Twelve years ago I sowed a seed
in life-promoting loam,
I lingered by a shade of time
and then I wandered home.
I've traveled o'er the world since then
to many distant lands
and seen many seeds wrapped in ground
by many different hands.
I, too, have planted many more,
I've seeded many minds;
I've watched my labors come to fruits
of many different kinds.
Some flourished without my hand
others withered with my care,
so it seems to matter not
whether one is there
forever after life is made
to pamper and to prune;
I returned home just yesterday;
My first seed? Yes, it grew.
Showing posts with label society. Show all posts
Showing posts with label society. Show all posts
Sunday
Pre-Graduation Preoccupation
Below is a column that I wrote for The Courier-Tribune of Asheboro, North Carolina. It will run on the opinions page on Wednesday, June 3rd.
Commencement is a ceremony steeped in tradition. Graduates enter and exit to the march commonly known as “Pomp and Circumstance” that became de rigueur shortly after Yale University included it in the graduation proceedings of 1905. Graduates wear academic regalia that dates back to standards set by ancient universities. Graduates receive diplomas of a style reminiscent of days when they were hand-scribed on thinly stretched animal skin. Academic institutions go to great lengths to ensure that the integrity of commencement is not marred by any disruptive deviations from precedent. As a senior graduating with the Gray Stone Day School class of 2009, I learned to what extent some individuals wish to uphold precedent.
A less famed, but omnipresent, aspect of graduation convention is the dress code for attire worn beneath academicals. Most institutions require formal attire and many institutions issue gender-specific guidelines. According to standard procedure, men are expected to wear slacks and women are expected to wear skirts or dresses with hem lines not below that of the graduation robe. I suspect that not many people are aware of this distinction; I certainly was not until several weeks ago.
While it may seem a petty detail, consider the deeper implications of imposing such restrictions on females: in the history of social oppression, skirts and dresses are the compulsory garb of disenfranchised women; in terms of functionality, the only benefit of such a requirement is displaying a woman’s bare legs for the viewing pleasure of all attendees; and, in regards to logical progression, the next level of dress specifications would not unreasonably be to require that all Arabs wear red cords.
The issue of a female’s right to wear slacks when an occasion calls for formal attire has been a source of debate at Gray Stone for several years. When I first began attending the charter school in 2005, females were disallowed from wearing slacks to school dances. Along with a fellow sophomore, I approached the school administration and successfully saw the policy altered to allow students equal opportunity of attire. The conflict reemerged in the late summer of last year when I chose to wear a tuxedo rather than the traditional feminine drape in my senior portrait. Before I was able to leave, I was obliged to have my portrait taken in a drape for inclusion in the yearbook. Several meetings between my parents and Gray Stone’s chief administrative officer, Mrs. Helen Nance, and a school board meeting later, it was firmly decided that the picture of me in the tuxedo would not permitted in the annual. Disinclined to acquiesce to what I perceive as a groundless restriction, I opted to have no picture at all rather than the portrait in which I am wearing a drape (and, appropriately, looking miserable).
When I approached Mrs. Nance about allowing my female peers to wear pants to graduation, if such is their preference, she cited the need for conformity as an important factor in why we would not be able to do so. For what purpose, I ask? If men and women are as equal in society as we are led to believe, then why must the genders be distinguished by such base means as attire? If education is truly meant to prepare pupils for the future, then why would the ceremony celebrating the culmination of twelve years of diligent study adhere to such antiquated expectations?
Because I have faith in my peers, I put these questions to the student body. For three days I spent mornings, afternoons, lunch periods, and every other moment of spare time circulating a petition stating that female graduates should be permitted to wear formal slacks beneath their graduation robes. Over the course of those three days, I approached approximately ninety percent of Gray Stone’s students; over the course of those three days, I gathered the signatures of nearly eighty-five percent of the student body. Many of my classmates unaware that the policy even existed.
On May 11, my family and I drove to the campus of Pfeiffer University, where Gray Stone is located, to attend the monthly meeting of the school’s board of directors. My father and I addressed the board in support of allowing female graduates the option of wearing slacks and presented the petition with the echoing voices of my classmates. Though they did not make a decision while we were present, I learned the following morning that the board voted to allow women the right to wear pants this year while deferring the establishment of an official policy until a later meeting.
Over the course of this conflict, many well-meaning individuals encouraged me to “go with the flow;” they advised me wear a skirt and leave the battle for someone else. Their intentions were good, but good intentions do not guarantee sound conclusions. One cannot go through life perceiving but ignoring injustices and expect for the world to become any more just. One cannot assume that someone else who cares will come along, or even that anyone else will come along at all.
For me, there was no thrill in challenging the status quo. There was no desire to undermine the formality of graduation. There was not even pleasure in “stickin’ it to the man.” I prefer to wear slacks when an occasion calls for formal attire because I feel that such garb appears more professional; that I or any other woman would be denied that option simply because of gender is well worth confronting simply on the basis of equal opportunity. Hopefully, the board of directors will recognize this and solidify their equalization of the graduation dress code in official school policy.
With a nod to that future, I will march into graduation on June 5th to the drone of “Pomp and Circumstance.” I will don robes in the tradition of generations of scholars before me. I will receive a diploma adorned with commendations and calligraphy. I will observe all the formalities of commencement, but I will do so in pants.
Commencement is a ceremony steeped in tradition. Graduates enter and exit to the march commonly known as “Pomp and Circumstance” that became de rigueur shortly after Yale University included it in the graduation proceedings of 1905. Graduates wear academic regalia that dates back to standards set by ancient universities. Graduates receive diplomas of a style reminiscent of days when they were hand-scribed on thinly stretched animal skin. Academic institutions go to great lengths to ensure that the integrity of commencement is not marred by any disruptive deviations from precedent. As a senior graduating with the Gray Stone Day School class of 2009, I learned to what extent some individuals wish to uphold precedent.
A less famed, but omnipresent, aspect of graduation convention is the dress code for attire worn beneath academicals. Most institutions require formal attire and many institutions issue gender-specific guidelines. According to standard procedure, men are expected to wear slacks and women are expected to wear skirts or dresses with hem lines not below that of the graduation robe. I suspect that not many people are aware of this distinction; I certainly was not until several weeks ago.
While it may seem a petty detail, consider the deeper implications of imposing such restrictions on females: in the history of social oppression, skirts and dresses are the compulsory garb of disenfranchised women; in terms of functionality, the only benefit of such a requirement is displaying a woman’s bare legs for the viewing pleasure of all attendees; and, in regards to logical progression, the next level of dress specifications would not unreasonably be to require that all Arabs wear red cords.
The issue of a female’s right to wear slacks when an occasion calls for formal attire has been a source of debate at Gray Stone for several years. When I first began attending the charter school in 2005, females were disallowed from wearing slacks to school dances. Along with a fellow sophomore, I approached the school administration and successfully saw the policy altered to allow students equal opportunity of attire. The conflict reemerged in the late summer of last year when I chose to wear a tuxedo rather than the traditional feminine drape in my senior portrait. Before I was able to leave, I was obliged to have my portrait taken in a drape for inclusion in the yearbook. Several meetings between my parents and Gray Stone’s chief administrative officer, Mrs. Helen Nance, and a school board meeting later, it was firmly decided that the picture of me in the tuxedo would not permitted in the annual. Disinclined to acquiesce to what I perceive as a groundless restriction, I opted to have no picture at all rather than the portrait in which I am wearing a drape (and, appropriately, looking miserable).
When I approached Mrs. Nance about allowing my female peers to wear pants to graduation, if such is their preference, she cited the need for conformity as an important factor in why we would not be able to do so. For what purpose, I ask? If men and women are as equal in society as we are led to believe, then why must the genders be distinguished by such base means as attire? If education is truly meant to prepare pupils for the future, then why would the ceremony celebrating the culmination of twelve years of diligent study adhere to such antiquated expectations?
Because I have faith in my peers, I put these questions to the student body. For three days I spent mornings, afternoons, lunch periods, and every other moment of spare time circulating a petition stating that female graduates should be permitted to wear formal slacks beneath their graduation robes. Over the course of those three days, I approached approximately ninety percent of Gray Stone’s students; over the course of those three days, I gathered the signatures of nearly eighty-five percent of the student body. Many of my classmates unaware that the policy even existed.
On May 11, my family and I drove to the campus of Pfeiffer University, where Gray Stone is located, to attend the monthly meeting of the school’s board of directors. My father and I addressed the board in support of allowing female graduates the option of wearing slacks and presented the petition with the echoing voices of my classmates. Though they did not make a decision while we were present, I learned the following morning that the board voted to allow women the right to wear pants this year while deferring the establishment of an official policy until a later meeting.
Over the course of this conflict, many well-meaning individuals encouraged me to “go with the flow;” they advised me wear a skirt and leave the battle for someone else. Their intentions were good, but good intentions do not guarantee sound conclusions. One cannot go through life perceiving but ignoring injustices and expect for the world to become any more just. One cannot assume that someone else who cares will come along, or even that anyone else will come along at all.
For me, there was no thrill in challenging the status quo. There was no desire to undermine the formality of graduation. There was not even pleasure in “stickin’ it to the man.” I prefer to wear slacks when an occasion calls for formal attire because I feel that such garb appears more professional; that I or any other woman would be denied that option simply because of gender is well worth confronting simply on the basis of equal opportunity. Hopefully, the board of directors will recognize this and solidify their equalization of the graduation dress code in official school policy.
With a nod to that future, I will march into graduation on June 5th to the drone of “Pomp and Circumstance.” I will don robes in the tradition of generations of scholars before me. I will receive a diploma adorned with commendations and calligraphy. I will observe all the formalities of commencement, but I will do so in pants.
Friday
Saturday
Part One
Twelve days ago I sowed a seed
in ground where it would grow.
Did it stretch its tendrils tall?
In truth, I do not know.
It had all that a life might need:
good loam, the sun, and air,
but will it in its growth succeed?
If it didn't, would you care?
Or, for that matter, care would I
if its short life were to end?
Do we think outside ourselves
or towards our innards tend?
in ground where it would grow.
Did it stretch its tendrils tall?
In truth, I do not know.
It had all that a life might need:
good loam, the sun, and air,
but will it in its growth succeed?
If it didn't, would you care?
Or, for that matter, care would I
if its short life were to end?
Do we think outside ourselves
or towards our innards tend?
Monday
The Problem
It's not that I'm trying to be different, it's that everyone else is trying to be the same.
Saturday
Britney Spears
Most creepy crawly things prefer life in the muck to life in a test tube, but every so often one slithers out and becomes a national pop star.
Wednesday
Yesterday
A bread and milk day.
You know, like when the stock that your meteorologist has in Food Lion falls, so he says that there is a minute chance of snow and everyone goes out and buys five loaves of bread and three gallons of milk.
The kind of day that empties the kerosene pumps and drenches the masses in panic.
In other words, it was sunny.
You know, like when the stock that your meteorologist has in Food Lion falls, so he says that there is a minute chance of snow and everyone goes out and buys five loaves of bread and three gallons of milk.
The kind of day that empties the kerosene pumps and drenches the masses in panic.
In other words, it was sunny.
Friday
The hypochondriac
My nose is dry, my eyes are wet
When I run I break a sweat
My head is round, my feet are flat
I cannot scratch my middle back
It's tough to swallow before I chew
My teeth are white, my eyes are blue
My hair gets longer every week
People listen when I speak
I bend my knees when I take stairs
and also when I sit in chairs
I cannot look two ways at once
I get hungry when I skip lunch
My throat gets sore when'ere I shout
My belly button's inside-out
My feet won't fit in doll-sized shoes
When I don't win I tend to lose
I've got ten fingers AND ten toes
My lips grew in below my nose
My fingernails just won't stop growing
My epidermis won't stop showing
I get wet each time I shower
I'm getting older every hour
I cannot digest cellulose
or fix the planet's many woes
I cannot see in dark of night
Oh, tell me, doctor, will I die?
Is it mumps or worts or plague?
Lock jaw? Pink eye? Clubfoot? AIDS?
Strep throat? Cancer? Dengue fever?
Phobia of rabid beavers?
Is it hopeless? Can I be cured?
I want the truth; I am not scared.
You can't be right! You must be wrong!
I've been this way all along?
You say that my diagnosis is
merely that I, human, live?
When I run I break a sweat
My head is round, my feet are flat
I cannot scratch my middle back
It's tough to swallow before I chew
My teeth are white, my eyes are blue
My hair gets longer every week
People listen when I speak
I bend my knees when I take stairs
and also when I sit in chairs
I cannot look two ways at once
I get hungry when I skip lunch
My throat gets sore when'ere I shout
My belly button's inside-out
My feet won't fit in doll-sized shoes
When I don't win I tend to lose
I've got ten fingers AND ten toes
My lips grew in below my nose
My fingernails just won't stop growing
My epidermis won't stop showing
I get wet each time I shower
I'm getting older every hour
I cannot digest cellulose
or fix the planet's many woes
I cannot see in dark of night
Oh, tell me, doctor, will I die?
Is it mumps or worts or plague?
Lock jaw? Pink eye? Clubfoot? AIDS?
Strep throat? Cancer? Dengue fever?
Phobia of rabid beavers?
Is it hopeless? Can I be cured?
I want the truth; I am not scared.
You can't be right! You must be wrong!
I've been this way all along?
You say that my diagnosis is
merely that I, human, live?
Wednesday
Damn hippie is at it again
The neighbors are putting up a new fence: all stone and mortar, very big, very expensive. Mom erected a fence of evergreens between their yard and ours years ago, but I guess they want something a bit more solid. Something a bit more true and timeless than life. Something like stones and mortar.
It seems that life consists primarily of building barriers and tearing them down, whether they be between ages or races or genders or cliques. Why are we so obsessed with keeping others out? Why do we not build pathways instead of walls?
I, for one, intend to seek out the weaknesses in your walls and drag them down. Brick. By. Brick.
It seems that life consists primarily of building barriers and tearing them down, whether they be between ages or races or genders or cliques. Why are we so obsessed with keeping others out? Why do we not build pathways instead of walls?
I, for one, intend to seek out the weaknesses in your walls and drag them down. Brick. By. Brick.
Turn the Radio Up
On the way home from work today I passed a man headed in the opposite direction. He appeared to be in his forties. Probably around 350 pounds. And driving one of those power wheel chairs. You know, the kind advertised on TV by two elderly women who ride their chairs all the way to the edge of the Grand Canyon and sing out "HoverRound-!" (echo echo echo) I guess they'll take you anywhere so long as you've got the time.
It's a shame that this fellow doesn't have anywhere better to be than Podunk, USA. Then again, maybe he was headed off on some great adventure and I just happened to catch him at an awkward moment. He had his headlights on and an American flag flying from a pole, like the triangular flag that your all-American boy of the 50s had on the back of his bike.
Perhaps he is on his way up North. I mean way up North, to the land of igloos and dog sled teams and Northern Lights. It has been his life-long dream to participate in a dog sled race, and now with his new power chair he can do all that and more. He will not only participate in the race, he will win with record-breaking speed, all the time his little flag waving- a proud indicator of his heritage, a beacon to all American youngsters who dare to dream big: Go ahead, kids, supersize your meals!
Then again, maybe he was just heading towards the little diner on Main Street to shoot the breeze and chew his cud and engage in various other aspects of friendly country society over a big, home-cooked supper. Chair, flag, biscuits'n'gravy. Welcome to the South.
It's a shame that this fellow doesn't have anywhere better to be than Podunk, USA. Then again, maybe he was headed off on some great adventure and I just happened to catch him at an awkward moment. He had his headlights on and an American flag flying from a pole, like the triangular flag that your all-American boy of the 50s had on the back of his bike.
Perhaps he is on his way up North. I mean way up North, to the land of igloos and dog sled teams and Northern Lights. It has been his life-long dream to participate in a dog sled race, and now with his new power chair he can do all that and more. He will not only participate in the race, he will win with record-breaking speed, all the time his little flag waving- a proud indicator of his heritage, a beacon to all American youngsters who dare to dream big: Go ahead, kids, supersize your meals!
Then again, maybe he was just heading towards the little diner on Main Street to shoot the breeze and chew his cud and engage in various other aspects of friendly country society over a big, home-cooked supper. Chair, flag, biscuits'n'gravy. Welcome to the South.
Ode to E.R.
I wrote this ages ago, before I had the good sense to change venue.
I hate the rednecks that clog up the halls,
and the childish ramblings upon bathroom stall walls,
and the preppy people that think they're the stuff,
and the wanna-be thugs that think they're so tough,
and the cheap-ass computers in the media center,
and the freezing cold classrooms in the winter,
and the mice in the theatre, and cracked cement floors,
and the plants in the gutters, and rust on the doors,
and that the girls' locker room doesn't have lights,
and that so many people are packed together so tight,
and that so many students don't care to learn,
and that the teachers are jaded and show no concern,
and that the teachers that care can't get anything done
because most of their students just want to have fun,
and that the teachers that don't care let everyone pass
whether or not they learned from the class,
and that there aren't enough scissors, or rulers, or glue,
and that the football team gets the only supplies that are new,
and that you can't be yourself, or the least bit unique,
without being shunned and labeled a freak,
and that the "honors" classes are worse than a joke,
and that the cafeteria food makes most humans choke,
and that the bus' breaks squeal, and the roof clatters
if there's a faint breath of wind or a little rain splatters,
and that the coaches encourage their athletes to cheat,
and whatever is clogging the art room sink,
and that the teachers punish everyone instead of a few,
and that the SROs haven't a clue,
and that in the theatre the curtains are torn
the house seats are broken, and the carpet is worn,
and that students aren't given chances to show their potential,
so the loss of their talents is exponential,
and that the desks are bent and the tables are shaky,
and that on G hall several toilets are leaking,
and the classes in trailers, that often smell funky,
and the constant fund raisers 'cause the school doesn't have enough money,
and that "good kids" are pardoned while "bad ones" are screwed,
and for many more reasons I wish to eschew
this place in East Randolph that is hardly a school.
I hate the rednecks that clog up the halls,
and the childish ramblings upon bathroom stall walls,
and the preppy people that think they're the stuff,
and the wanna-be thugs that think they're so tough,
and the cheap-ass computers in the media center,
and the freezing cold classrooms in the winter,
and the mice in the theatre, and cracked cement floors,
and the plants in the gutters, and rust on the doors,
and that the girls' locker room doesn't have lights,
and that so many people are packed together so tight,
and that so many students don't care to learn,
and that the teachers are jaded and show no concern,
and that the teachers that care can't get anything done
because most of their students just want to have fun,
and that the teachers that don't care let everyone pass
whether or not they learned from the class,
and that there aren't enough scissors, or rulers, or glue,
and that the football team gets the only supplies that are new,
and that you can't be yourself, or the least bit unique,
without being shunned and labeled a freak,
and that the "honors" classes are worse than a joke,
and that the cafeteria food makes most humans choke,
and that the bus' breaks squeal, and the roof clatters
if there's a faint breath of wind or a little rain splatters,
and that the coaches encourage their athletes to cheat,
and whatever is clogging the art room sink,
and that the teachers punish everyone instead of a few,
and that the SROs haven't a clue,
and that in the theatre the curtains are torn
the house seats are broken, and the carpet is worn,
and that students aren't given chances to show their potential,
so the loss of their talents is exponential,
and that the desks are bent and the tables are shaky,
and that on G hall several toilets are leaking,
and the classes in trailers, that often smell funky,
and the constant fund raisers 'cause the school doesn't have enough money,
and that "good kids" are pardoned while "bad ones" are screwed,
and for many more reasons I wish to eschew
this place in East Randolph that is hardly a school.
Friday
Pipe UP
Imagine how much more interesting the logging industry would be if trees could pull up their roots and move about as they pleased.
People could make a sport of tracking down and killing oaks and redbuds and hollies just as they do bears and foxes and deer.
"Forget that fifty pound bass that you hooked, you shoulda seen the size of the maple that I felled last month!"
Paper would take on a much more sinister identity, like leather or fur.
Coalitions would form to stop the brutal slaughter of these majestic creatures. People would organize, rally, riot. Clear cutting would be viewed as equal to the massacre of the American Buffalo during early frontier days.
But as things are, trees stand still and silent. Climbing away from Earth towards Heaven with dauntless perseverance. Waiting, perhaps even willing (like the apple tree of fable), to be cleared in the name of progress. They go silently, and so there is no great glory in their deaths. They go silently, and so there is no mass decry. They go silently.
Don't ever go in silence.
People could make a sport of tracking down and killing oaks and redbuds and hollies just as they do bears and foxes and deer.
"Forget that fifty pound bass that you hooked, you shoulda seen the size of the maple that I felled last month!"
Paper would take on a much more sinister identity, like leather or fur.
Coalitions would form to stop the brutal slaughter of these majestic creatures. People would organize, rally, riot. Clear cutting would be viewed as equal to the massacre of the American Buffalo during early frontier days.
But as things are, trees stand still and silent. Climbing away from Earth towards Heaven with dauntless perseverance. Waiting, perhaps even willing (like the apple tree of fable), to be cleared in the name of progress. They go silently, and so there is no great glory in their deaths. They go silently, and so there is no mass decry. They go silently.
Don't ever go in silence.
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