What I have to say today...some may find offensive or controversial.  I am merely voicing truths about my own simplistic views as a child and recalling, as accurately as possible moments from my past.   All I offer is an honest look at a past moment in time as it is recorded in my memory and an honest thought about prejudice and hatred as I see it.

Prejudice

I remember what a scary thing it was for me starting to school in the first grade.  My family had recently moved from our country home where I had been  surrounded by relatives galore.  Our home was in a community where my mother had grown up and lived all her life with grandparents, aunts and uncles across the road from us.  Second, third and fourth cousins lived nearby and I was never quite clear on which people in our little church family were actually kin or just friends of the family.  It was like living engulfed in a great big security blanket.  Everyone knew me or my mother and daddy or my grandparents or someone in my family.  All I have to say even now  if I return for a visit--or most likely a funeral these days--is that I am Eva Nell's daughter and they "know" me.

However, in August of 1967 we moved one county to the north just weeks before I was to begin first grade.  In our little country school, there had been no kindergarten program--only Head Start.  My memories of Head Start are:  

1) I got to ride the school bus with my big sister.  The bus driver was one of those mystery people that might, or might not be kin who went to church with us.  His first name was Army and he let me sit behind him and operate the lever that opened and closed the door.  

2) The lady who taught it was a cousin.  I called her by her first name instead of Mrs. Perdue.

3) I already knew my alphabet and how to read simple sentences thanks to my big sister, who is now in fact, a school teacher.  She was extremely bossy and began teaching me everything as soon as she began to learn it.  

4) We spent a lot of time playing with a "Pretend Store" where I often got to run the cash register and take money because I could count so well.

5) My favorite part of Head Start was when, during the bus ride home in the afternoon, we stopped at the store.  This was owned by another distant cousin and if I had any money,  I got to buy a pack of candy cigarettes or a coke--which was not usually a Coca Cola--but a Grape Nehi.

So with all that in mind, here I was starting first grade in a city that has not just one school, filled with familiar faces--for the whole community--but about 6 or 7 elementary schools filled with strangers.  It wasn't as big as Birmingham, but it was a much larger world than where I had come from.  My first surprise was finding two black girls and a Jewish girl in my class.  

Both of the black girls were fairly aggressive towards all the other kids and most everyone was a little afraid of them.  Being raised with several boy cousins who found out first hand that making fun of my red hair, freckles or short stature earned a quick, hard kick in the shins (or worse) had given me confidence in defending myself.  So I quickly earned the respect of Brenda and Markeetha when I made the boys in the classroom pay in like kind.  Then  they deemed themselves my protectors as well. Any boy who messed with me--had to deal with the  two of them.   I won't say that we became fast friends, but I think we developed a mutual respect for one another.  

The Jewish girl was really fascinating to me.  I'd never seen a real Jewish person.  Her dark complexion and hair were something I coveted.  I hated my red hair and freckles.  I didn't really understand what the big deal was when one of the other kids explained to me one day at lunch, "She's Jewish!"  like they were saying "She's got leprosy!"  I think I remember just staring and trying to determine what it was about her that made her be Jewish.  To me, it was a thing to be envied.  I had been going to church almost from the hour of my birth and I was no dummy.  I knew that Jesus was a Jew.  How cool to be a Jew like Jesus!  I thought it must be wonderful. Sadly, I don't even remember her name.  She moved away during or at the end of the school year and I don't remember every hearing about her again.

I know now that ignorance and prejudice have caused many misplaced ideas and hatreds through-out time.  They continue today.  But, as a very naive, simplistic 6-year old, those thoughts had no home in my mind.   I did not understand them then and I can't find the logic in them now.

Often, I think about how in learning about God's love and forgiveness, a child can accept that whole truth and believe that it applies to all people.  So why do adults have so much difficulty with it?  Why do prejudices and hatreds still exist among different races, religions, cultures? Just my thought of the day.

And He called a little child to Himself and put him in the midst of them,

    ³And said, Truly I say to you, unless you repent (change, turn about) and become like little children [trusting, lowly, loving, forgiving], you can never enter the kingdom of heaven [at all].

    ⁴Whoever will humble himself therefore and become like this little child [trusting, lowly, loving, forgiving] is greatest in the kingdom of heaven.

   ⁵And whoever receives and accepts and welcomes one little child like this for My sake and in My name receives and accepts and welcomes Me.

    ⁶But whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in and ^[a]acknowledge and cleave to Me to stumble and sin [that is, who entices him or hinders him in right conduct or thought], it would be better (^[b]more expedient and profitable or advantageous) for him to have a great millstone fastened around his neck and to be sunk in the depth of the sea.

    ⁷Woe to the world for such temptations to sin and influences to do wrong! It is necessary that temptations come, but woe to the person on whose account or by whom the temptation comes!   Matthew 18: 2-7 AMPLIFIED BIBLE

Looking at My Privileged Past...


Sometimes, it does take a 2x4 whacking me "upside the head" to get my attention.  But occasionally I can get the point in more subtle ways.  God has used several different sources this morning to remind me that, in spite of my imperfect past history--I am blessed--have been blessed in so many ways more than most.  


I'm currently reading a book by one of my new favorite authors, who just so happens to be a Southerner and from my own great home state of Alabama.  Though he arrived on this red clay soil only months before, and grew up less than a hundred miles northeast of where I was born, our life histories are worlds apart.  


Never do I remember going to bed hungry.  There may have been meals that stretched a dollar as tight as a rubber band, but I never knew it.  I may have gotten cold on winter nights, but I could always jump out of bed in my favorite "Tomato Soup Red" flannel pajamas and stand in front of the wall heater.  Then just when I began to feel like a bowl of hot soup, I'd run and leap back into bed under the warmth and security of one of grandmother's heavy quilts.  Later, when we moved into "town" all I had to do was stand over the central heating vent and let the warm air blow up my flannel gown like a big balloon.  And when my feet were warm...I'd run as quick as the wind and jump into my bed and snuggle under the covers.  (I may not have mentioned this before...but when I was young...I ran all the time.  Maybe that's a post for another day.)


There was always food and warmth and security in my little world.  Imperfections...sure.  But I remember fun times playing with my sisters and cousins.  Visiting grandparents, aunts and uncles always meant lots of food and lots of fun.  I always had clothes to wear and shoes for my feet, even when I would have preferred to go without shoes.  We had plenty of toys and most importantly, BOOKS.  Fortunately, my sisters enjoyed reading as well...so lots of books.  My mother still has most of our childhood books at her house today unless we've carried them home with us.  I devoured books like a fat kid eats cake.  And, we always had the resources to feed my hunger.  


Although, I do remember lots of spankings and yelling and learning to deal with short tempers, I knew that I was loved.  I may have hated that I never had the dog or cat that I wanted...but I was allowed the occasional gold fish from G.C. Murphy's.  Birthdays were always a big production and mother always asked what sort of cake we wanted for our special day.  She has even continued this tradition with all of the in-laws and grandchildren.  


We were raised in church and learned from an early age that all our blessings came from God and to be thankful for each and every one.  You might be too sick to go to school--which was very rare--but you were never too sick to go to church unless you were throwing up.  My Christian upbringing is perhaps my most valuable possession from my past.  I am grateful to my parents for giving that to my sisters and myself.  


The purpose of this post?  In recent months, I've found myself looking for excuses for my failures and lost dreams.  As I mentioned in the last post, it's easiest to point the finger away from yourself when looking for a place to lay the blame.  I've been convicted to search inside myself for answers...not just to continue to wallow in self-pity and remorse...but to try to discover how to rise above my past mistakes and failures and move forward.  So, in retrospect, my life has been blessed beyond measure.  It just takes a little bit of perspective to see that sometimes.  

Truth in Writing

This is an experimental post.  

Last weekend I made a statement to some friends that I don't think I have ever spoken aloud.  

"I am not disciplined enough to be a writer."   

Don't misunderstand.  I have spoken these words inside my head many, many times.  It is the fuel that fires the self-doubt and excuses that help explain a stagnant position.  I also was challenged by these same friends to stop using the excuse of  past influences and--I"m paraphrasing--"woman-up" to life's challenges.  (I can't say man-up...women are so much stronger in many ways than men.  That's another post.)  While this wasn't exactly what they said, that's the beauty of having such close friends...it was understood from our conversation.  A gentle nudge off my pity party stool and onto the solid ground of logic and reality.  Did I mention how much I love and appreciate my friends?  This has all provided some much-needed mental aerobics for my brain this week.

So, here I am attempting a post with no self-editing.  No re-reading.  No second-guessing.  No checking for bad grammar and poor punctuation.  Except that after two phone calls, a barking dog and a singing husband...I did have to take a break to let the noise subside and my brain gain some clarity again.  But here goes...

Years ago, when I decided to "get serious" about writing (for the 25th time) I suscribed to Writers' Digest, bought a few books and an updated copy of Writers' Market.  In one chapter, an author challenged me--because he knew that a challenge was what I needed to motivate me--to write SOMEthing everyday.  Because how can you call yourself a writer, if you don't, you know--Write?  I took this challenge to heart, got out one of my spiral bound notebooks and some good writing pens and proceeded to put something on paper everyday. 

Until one day...I stopped.  I don't remember why.  Life became too hectic.  The excuses gained more weight than the dreams.  A bout of depression overtook me.  The reasons do not matter now.  In the years between then and now, I've attempted to scale that mound of obstacles over and over again.  I always give up or give out or just become too apathetic to care anymore.  We all have our inner demons that never give up the fight to bring us down...Constantly tearing down our fragile dreams that always seem to be teetering like a tower of wooden building blocks. 

However, I still love the feeling of putting whatever is in my mind down on paper--just to see where it will take me.  Sometimes, I feel like a dog chasing its tail.  But other times, after pages and pages, I look back and see that I've treated myself to an amazing and wonderful journey.  Just like when I'm reading a book.  The problem is that I've always doubted that anyone else would enjoy the trip as much as I did.  But, the joy of just losing yourself to those moments of imagination and free-thinking...It makes me understand how someone like Mozart was almost crazy with the music that must have filled his head.  Although, I don't have masterpieces of words to share with the world, I do sometimes feel that my brain is swirling with thoughts and ideas like a swarm of flies around a garbage dump.  And the buzzing is just too annoying to ignore.

So this was my experiment today.  I just wanted to sit in front of the computer, place my fingers on the keyboard and let the flies go wild.  This is just one blog post, so I've tried to keep it brief.  The truth is I MAY be too undisciplined to ever be a published author...but as long as I can still put words on paper--or on a computer screen--I AM writing.  So, technically I can call myself a writer if only for a few moments out of this day.  And the flies are still buzzing and will continue to annoy me until I sit down and do something about them the next time.