Tag Archives: prejudice

Chance

Chance: (n) the possibility of something happening

I have a chap who is one of my daily readers, who constantly becomes infuriated whenever I use the word “chance.” He contends that using
 “opportunity” is always preferred.

It is a school of thought that there’s no such thing as luck.

But I must tell you, if I did not believe in luck, chance, happenstance or any other synonym found in my thesaurus, I would never be able to comprehend God. I cannot envision a Creator who scurries around His universe trying to repair minor matters, similar to a maintenance man at a dilapidated apartment complex.

  • There have to be systems.
  • These systems have to be free of prejudice.
  • They have to be self-perpetuating.
  • And they must integrate with one another.

That is why dissociating God and science is similar to running your car on only oil, without water, or vice versa.

If there is free will–and there is–there must be a system in place which allows for good choices, education, wisdom and perseverance to obtain more chances for those who are determined.

So from time to time, those who are not worthy of consideration do stumble on the right numbers for the lottery ticket. Without time and chance, we are living on a sphere which is dictating to us, instead of opening the door to change through our vision and actions.

Not everything is an opportunity. Sometimes there is no reason whatsoever for what happens to us.

It reminds us that the random nature of science requires that we stay on our toes, and affect as many components of our lives as possible.

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Chair

Chair: (n) separate seat for one person

I was five years old the first time someone referred to me as “fat.” It came off the lips of Aunt Pruney-Face Fussypants. (I don’t recall her real
 name so I’m working off stage directions.)

She whispered to my mother, “Don’t let him sit in that chair. He’s too fat. He might break it.”

I don’t know if I was stunned, mystified, humiliated or defiant, but I went over and sat down in the chair anyway–just to prove that it would embrace me from the bottom up.

It held its ground.

Yet over the years, certain chairs have gone “snap, crackle and pop” when introduced to my backside. So I hbave developed the mystical ability to peer at a piece of furniture, determining its width and sturdiness. I avoid bargain-basement furniture, realizing that it’s only suited for an anorexic market.

Chairs are problematic when you’re large.

Large is problematic because you’re always looking for a chair.

Aye–there’s the rub.

So even though I have encountered tens of thousands of seating units on my journey, many had to be rejected by my prejudice toward their outward appearance.

 

 

 

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Chablis

Chablis: (adj) a dry white wine from Chablis, France.

Warning to all innocents and those easily influenced by the ramblings of raging writers. I am about to spew from my storage bins of persona
l prejudice, based upon my own experience. It is not racial, ethnic or gender-based.

It is an abiding distaste for wine. Or really, any alcoholic beverages.

When I was a young boy, I had bronchitis all the time–something my parents referred to as “the croup.” It produced this horrible hacking cough that sounded like I had run out of mucous and was banging the back of my throat with a ball-peen hammer.

The only medication the doctor recommended for my condition was Pertussin Cough Syrup.

It tasted terrible. It gagged me. Every time my mother threatened me with a spoon, bottle in hand, I tried to wrestle it from her, spilling the contents, in hopes that the family funds were too depleted to purchase another bottle.

So you can imagine how surprised I was when I went to a party with friends, and they asked, “Would you like a glass of wine?” I had seen people drinking wine in movies, and they seemed pleased with the taste, so I agreed.

Just imagine how shocked my friends were when I started to gag on the wine, insisting it was my old nemesis cough syrup.

They comforted me, saying that some people found red wine to be a bit strong, but that I would certainly like a white wine–a Chablis.

I didn’t.

Finally, at one party, somebody gave me orange juice with a little bit of wine and said, “Try this! It’s a spritzer!”

It was somewhat better–but still tasted like someone had left the orange juice in the sun for three days and was trying to pass it off as freshly squeezed.

Let us just say, I am not a drinker of wine, nor any kind of alcohol. I feel no self-righteousness about it; I don’t even think it makes me unique.

I just feel, if you’re going to taste something that rancid and foul, you better damn well be sick.

 

 

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Cabin

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Cabin: (n) a small shelter or house, made of wood and situated in a remote area.

The human brain is not spacious.

Matter of fact, it’s pretty cramped.

When you add the clutter of prejudice, misconception, disappointment and selfishness, it can be extraordinarily confined.

That’s the way it was with my dad.

My dad never got a chance to find out if he was a good man or a bad man because he was surrounded by men just like him. Therefore he compared himself to them.

They were all frightened of change.

They were all nervous about not having enough money.

They were all intimidated by despondent and dissatisfied women.

And they were all looking for a retreat.

My dad went to Canada–sometimes twice a year–to hunt and fish, but mostly to try to find something in his brain that was his own.

My mother didn’t mean to be intrusive. She always felt she was being helpful. The problem is, helpful is rarely achieved if no one is asking for help.

My dad was not unhappy, he just wanted to be left alone. So he built himself a cabin out on a small piece of land that we owned outside town. It was rustic, it was small, and had very little in it–except my dad, when he wanted to be away from everybody.

My girlfriend and I occasionally slipped out to the location to “play doctor” which eventually led to “hospital.”

But every time I came into that room I could feel his loneliness. I know it sounds poetic, or even misplaced, but there was a quiet in the room which was disconcerting instead of reassuring.

The day he died, people gathered at our home to consume all the casseroles which had been brought in by well-meaning relatives. I slipped away and drove to that cabin, walked in and sat down on the cot that was in the middle of the room.

I don’t know what I expected. Perhaps I thought I would feel the spirit of my dearly departed father.

All I felt was the loneliness which was now even more lonely, because its only visitor had finally escaped.

 

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Buzz

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Buzz: (n) a humming sound.

There are two things that have a buzz: bees and things threatening to be broken.

The buzzing of the bee is common, but you can often tell when something is breaking, has a bad cord or is giving up the ghost because it will start emitting a buzz.

So when I hear people discuss the topical stories on any given day, I wonder if it’s based on being busy like the bee, or a sign that something’s “got a short.”

I think when we buzz about how to get along better, escape prejudice and cut each other some slack, we are actually trying to be bees, producing some honey.

But when I hear a constant flow of lamentation, disappointment, aggravation, brattiness and self-righteousness, I realize there’s a brokenness in our thinking which warns that if we don’t fix the connection soon, we’re going to lose our power.

 

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Butch

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Butch (adj.): with masculine characteristics

One of the unseen drawbacks to prejudice is often the contortions that the oppressed have to go through in an attempt to prove their equality.

Because they feel defensive, their actions often take on a bratty and selfish edge as a means of shielding themselves from the onslaught of damnable bigotry.

I understand that we cannot talk about an ideal world while we are living in the toilet bowl of misunderstanding. I get that.

But I do not know what progress we make by becoming angry, touchy and fussy with the world around us, attempting to communicate our individuality.

I personally have no problem with people who are gay, lesbian, transgender or whatever the latest discovery might be. I have plenty of problems with people who think they can fight their way out of the prism society has built for those who choose not to line up in single file.

Dr. King was right–the only way the black community will ever be able to overcome the insane assertions of the ignorant is to climb over the top of them with grace, intelligence, class and certainly, perseverance.

Basically, let us never forget, ignorant people are stuck with each other–their own work product–and therefore, salary limitations.

If you happen to be what they refer to as a “butch” female, you will not gain credibility by flaunting the extremes of your mannerisms, but rather, by establishing the commonality you have with all humans.

What can we do?

Stop fighting the hell and start living like heaven.

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Burgundy

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Burgundy: (n) a deep red color

I’ve spent much of my life wondering if I am focused or obsessive. It may be impossible to get an accurate meter from anyone else on the issue due to their prejudice. But let me let you decide.

When I was twelve years old I had a little singing group. We all ended up going to church camp together, and after several strategic “nags,” I was able to convince the counselor to allow us to sing an a capella number before vespers.

Now, the evening vespers time at this particular church camp was about a half-mile hike up a big hill.

I bring this into the conversation because I had decided that our singing group should dress up for the occasion in these new shirts we had purchased, which were deep burgundy in color, and made out of some sort of acetate that resembled velvet. They were also long-sleeved.

The day arrived for us to sing, and it was about 90 degrees outside, but by the time of vespers, it had gloriously cooled to 85.

My friends wanted to wear t-shirts and shorts, but I insisted that we maintain our plan and climb the huge hill in our burgundy, long-sleeved, unforgiving shirts.

Being the largest member of our group, I labored, I wheezed, I panted, and I perspired like a man on the gallows.

When I got to the top and it was time to sing, I spent the entire song wiping my face with my hand and dropping the moisture to the ground beneath me. (One of my buddies got so warm that he swooned. Fortunately, he was bolstered by the baritone.)

The other kids looked on with a combination of amusement and admiration. We finished our song and our tenor screamed aloud, “I can’t take it anymore!” and ripped his shirt off, casting it to the side, sitting with his naked top, much to the chagrin of a nearby counselor.

Needless to say, I received a lecture the following day, from several members of the staff, about appropriate attire for vespers.

To this day, I cannot see the color burgundy without breaking out into a cold sweat.

 

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Brown

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Brown: (n) a color produced by mixing red, yellow, and blue, as of dark wood or rich soil.

Dirt is brown. Actually, more like soil.

Hair can be brown. Some people get nasty and call it “mousey brown.”

So I guess that means a mouse can be brown, although many of them are gray.Dictionary B

Tree bark’s brown. Which means some wood is brown. Some isn’t.

Eyes can be brown. Matter of fact they can be quite attractive when they are, though for some reason we extol blue.

Poop is brown, unless you’re sick or ate at an Indian restaurant.

But when I sat down and thought about brown, I realized that the times I’ve heard brown mentioned were never particularly favorable. Like I asked some guy what color his TV set was. He replied, “Well, it’s kind of an ugly brown, but you’re not gonna look at the casing anyway. You’re going to watch TV.”

Is brown ugly?

After all, if you have a pair of brown shoes, you can’t wear them with black. And they don’t look good with white. You can kind of wear them with beige and darker, right?

What happened to brown?

Was it targeted?

Or did it just try to add too many colors to itself and end up with mush?

Is mush brown?

No–it’s kind of “yellowish.”

Which brings up the term “brownish.” Is that a good thing?

How about brown skin? Does it suffer from the traditions of prejudice?

Or did it just lose favor because people don’t like brown?

 

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Boycott

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Boycott: (v) to withdraw from commercial or social relations

“Don’t make waves.”

I heard this all the time as a young person. Since I was raised in land-locked Ohio, it was very simple to comply.

It was also made easier by the fact that anyone who stepped beyond the boundaries of acceptability was quickly ostracized from the general flow. Yet issues always arrived which demanded immediate attention, consideration, deliberation and action.

Sometimes we must boycott stupidity. Otherwise, it grows faster than weeds.Dictionary B

Growing up in my town, prejudice was accepted, gossip was honored, chauvinism was the household norm and music was deemed raucous and evil until it gained a great respectability through financial solvency.

I had to make decisions:

What did I think about civil rights?

What did I think about the war in Viet Nam?

What did I think about the notion that “a woman’s place was in the home?”

These were dangerous questions. If they were posed in public, you were viewed as a troublemaker. If you offered an opinion other than the standard fare, you were basically dubbed “anti-American.”

It took me many years to learn how to boycott the inhibiting doctrines and platitudes which permeated my little town.

Today it’s easier for me. Matter of fact, I can suggest several things we should boycott immediately:

  • The word “bitch”
  • “Baby Mama”
  • Disinformation
  • Racial stubbornness
  • Too much violence
  • Chauvinism in all its forms
  • Gender wars
  • Talk of “culture”

For after all, culture is just another way to introduce stereotypes, which invite prejudice.

I wish I had been more brave when I was a “Buckeye Boy.”

But I guess I can do my penance … by learning what to boycott around me today.

 

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Booze

Booze: (n) alcohol, especially hard liquor.

“A small piece of cake.”Dictionary B

Being an obese man for most of my life, I have used that phrase over and over again.

When offered the confection at a wedding or a birthday party, in order to communicate to those around me that I am in total control of my appetites, I ask for a small piece of cake.

Then I usually follow the cutter over and watch carefully, whispering in their ear, “Just a little more than that.”

Why? Because I don’t want a small piece of cake, but can’t admit it openly without appearing to be “Gluttonous Maximus.”

I laugh at myself.

It’s the same tickle I get in my soul when I realize that the young folks around me who talk about “a glass of wine with dinner” or “a beer with pizza” are often finding themselves moving on to a cocktail, an evening of drinking and eventually, just having to admit they love their booze.

Since alcohol is not particularly tasty, and normally used for cuts and bruises, the motivation for drinking it is at least an acquired sensibility–an agreement to tolerate the swill to achieve a sensation.

Now, I have to admit that I am a tee-totaler, so my opinion has to be viewed as obsessed with prejudice.

But it is astounding that the difference between “a glass of wine with dinner” and “booze” can simply be the time we have on our hands, our perception of our problems, or whether some friend is willing to sit down…and get sloshed with us. 

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