Who Doesn’t Like Babies?

 

The current trend in thinking is that empowerment requires people seeing others who look like them in careers they want to have. 

Although empowerment wasn’t a word I heard growing up, I’ve never thought of it as something others conferred, but something that comes from within. Glass ceilings and empowerment never concerned me. The world was full of possibilities, and if I wanted something, who was the rest of the world to tell me I couldn’t have it?

From my earliest memories, I had a set of things I was never going to be: a nurse, a secretary, a teacher, a waitress, a salesclerk or a mom. I had nothing against people who had those jobs; I simply didn't want them for myself. Oddly, those were pretty much the only things girls could aspire to in those days. Every girl I knew dreamed of getting married and having babies. My other “nevers” were what they would do until they had those babies.

I used to tell my mother I didn’t want to be a secretary, I wanted to have a secretary. She would shake her head and say, “Yes, dear,” and then proceed to tell me why girls didn’t do those things.

Says who? My brothers could aspire to the jobs I wanted. Why should I be punished because my father failed to give me a Y chromosome? I never understood why my parents wanted a girl in the first place, if all I was doomed to become was someone less than. I had no use for a life as a second-class human, which was all someone limited to a few career choices was, in my book.

The message I heard given to my brothers was that they could grow up to be anything they wanted. Well then, I wanted a piece of that, too.

But according to my mother’s thinking, I was a girl, so it didn’t matter what silly thing I wanted to be, I’d have to give it up when I got married and had babies.

Babies? I didn’t want to have babies!

Of course, according to her, all girls wanted to have babies, and I’d change my mind when I was older.

I didn’t see that happening. I didn’t want to be a girl in the first place. I don’t even particularly like babies.

Gasp! That’s a horrible thing to say! Don’t ever tell anyone that!

The fact is, I didn’t, and still don’t. Brief encounters with them are fine, seeing pictures are fine, but having to spend an extended amount of time with them is for others, not for me. Babies are boring. They’re noisy, don’t keep regular hours, and they really don’t do much besides eat, excrete, and cry. I’ve never been a fan of people that needy.

My dolls were not precursors of future babies. They were substitutes for the friends I frequently didn’t have.

When I learned the facts of life on where babies came from, and all of the horrors women had to put up with for the “privilege” of having babies, I was determined that babies weren’t for me. 

Just as not everyone is college material, not all women are meant for motherhood. I never yearned for it. I had no concept of a biological clock. As I’ve always said, if God had intended me to be a parent, I would’ve been born male. Since I wasn’t, all bets are off.

Besides, what if no one wanted to marry me? Considering the fact that no one asked until I was 38 and I didn’t marry until I was 39, my young adulthood bore that idea out. 

I was never boy crazy. When friends married at 19 or 20, I thought, good luck with that. I have things that are more important to me.

Okay, that meant I’d need to pursue a career. So there, Mother!

While circumstances have, at times, put me in the situation where I had to, for a time, be a teacher and a salesclerk – the latter because the former in a Catholic school didn’t pay enough to keep body and soul together – I did not stay in that situation for very long.

In college, I was a food service worker, although not a waitress. But that was to maintain some amount of financial independence from my parents without interfering with my classes, and to finance my semester abroad that my parents couldn’t afford to give me. (“If you want to do it, you have to be able to pay for it. We can’t. And if you think about calling home asking for more money, don’t.”)

I also had to do food service when I first graduated because I couldn’t get a job in my field without experience. Of course, one cannot get experience without a job. This is why you don’t see me on the nightly news.

Fortunately, I didn’t have the right skill set to ever be a secretary. In those days of sexism, before HR and sexual harassment rules, secretaries were expected to make and serve coffee. I still don’t know how to make coffee, since I don’t drink it. And had a boss ever called me “honey” and patted me on the butt, I would have decked him, and been looking for a new job the same day.

No, in truth, the way I was “groomed” as a child, I would have been too shy to actually deck the boss. Instead my letter of resignation would have been on his desk the next morning. Fortunately, I didn’t have to learn secretarial skills in high school since I was in college prep classes.

I never went anywhere near a nursing career. Instead, by default of not being able to get into the career of my choice, I ended up in a healthcare career that, while somewhat rewarding, meant I spent 30 years in a career I never actually wanted.

And my career did involve working with children. I do like school-aged children, even the preschoolers -- as long as they're not "runners". The advantage that my job had was that at the end of the day, I gave them back and went home to my dog – and eventually to a husband.

But where my colleagues go gaga over babies and toddlers, I step back and say, “No, thank you.”

What I like best are third through 12^th grade students, particularly middle schoolers and teens. I like them. They’re funny, you can joke with them, have an intelligent conversation with them, and while some are sometimes moody – as are adults, by the way – you can reason with them. All it requires is that you respect them and listen to what they have to say. 

I don’t have that nails-on-chalkboard high-pitched “baby voice” I hear many people use when talking at small children. I was always insulted by being spoken to that way when I was a kid, so I never developed that tone myself.

The funny thing is, many people recoil at the idea of dealing with teens. They freely admit that they don’t like teens, or else they make disparaging remarks about them that makes their attitude clear. Yet, if I dare to say I don’t like babies, they’re horrified.

I’m not saying do away with babies. There are plenty of people who love babies and can take care of them, so I shouldn’t have to. My mother was one of those people. But teens need proponents, too. That is where my talents lie.

“But who doesn’t like babies?” they ask.

 Well, I don’t.

           

 

Having a "Huh?" Moment

 

 

            “You’re something the Catholic Church fears: a thinking Catholic.”

Those words were uttered to me by a priest once, a million years ago, when I was in my 20s.

No this is not a blast on Catholicism, or even a blog about religion. It’s more of a “Huh?” about the modern world.

To put the statement in context, I used to sing and play guitar for our parish’s guitar Mass. Every year, the group had a picnic at a park about an hour from where we lived. I always found that odd, since there were parks closer to home, it was usually a hot day, and there was no place at the park to swim. We would invite the priests, but they usually didn’t come.

One year, one of the priests, who liked our group’s music, decided to go to the picnic. He didn’t know how to get there, and I didn’t have a car, so he offered to drive me there since I could show him the way.

Along the way we chatted about miscellaneous and sundry things, and at one point got into a conversation about that day’s gospel, which was the one about the rich man giving his money to three of his servants and telling them to take care of it until he returned. Two of the servants invested the money, which I considered a risky thing to do with someone else’s money. They were lucky they didn’t lose everything, and they were rewarded for making extra money for him, which, in my opinion, he had no reason to expect. The third did exactly what he was told to do, and buried the money, giving the man back exactly the amount he was given, exactly, to my mind, all that the man should have expected back. And that servant was punished. I thought that was grossly unfair.

Yes, yes, I understand the point that the money --“Talents” -- was a metaphor for one’s talent in life, but taking it on face value, the parable is unjust.

When I pointed out that one of the men investing the money should have suffered losses, since that was a real world situation -- just as having talent in an area, but life situations preventing it from being used -- he told me I was putting 20^th century values -- this happened back then -- on the gospel. Quite the “Huh?” moment.

Of course, I felt that if it wasn’t relevant to the century we’re living in, what’s the point, anyway? And then he said what I quoted at the beginning of the blog.

I apparently don’t pick up the undercurrents of things people tell me. Perhaps that’s why I don’t understand the world I find myself living in.

For example, when I was a wee, small child, my mother told me that we shouldn’t judge people by their race, religion, gender, ethnic background, and by extension, sexual orientation, we should look at the individual, and decide by their values and behavior whether or not we wanted them as friends.

 I took that to heart to such an extent that sometimes, if someone else mentions someone race, religion, gender, ethnic background or sexual orientation, I have to stop and think, “Really? I never noticed.”

This is not to say my mother didn’t have her own prejudices; she did, and I recognized them when I was much older.

However, when I was in seventh grade, my teacher, who was a nun, started a conversation with my class about a movie that had just come out, Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner, which 1) we were not old enough to see, since it had an R rating, and 2) involved bi-racial dating, something that was apparently taboo at the time. After telling us the premise of the movie, she asked us -- 12 and 13-year-olds, who were too young to be allowed to date -- if we would date someone of a different race. Keep in mind, this was an all-white school in an all-white suburb in the late 1960s, when integration in schools was in its infancy in the US.

I listened with increasing disgust as my classmates said they would, but their parents wouldn’t let them -- always blame someone else -- and very few were brave enough to admit they would never consider it. The hypocrisy was overwhelming.

I finally raised my hand and told the good sister that I wouldn’t have a problem with it, and told her what my mother had taught me. Sister was apparently pleased at my parents’ forward-thinking ideals. I was proud of myself and my family.

But when I arrived home, my mother was less than proud of me when I told her about what happened in school.

“You said WHAT???!!”

Another “Huh?” moment.

Apparently, what I was taught at home was a state secret, because, if discovered, what would the neighbors think? My mother, it seemed, was afraid of my classmates’ parents thinking ill of my family because of what I had said. I didn’t think it was memorable enough for them to tell their parents.

My thinking was that people should be happy to see that someone was living according to what Jesus was telling us in church every Sunday. Sigh. I just didn’t get it.

Flash forward to today.

I used to feel safe going into Philadelphia. However, with the uptick in gun violence, I don’t have it on my radar as a place to go.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry. That only happens in the neighborhoods,” people often tell me. And while that’s somewhat true, “The neighborhoods” is racist code for certain parts of the city. However, at least two deaths and a couple of other shootings in Dilworth Plaza, which is part of City Hall’s footprint, the very epicenter of Center City, puts the lie to the idea that shootings only happen in “the neighborhoods.”

And people wonder why I think they’re ridiculous telling me I’m brave to travel to Europe alone? I feel safe in London; not so much in Philadelphia.

So it was a real shock on my latest visit to the UK when I heard that someone had been shot and killed -- randomly -- in Wallasey, near Liverpool. Add to that the fact that, when I heard about the shooting, I was visiting a cousin in Wallasey, and it had only happened a few days earlier.

Beyond the sadness that this had happened, especially since it had happened on Christmas Eve, was my first thought: where did someone in England get a handgun? That was also the first thing I was asked by my friends at home when I told them about the incident.

I live in a country that, sadly, has reached the point that gun violence on a daily basis is almost expected. But the Wallasey shooting was yet another “Huh?” moment.

Back in America, I think something needs to be done about the violence, although, given our laws and the people who think anyone who doesn’t own a gun is a radical looking to take away their guns, I don’t know what we can do about it or how to even start. (Don’t get me started on guns. If you really want to know, check out my previous blog, “The Not So Okay Corral,” Aug, 2018.)

It’s sad to think I have to go to another country to have a good day out.

That’s not to say I’d go to just any other country. There are several I don’t care to go to, either because they’re such crowded places, or because of their political regimes.

For example, although I’ve been to Russia in better times, I wouldn’t go there again as long as their current leader is in power. That means I’ll probably not be able to go there again in my lifetime.

New Zealand, on the other hand, is definitely on my list of must-see places.

I love to travel and meet people different from myself, but I can’t always do so, which means I need to stay in my own country sometimes. And I do realize that other countries have their own problems, some of them the same situations we have here. I know that some situations I’ve seen reported on television are almost world-wide, and it saddens me, mainly because it demonstrates that humans largely haven’t learned from the past.

The other day I saw a report on someone being attacked solely for being Jewish. My immediate response was, “What is wrong with people?” (ask Blue Scream of Jeff – read his blogs –and he can tell you. He was there when I said it.) I feel the same when someone is attacked for being Black.

Every time I hear about a Jewish group being attacked, I ask myself if we’re living in 1930s Germany or Russia, and if not, why we’re still not better than that. Ditto for blacks, women and LGBTQ+ people.

Every time I hear about “ethnic” groups being attacked in countries around the world, I think about the fact that those same countries have been through this before. Why haven’t they learned from it yet?

To quote a song by the Manic Street Preachers, "If you tolerate this, your children will be next."

We seem to be going backwards, too far backwards.

I’m a child of the ‘60s. Peace, love and understanding -- and by the way, some fantastic music! We protested against war. We protested against injustice. We marched for civil rights. 

If we’re going to go backwards, let’s go back to those ideals, not the wild west, or the ethnic cleansing of the 1930s and ‘40s, or even the so-called Communist purging of the 1950s. I was raised with the ideal of eradicating bigotry as far as possible. I was educated in schools that emphasized social justice.

Although I wasn’t a member of Girl Scouts, they have a basic rule that you leave a place better than the way you found it. I’ve always tried to be that person. Or, to quote Maya Angelou, “When you know better, you do better.”

 

Top Eight Hates

 

  

        Lists are often a big deal. Magazines have them frequently. People have “bucket” lists. There seems to be a “Top 10” for nearly everything.

        While I don’t like the “bucket” list, since once you’re finished, you’re expected to die, and I plan to live a good long time, I do have a somewhat unusual list.

        Mine is the “hate” list.

        I know, I know, your mother always told you that you shouldn’t hate. I don’t hate people. But I do hate certain habits I’ve seen in others. So, no, this is not the “I hate peppers and Brussels sprouts” list. It’s the things people do that aggravate me.

1.       I can’t stand when people attempt to finish my sentences for me.

Anyone who’s ever met me (unless it was at a party where I didn’t know anyone) knows I’m quite capable of speaking. But there are certain people who have this annoying habit – and it’s not only me they do it to – of thinking they know the last word I’ll say, and trying to say it before I do.

Besides being annoying, it’s rude. They’re interrupting.

I give them one chance. The second time they try to do it, I change the word I was going to say. It’s my way of smacking them in the face.

It does confuse them, and usually, after doing this three or four times (if they’re not the sharpest crayons) they stop doing it, at least for a few days.

2.     Talking over me.

I realize that, as someone with ADD, I have a tendency to go off on tangents when I’m telling a story or explaining something. I’m aware I’m doing it, but it’s a matter of saying the, “Oh, by the way” thing before I forget. I will eventually loop back around and finish the first thing I was telling them.

However, people often jump in and either change the subject entirely, or try to explain what I was explaining.

It’s rude. I think in future, I will just turn around and walk away, since they’re negating me as a person anyway.

3.     Using children as interruptions.

I’ve had friends say they haven’t seen me in ages and want to talk. They will even go so far as to ask a question. But the minute I start to answer, their child bursts in demanding attention.

Instead of saying, “Excuse me a minute,” and telling their child they are having an adult conversation, and it’s rude to interrupt, as my mother would have done, (in 9 out of 10 instances, the child has no emergency that requires interrupting), they go off with the child to take care of whatever the child wants.

Usually, said person never ends up having a conversation with me, since they’ve already reinforced for the child that rudeness is fine, and the child will do it repeatedly, or the person just gets busy with other people.

I would far rather people stop pretending they have any interest having a conversation than playing this cat-and-mouse game.

 

4.     The “Excuse me” excuse. This is like the child interrupter, but for people without a handy child.

These people pretend to be pleased to see me, ask me about something, and almost immediately say, “Oh, excuse me. I’ll be right back.” They then go off to talk to someone else, who, apparently, is far more interesting.

They want to make me shout, “How rude!” Perhaps I’ll try that.

5.     “Right, right, right!”

Perhaps the people who do this aren't aware that they’re doing it. Perhaps they think it’s helping the conversation along. Perhaps they really don’t know how annoying they’re being?

I had a supervisor who would do this in the middle of nearly everything I said. I don’t know what she thought it was adding to the conversation, but to me it simply meant, “I’m not listening. Shut up.” So I did. If she said, “Right, right, right,” I would assume she didn’t want to hear what I was saying, and I’d stop. She’d interrupted my train of thought, anyway.

Of course, sometimes she’d ask why I stopped, to which I’d reply that I thought she wanted me to.

I don’t just stop the conversation now, though. I walk away. (I'm retired. I can.)

6.     The phone as an excuse.

When I go out with someone, I generally don’t bring my phone. It wasn’t invited. If I’ll need it later, it goes in my pocket or bag on silent mode. I consider the person in front of me more important than someone at the other end of a text message or phone call. They can wait, leave a message or call back later. If I were waiting for a call about someone's death, I likely wouldn't go out at all.

So I find it rude in the extreme when I go out somewhere, especially for a meal with someone, and they are glued to their phone, either texting or answering phone calls. It has yet to be about their child being in an accident.

It’s rude. If you’re that much in demand, you certainly don’t have time for me. I’d have more fun staying home reading.

I have a rule at my house: no phones at the table. And it isn’t always teens that do that. I’ve had to tell adults (who shouldn’t have to be told this rule to begin with) to put away the phone or leave the table. If I can’t bring my book to a social gathering, others shouldn’t be allowed to bring mobile phones. 

7.     Name brand one-upsmanship.

I’m not impressed with name brands. I once said I wouldn’t wear Calvin Klein’s name on my butt until he wore mine on his.

My only exception is when I find something in particular that suits me. It isn’t the name that attracts me, it’s the functionality. (You may find Gloria Vanderbuilt's name on the inside --  never the outside --  of my jeans waistbands. They fit me well, and they're usually cheaper than other brands.)

An example is I like Pentax cameras. Not because of the name. And I have actually been put down for using a Pentax. I like the weight of it and the way it works. Besides, with cameras, it isn’t the brand, but the talent of the person using it that counts.

Not to brag, but I have gotten clear pictures at ½ second with my Pentax without a tripod. A friend who travelled with me once was bragging about her Cannon. But when she tried to get the same picture at the same setting, it turned out as a lovely blur of color.

Someone else once gave me a “Pfft” over my “inferior” Pentax.  She had a Nikon. We were both taking photos for a singer friend at a club. When she made the noise, I laughed and walked away. It turned out that little miss Nikon wasn’t a very good photographer, and was rather miffed at the end of the night when our mutual friend asked me to send her copies of the pictures I’d taken.

I don’t make a big deal out of what kind of camera I use. I only tell people the brand if they ask. And usually they only ask if they’re trying to seem superior. But then, I was offered a job as a professional photographer once on the basis of a series of pictures I’d taken with a Kodak 104 Instamatic. (One of those 1960s cameras with the cartridge and the flash cube.) So, take that, Nikon! 

8.     Self-impressed people. 

            The world is supposed to stop when they appear. If it doesn’t, drama ensues.

“Do you know who I am?” is a frequent demanded query of theirs.

Well, no. I don't suppose you happen to know who I am either, do you?

Actually, my attitude is, “I certainly wish I didn’t.” or “You’re a human being, no better and no worse than I am.”

Or, to quote Buggs Bunny, “What a maroon!”

There are other, less frequent annoyances, like people who think they’re better because of where they went to college, who they know or how much money they make. They’re simply boring people with no point, other than the one on top of their head, and I avoid them at all costs.

I’m sure there are plenty of human foibles that could be put on similar lists, but this is mine, and I’m keeping it.