Sunday Traditions

Some families get together for Sunday dinner. Some go to church. There is folklore of a time when families went for Sunday afternoon drives – back before economic and environmental crises nearly prohibited it.

Me, I’ve taken to Sunday evening strolls around my block. Yeah, maybe it’s because I am a 70-year-old woman trapped in a 24-year-old’s body…if only my cat were with me. But it was born of coincidental necessity to go out for one reason or another on a Sunday evening when I first moved here – to find a place that sold the Sunday paper, to find a grocery store, to buy some chocolate – but even when it was out of necessity, I still ended up meandering a bit longer than needed, despite the bitter cold. It’s nice on a Sunday evening to walk around in the city. It’s quiet, not that my neighborhood is ever bursting with energy (thank God, this 70-year-old 20-something wouldn’t stand for that), but there are fewer students, fewer lights, fewer open stores.

There’s something about the emptiness that attracts me to the nights on Sundays. It’s peaceful and discomforting and mysterious. You walk by the brownstone with lace curtains and notice for the first time that there are two stuffed pigs in one of the window sills and stop for just a second before shaking your head and continuing on your wander. You discover that you live a block from a retirement home, and frat row. You realize that the hospital across the street is actually pretty creepy - or at least that the gorgeous old building that was probably a wing for, I don’t know, TB patients that they don’t use anymore in light of the new modern facilities, is pretty creepy. You notice, that yeah, my street is cute (as pointed out by my dear friend, Lora, who google-street-view stalked me) with its rows of stoops and bay windows painted green and yellow and purple, all homes now occupied by students and young professionals (or maybe that’s just me). And the Chinese restaurant on the corner, whose only redeeming quality is that it only accepts cash, otherwise I’d be gaining weight by the day!

It is cute, and it has potential, but in the light of day, when I walk to and from work or on my way to wherever else I go, I don’t appreciate its qualities. On a Sunday night though, there’s nothing else to distract me from it. Most times, I just see its empty store fronts a couple of blocks up or the schools on either side of the road. But on Sundays, everything’s empty and the schools are just buildings – not work or students. So instead of staying in and being restless, which leads me to some “necessary” outing for the newspaper or chocolate, instead of pining for my animals or missing my friends and family on a Sunday evening, I walk a few blocks in the cold and take in my beautifully sparse neighborhood.

Dunkin' Donuts are quickly becoming a Sunday habit as well, one that should be swiftly broken!

Cynicism

A quick google search for “cynic” reveals the Hellenistic philosophy that “the purpose of life was to live a life of Virtue in agreement with Nature.” Check it out on dictionary.com and you find a myriad of definitions ranging from “misanthrope” to “habitually negative” to “scoffs at the pretensions of integrity.” Ever wonder how something gets such a bad reputation?

Any of you who really know me, know that I have been far too cynical for my age since I was like five. I mean, there are very few of you who knew me when I was five, but you get the point. I remember the odd Saturday when I was little when Mom and Dad would be wrestling with Rae and David in their bedroom and I would go into the living room and read a book, thinking, “Man, they’re so loud. I wish it was just quiet so I could read.” Maybe that’s not necessarily cynical, but it is odd for a little kid. I never had an imaginary friend - I couldn’t make up a whole person that I couldn’t see. I had a “My Sized Doll” who I named Jenny – she has a band-aid on her knee…I made up that she scraped her knee, really?

I even remember writing letters to God that I snuck outside for him to get, because I didn’t like talking to the ceiling and I needed to know that he was real – I guess I didn’t trust my feelings or what I was told. And taking a letter seemed like a good way to know…he did by the way. (So much for the faith of a child – Jesus had other children in mind when he thought of that one.) I did win a very real debate with a boy in 2nd grade about the existence of Santa Claus, though, because I knew Mom and Dad slept all Christmas night and couldn’t possibly have gotten all those presents out.

I’ve always had this disparity between letting myself dream and being shaken awake by an unhealthy dose of cynicism. As I continue in my amoeba-like growth, this desire to make a difference is balanced ever so delicately with the reality that life is hard and sometimes people suck. Sometimes, when the balance is off, I can spout unbelievable optimism or be propelled into frustrated immobility. But usually, what results is tongue-biting reality where I strive to do good – and of course, throw in a few quick sarcastic remarks accompanied by smirks and glares that betray my veil of good faith. Because like the original Cynics, I do believe that people inherently suck, but should strive to control that suckiness and keep other people accountable too – thus the public disapproval of usually accepted norms in the form of sarcasm and defiant stares.

I mean, in truth, if I were to choose a Hellenistic philosophy (as researched on Wikipedia) it would be the oh-so-moderate eclecticism – it just seems the most reasonable to combine several schools of thought, knowing how we are all so different and that I tend to suffer from an occasional multiple personality disorder. But I also think that a serving of cynicism is a part of any healthy philosophical diet – because it’s good to question people’s intentions and strive to live a life of virtue, unhampered by accepted but useless and pretentious values. Plus, every once in a while you’ll be pleasantly surprised – like not finding your letter to God outside when you wake up in the morning.

Skydiving

I went skydiving a few years ago. Sometimes I forget that I did that. I wouldn’t say that I am daring. I went skydiving because it was my friend’s birthday and it seemed like an opportunity to experience something new – I would say that I was one of those “experience people,” as I was once accused of being. I also wouldn’t say that skydiving was very “death defying.” I know, I know – “Why would someone jump out of a perfectly good airplane?” – but that’s a weak argument. You don’t just jump out. You prepare. And in our case, you jump tandem, with a professional…maybe it is death defying if you do it professionally.

I would think that most people who go skydiving at least partially do it for the experience. And it is an amazing experience. You wait around for a while in the building, talking with all the other people about what you expect and if you’re afraid, and then try not to talk about it after you’ve signed the caution-of-death waiver.

Then the instructor introduces himself and makes small talk. He’s done this a lot, got addicted his first time up, why are you doing this…not that you’re listening or care. He straps you up in a tangle of seatbelts. He shows you how to pull the golf-ball-like-pull-thingy to release the parachute – you should be listening now – he’ll tap you on the shoulder and then you reach back and pull this string to save our lives. “Oh, but I don’t really want to pull it.” “You have to try to pull it, it’s part of skydiving. I won’t take you up if you don’t.” “O..K..” “I’ll pull it if you miss or something.” Well, that’s good, you think to yourself with only the slightest hint of sarcasm. Cue smile.

Then you all climb onto the tiny plane and sit on these benches. More small talk and some people are excited. I’m not excited as much as I am intrigued, interested. Then the instructor scoots up behind you and says, “Lift up your butt,” and moves up real close, simultaneously uncomfortably and comfortingly close, to strap us together – you are about to go out of the airplane, by the way. “Ok, you don’t really jump, just lean forward. Go.”

And you’re falling through the air. And this guy you don’t know is talking to you – who knew you could talk when you’re moving that fast. And you don’t talk back because you’re here for the experience and you’re focused on the amazement that your stomach’s not in your throat and what a nice day it is. “If you’re going to throw up, there’s a procedure for that.” “Oh, no, I’m fine, just quiet.” I feel a tap on my shoulder, that’s my cue, I reach back but can’t feel anything, oh well he’ll do it.

And then you feel a tug and you’re sailing. You kind of soar this way and that. “See the rainbow.” “It’s a full circle, wow.” “That’s our shadow in the middle.” When we go through the cloud, it’s cold and misty. I smile. Wow. And then we slide into the ground. My pants are dirty.

Then you meet up with your friends. “How was it?” “Great.” “I feel weird, must be the adrenaline rush.” “Yeah, it was a rush.” “Wait, you got a rush? I didn’t…”

Yeah, I didn’t get a rush from skydiving. I guess that makes me weird. It was an amazing experience that I would recommend to anyone, but there was no rush, no excitement. So it’s not that surprising that nothing else seems to excite me either. That may explain my tendency to be constantly looking for new experiences – I want to break through my level-headedness and discover a passion, something that gives me a rush.

So, I’ll keep trying new things despite the results. Even if it is like zip lining and running into trees in a Guatemalan forest, not that that’s ever happened to any of my friends…At least I might find something that makes me want to do it over and over again. Like my skydiving instructor, who probably doesn’t get a rush anymore, but still risks his life everyday to do it because he’s addicted to it. To not be able to let something go, to feel that “I’ve just got to do it” feeling, would be worth all the other “Oops, there’s a tree there – this is not what I want to do” moments.

Southern "Pride"

When people find out I’m from the South, usually their first reaction is, “Really? You don’t have an accent.” Sometime after that, a few days or weeks, when they feel comfortable asking that question they’d been wondering, a lot of people ask, “What’s it like? Being from the South?” It’s as if I’m from a foreign country where intense natives cling to a dishonorable past by flying flags from a defeated despot or that I’ve been to some new planet where people speak slowly and open doors for each other. Ok, maybe it is a little like that.

But, when you’re asked, “Do you guys really like to fry everything? Do you really eat fried macaroni and cheese,” it’s hard to answer. I’ve tried fried mac n’ cheese, once, at Arby’s, in Albuquerque, and I thought it was a little weird. I do know several people who prefer their turkey fried on Thanksgiving Day, though. And I do like a good funnel cake and corn dog at a county fair.

When people comment on how nice Southern people are, I can only think of the art of backhanded compliments – one my mother has perfected. The way that woman can say, with a smile, “Oh, is your bad knee bothering you lately, is that why you haven’t been working out? Poor, dear,” and leave someone wondering if she was being caring or insulting is amazing, really.

But what is it like, being from the South? Being up north, having been out west and abroad, I can say it is different. I think that being from the South is a bit like being a woman. It’s generally acknowledged that there are differences between men and women; and the differences are sometimes viewed as strengths and sometimes weaknesses. Some people may still even hold that women are the “weaker” sex, but that is more often argued, rightfully, with a myriad of better debates – gender roles and biology and culture. Either way, as a woman, you generally have to prove yourself just a little bit more than men do – you have to be a little bit better and a little bit stronger. Whether you chose the Steel Magnolia or Erin Brockovich or GI Jane route, you have to find your strengths, what drives you, and go with it.

We talk slow, sure. But they teach public speakers to talk slower and louder – I think a lot of Southerners do loud pretty well too, albeit loud and hick is obnoxious and not so much effective. And we are polite and our mothers teach us manners. But etiquette can get you far in diplomacy, especially when you’ve mastered criticizing someone politely. We do say y’all – best word ever, by the way, it’s concise and makes sense.

Maybe some of us are a bit closed minded and backwards. More than some of us are pretty religious…some are both backward and religious, which is a scary combination, surely. But spirituality is typically a positive thing that has merit in community and psychology, when it’s not abrasive and harmful to others – when it’s real. Southernisms like, “Bless your heart” and “Dadgommit” are inexplicable to those who don’t know the language. Ok, so maybe there’s no good reason for these, but they are fun.

So what is it like to be from the South, from this cultural phenomenon where food is comfortingly fattening and people are unbelievably polite, even when they are offending you? When you realize there is more to life than your immediate surroundings, it gives you a unique perspective to add to a developing world view. It gives you strength to stand up for what you believe in, because you’ve had to do it your whole life – especially if you’ve always kind of had a different idea of life. It builds character, because you always had to be a bit stronger to say no to the fried food and bounce back from all the kind-of-insults.

So, like being a woman, being from the South is something I am very glad that I am.

Defining Moments

So, I'm in the process of growing. Growing in what direction, I don't know. I know I'm supposed to be growing upward, but sometimes I think I'm growing sideways or inwards, or even backwards at times. But throughout this process, there are these moments. Moments of clarity, of tearful blurriness, of utter confusion that are teaching me to stop worrying about what I'm "supposed" to be doing or being. See, I believe that everything happens for a reason. And I have this way of sticking in a moment until it makes some sort of sense or at least until another moment comes to push me out of that old one. And while I'm jammed in this moment, I like to try to verbalize it...I mean, usually not vocally. Some people use music or art or talking to move along and express themselves, but none of those things work for me, so I write - not poetry or novels or anything creative, just my thoughts, my moments.

My moments aren't profound or intense, mainly just descriptive. But I think it gives me perspective, sometimes catharsis, and always something. So as I find this perspective, I'm learning not to let things dictate who I am, I'm allowing myself to dream (sometimes), I'm becoming who I will be. Mainly, my moments are beginning to malleable-y define me and give me a new view of this world.