by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . June 26, 2009 . 1:29PM
The other night, in my Gender Roles class, we watched the documentary “Raising Cain.” Overall, it was an informative and thought-provoking film about boys and I highly recommend it for anyone who has a boy, who works with boys or who might do one or both someday. While I was watching it, there was a section of film that focused on how boys are primed to be fighters in poverty-ridden sections of the country.
It broke my heart. The only thing that kept me from bawling my eyes out was that I am expected to keep professional decorum in the classroom. Little boys, aged 9 according to the narrative, were placed on opposite sides of a make-shift ring (on a basketball court) and held back by older boys. They were then told to go at each other and chided when they didn’t. I was watching these babies beat the crud out of each other and, with every hit, I felt a piece of my heart die. At the end of the fight, when an older boy gleefully proclaimed “Knock out!” and one 9-year old jumped up and down and the other cried his little boy eyes out, I felt physically ill. The loser was then heckled for not being stronger and tougher. He was slumped in a corner and was hurting and all I could see was my 8-year old’s face and build in this little guy.
He was just a little guy.
I understand that they are teaching them adaptive skills for where they are living. It kills me that they have to do so.
He’s just a little guy.
When A.J. skins his knee, he winces and I want to hold him. This little one got punched and kicked and beat down. I cannot imagine what his life is like.
Life isn’t fair. It just isn’t. Boys are growing too fast in these areas. They are being groomed for a life that is so far beyond what they should have to deal with and what they are capable of handling. Maybe I need to grow a thicker skin and face reality because I suppose that I’ve been naive as to what is happening out in the world. There is a part of me that wants to save them them all. The realist in me realizes I can’t. It’s a helpless feeling.
He’s just a little guy…
by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . June 25, 2009 . 2:34PM
You are going to throw me out of the club.
You really are.
I’m sorry. I just can’t fake it. I can pretend many things, but I can’t pretend that I love this when I don’t. So, I’m just going to fess up.
I don’t love ice cream.
I barely like ice cream.
In fact, the only ice cream I truly love is my McDonald’s Reduced Fat Vanilla Ice Cream Cone.
On these hot summer days, when the temperatures soar to the 90s for days, and weeks and months on end, I don’t crave ice cream. I crave Strawberry soda pop. Why, yes, I do “Wanta Fanta.” I don’t understand the movies or the tv shows where women get together and eat ice cream when they are upset. I don’t understand why I was supposed to crave it when I was pregnant. I don’t understand why it is considered the summertime treat.
My understanding of my “disorder” is that it now revokes my membership in the “girl club.” Go ahead. Take it. I’ll start my own.
Who wants a strawberry soda? I’ll share when your boyfriend breaks up with you.
by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . June 24, 2009 . 3:58PM
Father’s Day, this past Sunday, was a day of rest and relaxation. We’d come home the night before from a beautiful wedding in another state. Leon drove the whole way home and we were all tired from the trip. He’d known, in advance, that we didn’t have huge plans for the day. I am taking him to Atlanta in August to see some friends for his Father’s Day gift from me and A.J. will be coming with us, so it was an “all inclusive” gift.
I’d asked A.J. to make Leon a card, when he woke up this morning, so Leon would have something handmade from him. Dads get the short end of the stick as moms get the teachers to help kids make handmade items. Needless to say, A.J. forgot. So, I reminded him again, Sunday afternoon, and he came up with something very creative. In fact, I’ve never seen anything quite like this.
It’s a white sheet of paper with grey crayon that says: Happy Fathers Day Dad. Hope you like your Fathers Day Present. Here you go. Stapled to it was a bag of loose change (quarters, nickels, dimes, pennies and possibly buttons) that he’d been saving to take to the arcade.
What was Leon’s reaction? Well, you can see for yourself.
Happy Father's Day, Leon!
by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . June 23, 2009 . 1:21PM
No, I’m not purposely trying to dog Northerners this week. After all, I was born and raised in the North and I fully expect a good beatdown the next time I head home for even implying that they can do something better than those in the North. Competition runs deep and that’s something the North excels at, right? Feel better, family?
Anyway, when I moved to the South, I was unaware of the problem that was about to happen. I was about to gain copious amounts of weight due to a severe problem: Southern women can cook. And when I say “can cook” I mean Southern women can make food that will make your mouth water and your eyes hungry just by thinking about it.
They have managed to make green beans bad for you by wrapping them with bacon and covering them in brown sugar and it is a gift to your mind, heart, soul and stomach. I haven’t had those green beans in 4 years, but I dream about them now and then. There is never a day or time I will say “Oh no, I just couldn’t eat any more Southern green beans.” It’s just not true.
Yesterday, I mentioned that Southern hospitality and class are attributes that are bred in Southern women and cultivated from a young age. Cooking is the same. Recipes are handed down and a great source of pride. One of my favorite times while living in another Southern state, not Tennessee, was getting my greedy little hands on a church cookbook that had recipes I’d come to know, love and crave. I cackled as I flipped through page after page of “my precious” recipes.
Then I tried to make one and it didn’t TASTE as good as it does when made by someone born and bred in the South. Dang gnabbit.
I guess it must be the secret ingredient: genes.
by Jillian @ http://blueshelled.com . June 22, 2009 . 1:42PM
Over the weekend, I went to one of the most beautiful weddings I’ve ever attended. My husband was one of the wedding party and while we traveled a little ways to be there, we likely did not travel the farthest to be in attendance. We drove about 4 hours on a Friday morning and when we go to the hotel, we were tired, but ready for showers to prepare for the rehearsal.
Prior to getting to the site, I was already aware that there are differences in how Southerners handle weddings than how Northerners do. Etiquette books were consulted and everything was in its proper place. We didn’t have to worry about arranging his suit or hotel. We just needed to get them his measurements and tell them our preferences. Everything was taken care of for us and our stress levels for the wedding were, at most, minimal. We had to be there and be pretty. We can handle being pretty.
When we got to the hotel, and walked in the door, it was clear that we were in the most beautiful suite the hotel had to offer and that our hosts had taken care to make sure our needs would be met while we were there for the wedding. A small basket was on the table and filled to the brim with goodies, including bug spray (this is in a town known for mosquitos the size of small bats), as well as drinks and snacks. There were Legos for A.J., soft cashmere socks for me and BBQ seasoning for Leon as well as other thoughtful items to make us feel treasured. It worked. I rolled on the bed like a true rags to riches hick and then jumped up to flat iron my frizzy hair that, due to humidity, made me look like a troll doll.
At the rehearsal, the first question out of the bride’s mouth, after greeting me, was “How was your room? Is it ok? Everything alright with it?” Are you kidding me? There is not a thing in the world wrong with that palace! I grinned and hugged and told her no and, to myself, thought it was especially sweet-natured of her to be worried about us and our comfort on the night before her wedding.
But, what I realized is that this is just how people roll in the South. The bride wouldn’t dream of NOT thinking of us and our comfort because it wasn’t just her wedding. It was her chance to spend time with us and make us honored guests at her wedding. It was a chance to be a hostess as well as a princess for a day and it’s not something I feel like I can adequately communicate unless you see it for yourself.
Famous Southern hospitality is not something women in the South are born with, rather it is bred every single day of their lives. Class isn’t something you buy, it’s something that parents give you and teach you as you age and I have been privileged to see how it is done here in the South. That doesn’t mean I have it–far from it–but I’ve been able to see how it’s done and if I ever have a girl, I might be able to give her a little of it.
The bride and her family have it and besides being a beautiful event that reminded me of how special marriage is beyond just a ceremony, I will remember the lovely way we were treated and how we felt to be a part of their day. Did I mention that we were there because my husband is close friends with the groom?
That’s just how they roll.
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Life is like a game. We all have challenges, thoughts, opinions and beliefs. Often, it feels like something out there, life, karma, catty people, or blue shells (for the Kart lovers), seeks to bring us down. Luckily, we always get up. This is where I wear my heart on my sleeve and my foot in my mouth.
