NPR Collision

            

 Blogger's Note: This was written almost 8 years ago but it is still true!

 I love National Public Radio.  All the radios in my house are set on NPR.  My car is set to NPR.  It is a cardinal sin to change them. 

           
 NPR lifts me above the mundane, above the mediocrity of my life and gives me a glimpse into a world much more exciting.  But there are times when it loses me, alienates me, and makes me wonder where these commentators come from. 

         
 Just the other day as I was making my daily rounds to the dry cleaner, the grocery store, the post office, and back to the grocery store because I forgot three item- I heard a very amusing interview with an NPR regular commentator.  I don’t remember what the entire interview was about but I do remember certain things.  

“I don’t have cable,” he remarked and went on to speculate about what people who do must watch.  
 
“I don’t drive a car,” he stated and proceeded to talk of lunch with his editor where witty and poignant conversation flowed as freely as the wine. 

Where does this guy live? 

Certainly it is not my world, the real world of chain supermarkets with wilted lettuce and shopping carts that clatter like the “Little Engine that Could.” 

Certainly he would wither like the lettuce should he have to scrape gum out of the lint basket in the dryer.  Certainly he would learn to drive a car if he lived where most people live which is five days from everything. 

What would he write about in my world?  Could he write?  Could he find his creative genius in the morning rush hour?  

 Would he be able to find inspiration if his cell phone rang forty-two times in thirty minutes because his teenage daughter was making plans for the weekend and wanted him to share in every “Umm” and “Okay, now we really know what time we need to be there”? 

           
 Sometimes I believe NPR is my make believe world.  I like to think that somewhere there are people who don’t do laundry and market- where only fresh, organic lettuce is sold.  In this world little light bulbs hover over heads like Renaissance halos, revealing inner wit and literary genius.  

 In this world people rush home to dash off insightful essays about their chat with the world’s foremost nuclear scientist at the bus stop in which he discusses his love of knitting French shopping bags.  The scientist is of course waiting on the bus because he doesn’t drive.

           
NPR commentators seem to float from place to place on an air of superiority.  I’m not trying to be mean, and I never miss paying my dues during the spring membership drive, but sometimes, sometimes I want them to live with the masses for a while and report on that.  

 What would it sound like if today’s commentary centered around the fight upstairs in my house between my fourteen year old daughter and her sixteen year old brother over whose turn it is to clean up the cat throw up?  Can you imagine? 

           
 Could the commentator maintain his or her Velveeta smooth voice when the children’s voices reach tones only dogs can hear?  Would it be a driveway moment when my daughter calls her brother something that wilts the philodendron in the hall?  Would the jazz music between pieces cleanse the ear palate? 

            The guy with no cable and no car droned on.  I listened as I searched for my grocery list for the second time.  I admit I didn’t hurry.  I guess I wanted to hear the end of the interview.  I guess this was a parking lot moment.  I guess my world collided with his world and both resembled some little corner of paradise, with a side order of chaos.  It’s just his sounded so much more interesting with Miles Davis for background music.

An Open Letter to Pat Robertson

“Feminism is a socialist, anti-family political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians.” 

           I ran across this Pat Robertson quote the other day.  I’m not sure when he said it, I guess all that really matters is he said it.  After several weeks of listening to men discuss the female reproductive system I have decided I have something to say as well.

            I haven’t killed my children.  I’ve considered it a time or two upon entering their rooms reeking of moldy food, sour gym clothes and crushed Cheetohs; but decided against it after having spent the better years of my life (physically speaking) raising them to become responsible people. I always had hope.

            I’ve not become a lesbian, although I’m not sure anyone really becomes a lesbian by choice.  I wonder if any woman has opened her eyes to the breaking day and said, “Today I become a lesbian!”  Understandably, women have often thought why in the hell am I living with an anatomically different human who looks at me with glazed eyes when I speak.  Mr. Robertson’s comment of “making” one a lesbian seeks to imply that lesbianism is an anti-male lifestyle choice.  Does that mean a heterosexual woman is making an anti-female choice?  

            I don’t know about destroying capitalism.  I’d like to think the female species is the mother of capitalism.  Without woman to bear the children, raise the children, wash the clothes, press the clothes, cook the meals and smile and nod at social functions where would man be?  For centuries we have been forced out of the marketplace.  Could man have exploited this economic philosophy with a baby on his hip, stirring a pot of soup and mending a shirt?  Of course not!

            You’ll notice of course, I am not traveling in any chronological order.  I have no idea if Mr. Robertson, by his quote, felt this movement a chronological chain of events. Leave their husbands?  Well, yes—yes I did that once. I just couldn’t pretend anymore.  I couldn’t bear to be someone I wasn’t for another minute. It wasn’t Mr. Robertson’s definition of feminism that did it. It was my definition of myself that did it.  I found the real me and my ex-husband didn’t like her, which is totally okay, since she didn’t care much for him either. It was a mutual thing, you might say.

            He said, “Stop acting like this!” and she said, “I will not either!”  And then he said, “You’ll not continue like this with me!” and she said, “What a capital idea!”  It is glaringly clear now this “new me” caused the break up and I’m really quite proud of her, though I am hoping she has some long range plans.  This capitalism thing Mr. Robertson is so taken with has pretty much left most women with no healthcare, no retirement and very little hope of securing and affording either anytime soon.

            Enter the witchcraft.  You know I’ve been doing an awful lot of thinking lately-as my new self that is- and I’m quickly coming to the conclusion those women might have had something there.  I mean what other movement, or religion or whatever you care to refer to it as, is completely dominated by women?  What a concept!  Everyone knows the title of the female practitioner of the “craft” as it is called.  She is a witch.  Men can’t be witches.  They can be warlocks, but they can’t be witches. How many other titles do you know where the instant thought is, “female”?  And, what images the word “witch” brings to mind!  Powerful, forceful, dangerous and yes, even evil! Though if you ask me most witches I ever heard of always got a bad rap. No wonder Mr. Robertson threw that one in out of nowhere.  It is almost as bad as the killing children part, though I suppose some witches have been accused of trying.  But, I can’t think of any book or story written by a female that portrays witches in such a negative light. 

            Actually, I think most fairy tales we’ve all grown up with accuse us, women that is, of the very same thing Mr. Robertson does and that is that age and independence, for a woman, is an evil thing.  Once a woman is older and thinks for herself she becomes a witch out to destroy the happiness of a man.  She plots to ruin his chance of living happily ever after with a young beautiful girl. In the end, beauty and youth always prevail and the young and beautiful princess marries the prince then loses her name, her identity and for the most part, her freedom and she lives happily ever after.  The witch by this time has met some horrible fate involving fire, poison or some other suitable death.  Usually, she is killed by the prince seeking to marry the sweet young thing. And, once the older, smarter, independent woman is out of the way, his life is blissful forever.   

            Well, Mr. Robertson life is not a fairy tale.  Real women, with or without the tag feminist, want several things beside tending the children, ironing the clothes and working for seventy cents on the dollar.  We want to be ourselves and be loved for knowing who we are.  We want to be free to make our own choices, even if it involves children; children are one of our most favorite things you know.  I’ll bet we’ve spent a lot more time with the little darlings than you have.  We want to love and nurture and expect it to be returned in kind.  We want to be capitalists, or socialists, or whatever the hell we feel we are called to be.  We want a world where sex does not determine one’s worth or brains.  We want to be treated as equals because we are equals.  We will settle for nothing less, even if we have to resort to witchcraft to achieve it.  Has anyone seen my toad?

Reading Glasses

Forty-something doesn’t feel like anything.  It doesn’t feel old, at least not most of the time.  It doesn’t feel young, especially when I look into the magnifying mirror.  God, that stupid magnifying mirror!  I have that stupid mirror because I can’t see a damned thing anymore.

Just like that, I woke up a year ago and thought I had gone blind.  I swear, I thought I had a brain aneurism, or a stroke or something as equally dreadful.  I couldn’t read the text.  I couldn’t read the time.  I could barely see the blasted phone.  I think I actually screamed.  The only response to my hysteria was a pair of glasses shoved in my face and a voice that said, “Welcome to my world, sweetheart.”

I protested and pushed away the glasses.  They got pushed back.  I took them and held them on my face.  Strains of Johnny Nash wafted through my head, “I can see clearly now…”  Stupid glasses.

Actually, I have four pair of glasses, one by the bed, one by the computer, one in my purse and one in my car. At any given moment I can only find one pair of glasses.  I have decided to purchase a nice pearl chain and hook the glasses around my neck like the ladies at the department store wore when I was a kid. 

But, I have to admit, I am enjoying the power that seems to come from looking up over your glasses, raising an eyebrow and saying, “Excuse me, did you say something?”  If you haven’t tried it you are missing a good thing.