Rights or Wrong?

Yet another excerpt from Not My Native Tongue...


There are days when, no matter how much equal rights meant to women years ago, I have to wonder what they were thinking! Evidently, no one read the fine print. Equal rights apparently didn’t also allow for equal pay or equal treatment. I’m not going to hop on the lower pay soapbox, it’s out there, it’s a fact and there’s just no use in arguing about it. But, equal rights were supposed to get us out of the house and into the workplace. A majority of men these days somehow missed the point and expect that we will do everything. Did I miss the vote? Was there a ghost rider on that law that said “Silly women, housework is for girls.”?

I’ve done some very scientific research in this area. From my studies I have found that most chores, though admittedly some are unseemly, can be done by anyone over the age of 5 (race, creed and religion play no part – oh, yeah, neither does sex). So, here’s what I say… I’m not your mother. Heck, I’m doing everything I can to NOT be MY mother.

Don’t get me wrong - my intentions are all good. I want you to be happy, I want you to have everything you want but, most of all, I want you to be independent, willing to help out around the house and respect me as a person.

Simply...THE BEST

I have a good car - scratch that - GREAT car. I love this car. It's the first one I've kept long enough to pay off. But, that's not why I love it. I love it because it has everything I need - a good engine, great speaker system, CD player and a sunroof; a lot of things I don't need, but love - heated seats, leather seats, power windows and locks; and, it doesn't have what I don't need - a payment.

Since I've kept the car this long, I've also taken pretty good care of it. I make sure I get my oil changes, tires rotated and my mileage checkups as suggested. I do everything I can using one mechanic... James.

I have spent my fair share on new tires and scheduled maintenance items. There are some costs that are just part of keeping a car... but along with making sure my car is in good shape, James is also the guy that tells me, "No, you still have 40% on those brakes. Probably the next time you come in here, we should change them" and "Well, bring it in here and let me take a look at it" only to be followed by, "we fixed it... it was easy. Don't worry about it, no charge."

Today was one of those days. My car has been acting up - just a little - but noticeable to me. So, I called James and got the same response, "just bring it on in here, Ms. Edie, we'll take a look." No exaggeration, within 5 minutes of walking in the door, James was back with the issue identified. A dead cell in my Die Hard battery. And, (here's where you know he's awesome) he said, "you should take it back to Sears - it's probably still under warranty and I'd have to charge you $100 for a new one." Recognizing he was sending me away yet again with no charge, I told him that I should - someday - pay him for his work...

His reply:

"It's not always about Money."

Unbelievable

There's a right way and a wrong way to reply to me if you are a customer service representative. I've spent time being the rep. I have been trained to speak with customers, but I was also just raised to treat people with a modicum of respect. It's not often that I run into someone who so heinously massacres the role as I met yesterday.

I sent the following email:

Subject: Lead number: 5898261
Hi. My sales lead says she got our message and accidentally erased it. Can you please reopen this case and have someone contact her (if you get her voicemail - and you probably will - please don't close the lead for that.) She's interested and wants to hear about our products.

If you cannot reopen this case, please let me know.

Thank you,
I signed my name


And, received the following response:

Dear Agent,

Good day!

You will have to obtain a Control number from her. Or simply set up a new Slim lead.

If we may assist you in the future, please don't hesitate to contact us.

Keesha T.

More than mildly offended by the cold address of "Agent," and always put off by the wording "you will have to..." as a response and the assumption "simply..." covers anything I put effort into, I replied:

What is a control number? You mean the lead number? And, who is "her"?

And, in return, I got a one-word response:

"Yes"


So, I called Keesha because email was certainly not meeting my needs. And, I found Keesha to be every bit as helpful on the phone.

REALLY?!?! Really. I mean, REALLY.

Karma

As we sat on the plane, preparing to get up and on our way home, a flight attendant asked us all to be considerate of those needing to make very tight connections. So, as directed, the majority of us sat and waited while the select few hastily grabbed their belongings and scurried to the front of the plane.

After a couple of minutes of calm - and since I was in the last few rows - I looked around and decided the coast was clear to stand and get my stuff from the overhead compartment. The others in surrounding rows did the same.

Suddenly, I hear a woman say, "do you have a connection?" and I turned to respond, "no." Then, she yelled, "they said to stay seated so that we could get out!" Flabbergasted, I did not reply. Fortunately, a woman right behind her was at the ready with "if you'd stop yelling at people and focus, you might already be off the plane."

Of course, I moved and let her by. In the next few moments, the rest of us were heading to the exit. As we neared the door, I heard several people's opinions of the woman's attitude - none were glowing. And, that's when it happened.

We entered the gangway only to see the connecting passenger swimming upstream against the rest of us. Seems she forgot something on the plane...and, my new counterpart from the back of the plane said only one thing as we passed her by...

"Karma's a BITCH." We laughed all the way to the terminal.

Charmed...I'm sure

I have a little "charm" hanging in my cube at work. Charm might not be the word, but I'm not sure what to call it really. It's a collection of 5 ideas for a happy life. I keep it on the cube wall to remind me just how simple life can be. And, though it is there everyday...I reference it only upon occasion.

So here they are:

1. Free your heart from hatred.
2. Free your mind from worries.
3. Live simply.
4. Give more.
5. Expect less.

Generally, these reminders are helpful. However, I may need to place the charm in my car. Because Atlanta traffic wipes the zen-ness away without a second thought.

1. As soon as I hit the entrance ramp, I remember I hate traffic.
2. While I'm driving with two thirds of the Southeast around me, I worry that the fool tailgating me does not have insurance (or good brakes).
3. I try to calm down and remind myself, I bought this car with its luxuries so I could enjoy the ride I do have to endure.
4. And, I recognize immediately that it is against the laws of Atlanta traffic nature (and any hope of personal safety) to give the other drivers more room.
5. Yet, I still expect to be treated with more kindness by my fellow drivers.

I'm no Dalai Lama.

Opening the trap...

Do you remember the days of believing everything you were told? Of being told and then going along because - well, that was the way it was? Or simply just believing because it was easier than questioning and then, (ugh!) following up?

Ok, truth is, I can be accused - rightfully - of falling into that comfort zone as recently as today (maybe). And, why not? Some of it is bound to be true/right/whatever...right? Most of it is of no consequence whether true or not. However, a friend recently challenged me to take a look further and, so here I am.

I'm beginning a new book (and, perhaps a new chapter - we'll see) called "Bringing It to the Table" a collection of essays by Wendell Berry.

Wendell Berry (born August 5, 1934, Henry County, Kentucky) is an American man of letters, academic, cultural and economic critic, and farmer. He is a prolific author of novels, short stories, poems, and essays. He is also an elected member of the Fellowship of Southern Writers. ~ Wikipedia

The challenge (and, no... my friend didn't say "I triple-dog dare you") is to look beyond the grocery shelves and see the entirety of the food supply chain (a term near and dear to my paycheck, if not my heart). She was explaining her thoughts on the humane or in-humane ways in which we Americans now feed ourselves. And, well, I rarely back down from a challenge.

So, here I sit, reading the first of Mr. Berry's essays. One in which he talks about the old days when farmers knew their land intimately and would farm based on the nature of the land. One sentence Mr. Berry applied to the farmer and the land struck me as important for conversations with ourselves, our land and others:

"A conversation is immitigably two-sided and always to some degree mysterious; it requires faith."

I'm gonna let that marinate for a while (pun very much intended).

No, I don't have an accent...

Often, the lessons we are taught as children come back to haunt us. In 1992, I was visiting Detroit with my boyfriend. The early lesson of looking both ways had apparently slipped his mind just long enough for us to pull out in front of a truck and I got the good fortune of experiencing emergency medical care in Michigan. I awoke to a nurse asking questions –

“What is today’s date?”
“May 7th”
“Who is the President?”
“Bush”
“Where were you born?”
“Atlanta.”
“Where is your accent?”

The southern accent found in Gone with the Wind is still around – I just never caught it. Through the years, I’ve been questioned repeatedly about being from the South and not having a southern accent. I’ve never been quite sure how to respond. Most commonly, my smart-ass side answers and minutes later, I regret those responses. And, in this case, my response was, “I must have left it in the car.” Now, I ask you, put yourself in my place…you are in a distant state, have broken bones, a concussion, stitches and a catheter – is your accent really the utmost of your concerns?

At any rate, if I did have an accent, I’d be treated like my IQ was about 30 points lower and I had 5 kids while in high school (the assumed ultimate level for my family’s education). This all goes back to the stereotypes – a little known fact: Not all idiots speak with a southern accent and not all people with southern accents are idiots. Much of this misconception is perpetuated by southerners, I know. For some ungodly reason, our camera crews seek out the most stereotypical person to explain the trailer home fire and the tornado…it’s like a train wreck – you can’t stop yourself from watching it, but you know it’s going to be ugly. And, it’s just not that often that our world-renowned heart surgeons get out of the OR to discuss the future of cardio health.

Sadly, the educated among us are also the ones who feel a lesser need to be in front of the camera to yell, “hey mama!” or “hey, y’all, watch this!” (often noted as last words). We sit back and shake our heads, awaiting the predictable response and the continued belief all southerners are idiots.

Where there's a Will...

My mother has always enjoyed travelling... across the country and internationally. Even with the numerous hijackings in the 80s and terrorists bombings like the plane over Lockerby, Scotland - she never swayed from her desire for oversees and international travels. Not to say she didn't consider the off-chance she'd become one of the unlucky few, of course. No, mom was acutely aware of the inherent dangers...and, it seems her awareness grew through the years.

To this point, as I grew older, mom felt it necessary to provide me with a copy of her Will. A wise decision, yes. However, mom decided to provide me with a copy of her Will every time she travelled. And, just in case I lost it, she also kept a couple of additional copies.

For a while there, in what seemed the safest of travel adventures, I felt we were having our last mother-daughter talk each time she left. The talk went something like this:

I've got a copy of my Will for you. Don't read it unless you have to...

Mom, seriously... did it change? I still have the last one.

It might have! Anyway, here's the key to the safe-deposit box. Also, I put a copy in the fire safe. Oh, and, another one in the freezer.

That's right... the freezer. Mom's never been accused of leaving a base uncovered. So, in the unimaginable (and, I mean that... I've tried to imagine it) case that I have lost my copy AND the safe-deposit key and then, somehow, the house burns down and the fire safe fails in its one-and-only reason for being - I can look in the freezer.

Bon Voyage, Mom...Bon Voyage

You're not from around here, are you?

Always good to open the month with an excerpt... here's the prologue to "Not my Native Tongue" (perhaps this should have been my first post for the blog)...



Those of us living in Atlanta know, geographically, we reside in the South, but Atlanta is not a southern city. I was born inside the city limits but, offhand, I can name fewer than twenty other natives that still live here. Seems like everyone else is a transplant – either because of work or family. I’m not saying that’s good or bad, but I will say that those of you who come looking for “southern hospitality” and don’t find it are dealing with people who aren’t Southerners.

Due to the influx of people born beyond the Mississippi River and the Mason Dixon line, it’s a whole different world here… a strange mix of metro and country, hicks and sophisticates, the best malls and the scariest flea markets…we’ve got it all. To say the least, the settlers in the area have held on to create a very interesting culture. I’m proud of my city – why shouldn’t I be? From slavery to segregation to bombs at the Olympics, it has weathered some of the toughest storms our country has ever known and grown into a wonderful place to work and live.

One thing that held true to the southern culture is that probably as much, if not more, than anywhere else in the US, we hold onto history in the South. Growing up here, you learn very early about the Civil War and Sherman’s march to the ocean. Occasionally, you’ll still see the stars and bars flying as you drive through the hills and you’ll still hear the reasons the South lost being batted around by the old timers, though less and less frequently. On summer nights, you can watch the laser show on the side of Stone Mountain and sing along with the King in his rendition of “Dixieland” as you see Jackson and crew gallop away into the horizon. 'Gone with the Wind' shows every summer at the Fox and Margaret Mitchell’s house is just one stop on the “must-see” tour for first time visitors (never been there myself, but I hear it’s nice).

Good or bad, right or wrong, all of these things have contributed to who I am today. I have built long-lasting friendships with women and men; I have found that color is a state of mind, and given the chance, anybody can do anything; I have learned that words, contrary to the old sing song, can hurt and that a strong mind and tongue can be used for good as well as evil. But, more than anything, I have learned that my attitude has affected every aspect of my life: people, places and things. Now that I review, it’s been a great time.