege.

I am a woman because I knew from the youngest age that my responsibilities lie in finding the heart of all matters.

I am a woman because I know my success is not measured by my bankbook, but in how much I have loved...

and how much love has been received.

Miss Period left five years ago.

My Husband drew a little cartoon picture of her running away with her little handbag to parts unknown.

We sent her on an extended vacation.

She's long gone, but I am still here... carrying her memory with me... memories of Miss Period and life with a uterus.

We are so much more than the sum of our body parts.

We are soul.

This body is a vehicle to transport that soul through this journey in life.

We can spend our lives trying to adjust the body to conform to what others may think is necessary for the perfect life,

but, take it from someone who has had to surrender bits and pieces of this body...

no one... no one can cut away your soul...

only if you let them.

#48 - Missing Woman - Legitimate Source, not a hoax

I received this bulletin from an online friend who is a journalist. This is not a hoax.

- Loretta


This is legit. Here's a link to a recent news story. The girl's name is Lori Slesinski.

-------------

This girl has been missing from Auburn for a about two weeks now and if you would help us keep reposting it so that people could see her face, maybe someone will recognize her.. Her car was found and it was burned up... but no signs of her.



This is her myspace profile

http://www.myspace.com/52273957

Please repost this message. It's amazing how we all have time to repost all these messages about ourselves...I think we can all take a minute to copy and paste this message.

(To copy this bulletin with the picture, hit the reply button, copy all of the info (BUT DON'T ACTUALLY REPLY)...then go to post bulletin and paste it all there....)

#47 - A Blasdell Girl at Canyon Ranch

The universe was having a benevolent moment towards this Blasdell gal several weeks ago.

Out of the blue, I received an invitation for a free stay at the Canyon Ranch Health Spa.

Well… not totally out of the blue.

A very influential someone caught wind of my bizarre online humor and heard one of my WBFO listener commentaries.

She thought I was worth the bother.

Well…

I wasn’t about to disagree with her…

But I will tell you something…

This Blasdell Gal went into a dead on panic upon receiving the invitation and verifying that this was the real thing.

Canyon Ranch is rated as the American version of Club Med.

You have to be in possession of mucho deniers in order to afford even stepping on the sumptuous gated grounds and complex.

I thought to myself, “How am I going to fit in to this place with my Wal-Mart special sneakers and Goodwill seconds?”

Growing up in Blasdell, the highlight of fancy was a spaghetti dinner at Ilio DiPaolo’s.

Still is as a matter of fact.

Every self-conscious neurotic thought came into play as I prepared for this trip.

I am going to be “found out” as soon as they get one look at me.

Money knows money… and I will look like a platypus in my Kaufman’s deeply discounted last season Donna Karan’s that was hastily bought a few days before our visit.

I thought of that as my camouflage… for going undercover and seeing how the other half lives… the privileged folks.

I doubt that the designer label worked.

The thing is…

when you really do have money, you don’t wear things with labels on them that shout out…

“ Look at me! See how MUCH I spent on these clothes?!”

Nope.

That is decidedly the realm of those of us who are firmly planted in the middle and lower classes.

That is the realm of the blue collar community that has populated this part of New York State for generations.

I am a Blasdell gal…

And darn tootin’ proud of that.

Most of us Blasdell gals look tough on the outside and are emotional marshmallows on the inside.

Our lives are rarely easy, but vastly complicated with the stress of reaching out to those less fortunate than us, scrabbling to keep our families afloat, and being the backbone that society needs so that the giants of society can crawl up on our shoulders to see the view of a world that probably never will be in our reach.

Blasdell gals are in the hospitals nursing the ill, working the factory line, clerking at the stores, teaching in our schools, being mother to their own… and more often than not mothering loads of other folks too.

We will cuss and have a beer with the guys,

And tenderly stroke the faces of our sweet children at day’s end.

We are prone to picking a fight with anyone who messes with said kids.

We will get up at sunrise, work hard, come home, and complain. After dinner and getting the kids to bed we watch celebrities make fools of themselves on the television, and then, gratefully, say a prayer or lay our heads down on our pillows at night and count our blessings.

Some of us Blasdell gals just lay down our heads and cry when no one is looking.

We are the daughters of immigrants.

We learned that you work hard and always be grateful for what you already have… because it could be worse.

And so there I was…

a Blasdell gal…

feeling insecure by stepping foot into a world that I have had glimpses of on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.

The veneer I tried on for this vacation lasted less than a few hours.

I was shocked to see that the most of the rich folk look like…

Well…

Blasdell gals.

Worry furrowed their brows.

The gals who were there to lose weight would shyly whisper a “Hello” to me and give a nervous smile.

Holy toot!

They were as uncomfortable as me.

Feeling insecure too.

Encased in Blasdell gal bodies.

Thick hipped, well endowed chests…

Thick legs…

Well made for working hard and tending to the kids.

Guess there isn’t room for that Botticelli figure in the world of the wealthy thin folks.

I relaxed.

I smiled.

I put my baggy secondhand clothes back on, figuring I would look eccentric instead of low class.

I held my fork as a Blasdell gal, and my elbows landed plunk on the linen covered tablecloth just as proudly as any Blasdell gal hanging out at DiPaolo’s.

Don’t really care if that was how I was perceived.

I started thinking, “Why do I need to be ashamed of my roots?”

Because many of the women at Canyon Ranch looked like me and the other Blasdell gals I grew up with…

Just in a nicer brand of clothing.

They must have their long days of hard work, dreadful boredom from routines and ruts that we all get stuck into, children to give them those extra gray hairs, and bodies that refuse to conform to impossible shapes that only grace a few celebrities here and there.

The Canyon Ranch ladies obviously crave cookies, lack the time and energy for exercise, and probably feel out of place many times too.

I went in to this health spa trip thinking that I am an outsider in the world of the privileged.

I was so very wrong.

We become outsiders by our desire to be other than what we are.

I am a Blasdell gal, not an outsider.

Why?

Because I happen to LIKE being a Blasdell gal.

I like it that we didn’t have much growing up.

I like it that my friends and family work hard at jobs that may pay the rent, but not finance an extravagance.

I LOVE my immigrant roots.

And I love it when someone who is definitely un-Blasdell gives me the funny look like, “Who does she think she is?”

Canyon Ranch taught me something completely unexpected.

I am not rich.

I probably never will be rich.

I don’t care if I’m not rich.

I don’t care if I look like an oddball in the country club scene, and I don’t care that I don’t have a cell phone or a palm pilot or fancy clothes or any of the trappings of wealth.

Because that is what those things become.

Trappings.

Trapped.

I think a lot of folks who go to Canyon Ranch are feeling trapped.

Trapped by the extreme pressure required to obtain and hold onto such wealth.

Trapped by social standards that appear to more exacting, more demanding than the Saturday night beer and bowling crowd.

Trapped by stifling routines.

Trapped by uncooperative bodies that will not conform to the way one is “supposed” to look.

Canyon Ranch was fancy.

VERY…

But, it was not the wealth that made the vacation splendid.

The quiet was healing.

The opportunities to relax and renew oneself through meditation, mindfulness, getting some solitude were plentiful.

Those are things you can get for free if you know how.

The best moments of this trip were spent in the woods, looking at a brook, the leaves of the trees dancing against the speckled sunlight, the birdsong, the whishy-wishy sound of the hammock under the huge trees.

Canyon Ranch taught this Blasdell gal to Re-create instead of Wreck-create.

And maybe that is what Blasdell gals… oh heck… ALL of us need.

Skip the amusement park whistle and stop tours of noise and confusion.

Skip the noise of crowded places where all the tourists go.

Skip the loud parties and brews for a few nights.

Get real quiet.

Sit under a tree, or hole up on the beaches of Lake Erie far away from everyone.

And Breathe.

This Blasdell gal did that at Canyon Ranch.

Before the trip my sister said “There will be no living with you when you get back from a place like that.”

She meant that I would be spoiled for the high life.

But, that is not what happened.

I found gratitude.

Gratitude for the small car, and the tiny Cozy Cottage that we call home.

Gratitude for countless things I had previously ignored.

And at Canyon Ranch I found something long missing from my life.

Gratitude for being a Blasdell Gal…

And darn tootin’ proud of that fact.