milkring.com

I overheard something today.

“Man, I needed to come over here, where my peeps are at. Hanging out over there too much might make me go white.”

This was said by one black coworker to another, and the thought crossed my mind: What would happen if I, being white, would have said something to that effect? “Yeah, man. I just needed to come over here where all the white folks are, because hanging out with them might make me turn all ghetto.” Yeah. That would fly.

I don’t think it’s right for anyone to say anything of that nature, period. I’ve never understood how the colour of your skin makes you who you are. It certainly shouldn’t, but it happens with lots of races - whites, blacks, indian, mexican, you name it. You had no choice in what your skin type was going to be. You were created because your parents did the naughty naughty, and boom, here you are. You had no contribution. So what gives? Why can’t we just be who we are without the chip on the shoulder?

I had a conversation with a coworker one day about all this, and how I felt skin tone shouldn’t have an influence on who you are as a person, and she felt I wasn’t right in thinking so. She felt the history behind who you are and how you are brought up is all tied with the colour of your skin, in a way, with African Americans, for example. I see what she’s saying, to an extent - my heritage is Scotch Irish. Is it neat to read about that stuff? Sure. But I didn’t know anyone who was pilaged hundreds of years ago. It’s like me still being pissed because someone chopped the head off of my 33rd cousin. It just doesn’t make sense.

So what do we do? Is this going to continue this way forever? We talk about trying to cut out racism, yet we do it to ourselves every single day. I feel the fault lies with our very own ignorance, not the color of our skin. But how do we dig ourselves out?

Wow.

I guess I just don’t understand how folks can truly buy into Scientology. Blaming alien spirits taking over my body because I sin is just something I refuse to buy into. But now a child that didn’t ask to be brought into this world is going to receive zero medical treatment or touch from the mother - completely left alone at the most crucial points in the beginning of it’s life is just ludicrous and abusive. That’s child abuse, in my eyes. I mean, take away the ridiculous ideals of Scientology - people can believe whatever they like, and while I may not agree with it, it’s certainly not my place to judge. But to cast a child away from the mother for seven days - when the mother is supposed to bond with her child - is ludicrous. It saddens me to know people who would be the most caring mother in the world, but cannot have her own children. Then you have these folks who can have twenty-eight kids and are the saddest excuse for a parent on the face of the planet.

Happy Turchee Day to Canada!

Let me ask you a question: Where did this weekend go?

I’m alone for the next three days. Three. Whole. Days. Matt is in Chicago on business. My day started at 6:20 a.m. when I dropped him off at the airport. I’m a walking zombie this afternoon. Today turned into a beautiful cool sunny day. This afternoon included laundry and a photo excursion around my neighbourhood. I captured fall today, and God in a mud puddle.

Maybe this week, I’ll do a photo blog.

If you’re interested in taking photos, I thought this guy came up with a pretty cool project. I need to take better photos of people.

Matt and I just got home from seeing Serenity. I don’t really get into sci fi stuff all that much (Well. Except for X-Files, and a few others.) but I have to admit, this one was a pretty good flick, overall. There were some things I didn’t like about it, and my conclusion surprises even me.

As time goes on, I’ve began to realize how violence doesn’t really do it for me anymore. I was pretty surprised the movie was rated a mere PG-13. I wouldn’t let my fifteen year old go see that flick, let alone a thirteen year old. Violence never used to bother me at all. In fact, I used to view it as some sort of an excitement - an additive to the movie that made it that much more real. That’s what we want, isn’t it? Look at our lives. Most of us wake up at 7 a.m., if not earlier, we have a commute to work, dealing with clowns that don’t know how to drive. We spend 8+ hours in a stressful environment, where we worry, stress out over deadlines, experience emotional turmoil over personal issues with the boss, or whatever it may be, get back in the car, have an hour + commute on the way home, dealing with even more clowns that can’t drive, and hey, while we’re at it? Throw a nice rain shower in the mix. So, you get home, kick your shoes off, whip on the TV, only to watch war. Destruction. Violence. Rape. Murder. Kidnapping. I used to be the hugest fan of Cops, okay. I used to think man, what a moron. I’d laugh at the poor drunken idiot who thought it’d be cool to pick a fight with fourteen of New York’s finest, but really, what am I laughing at? This poor guy’s misfortune? Sure he did a moronic thing, but it’s more sad than it is funny. Are we just so jaded now that laughing at this kind of thing - watching it day in and day out has suddenly become entertainment?

I’m probably really slow on the uptake, but I never understood what the big deal was until now. Suddenly, it all just sort of grosses me out. Maybe I should become a TV Land girl. I love the Andy Griffith Show more than you know. It’s likely unhealthy. I grew up “watching Barns,” as my dad liked to call it. He had them all on tape. This last weekend, there was a marathon of them on, and I found myself glued for hours. I watch it and thoroughly enjoy it because I don’t have to worry that I’m going to feel bad after watching it. It makes me feel good. It’s light-hearted. I miss the simple times, and I guess I just don’t like complicating things any more than they have to be.

I sound like my parents.