Poverty

Poverty is not something that I personally enjoy, but it totally deserves a cupcake. I live in Tacoma, the little brother to Seattle's Big Sister.

I grew up in Seattle, and I love Seattle with the biggest bestest love I have, which is to say, a lot. But I enjoy Tacoma more. Even though it's only getting hand-me downs. That aren't even gender appropriate!

When I was a kid in Seattle, there was a lot of talk about the 'aroma of Tacoma', because of its vibrant and thriving and smelly paper mill industry. Or, depressingly, is all-too-possibly no longer vibrant and thriving. That industry is still not totally stink-free, but it has either cleaned up some of that mess, or I have gotten old and insensitive, because, really, it's not so bad anymore.

Tacoma has a bit of a chip on it's shoulder because of Seattle, which I totally get, being a baby sibling myself. Not that I want to imply that Seattle is more historically endowed than Tacoma, because frankly I don't actually know, or care. Sorry Tacoma, if you came first. Nobody cares.

What is true, as far as I know, is that way back at the time of the gold rush, Seattle and Tacoma were competing as vacation/career destinations, as a jumping off-point before you headed North to Alaska. Sorry if you caught that song virus there.

And I don't know who actually won that competition, but I'm guessing it was Seattle, because like winners everywhere, Seattle has a lot more money than Tacoma.

And since I am more comfortable as a loser and with the self-depreciating, I have all my friends. Many of whom are quite successful as well as being self depreciating! And most of whom still live in Seattle.

And I have Tacoma.

It may amuse you to know that at one point in my life I was seriously troubled by the question of ethical prosperity. I had no real business worrying about this problem at the time, because I had very little play money.

Play money, in case you don't actually know, is money that you don't quite know how to spend without thinking about it first. I decided to invest it in personal retirement accounts, and thank god for that or I would have been forced to get a real job years ago, and would not ever have been writing this blog, in this way, right now, which I am loving.

At any rate I am no longer bothered by the problem of ethical prosperity, because I have figured out thousands of things I will be doing if I should ever be troubled by the problem of play money ever again. And Universe? Are you hearing me? Because I am totally ready!

And Dad, I promise, I am also applying for actual jobs that I would take if I was offered them.

And I digress. Ahem. Poverty.

One of the great things about poverty, and in fact probably the only great thing, is that it shoves people who otherwise would not get to rub elbows all into the same boat together. We are all, as they say, in the same boat, but poor people actually understand this all the way through to their bones, and are constantly stopping to help people in ways that the not-so-poor wish they did more often.

And I totally understand both sides all the way through! Plenty of poor people wish they stopped to help more often too, trust me. This is not just one of the devils of prosperity.

But prosperous people have a worry that poor people do not have in quite the same amount. Which is the problem of being in a smaller boat, with fewer people, and more material goods to cherish. That boat is quite fragile, and almost everybody who has ever lost their job unexpectedly knows that for sure.

And nobody wants to rock that boat! Plenty of people do lean out to pull people from the poor boat into the rich boat, and plenty of stuff is tossed from the rich boat right smack dab into the poor boat. There is a lot of man's love for his fellow man going on through public and private channels in this country as well as in every other country.

But it is not easy, it is hard to trust, and we may be doing it wrong. More on that later.

Invisible People of Color

Because I am incredibly self-absorbed, I am going to highjack my post for the day so I can get up on a soap box to talk about a subject I find very confusing. And which is one that is a little difficult to talk about sensitively. And since I do not love doing things the difficult way, I'm going to take the easy road, AGAIN, and pretend that you all understand that I am a caring person, and everything I say is really much funnier than it actually is.

I'm going to talk about Race.

I am actually a minority! Most people who are not related to me do not know much of the racial mixing or melting pot work that went into creating the person like me. I don't even know all of it! But I'll tell you what I do know.

Like everybody else, ever, I have eight great-grandparents. And like most people over the age of 12, they are all dead now. They came in a great variety of religions, cultures, and colors, and plenty of them picked one other than their own to spawn with, and I am literally willing to thank God for that, if he cares. Because otherwise I would not be here, and I love this place!

Half of my great grandmothers were alive when I was born, and half of those, I remember. Because she lived to be 103. Yay!

She was of primarily western european descent, as far as I know. Austria has been mentioned. Her husband was also primarily of western european descent, including some from England or Ireland or Scotland, along with whatever else went into his parents. They were probably both Catholic.

The other great-grandma that I probably met as a baby was literally, herself, from Turkey. Of spanish descent. And a Jew. I think her husband was exactly the same, but I haven't heard as much about him as I have my great-grandma. Maybe women tell women's stories to girls, and men tell men's stories to men? Which I don't get to hear because I am a girl? Whole nother can of worms that I will readily open at some later date, which I also don't worry that much about. Except I hate to miss out on a good story!

I am ready to suggest that I don't care that much about racial diversity. I like it, don't get me wrong. I am here on this planet because people are totally willing to personally embrace some of that racial diversity. And so am I.

But I care more about actual community than racial diversity, and the two things seem like they might be a little bit at cross purposes. Though they are definitely not incompatible, because I've got both at the same time. But I'm in a number of communities, and they are not all racially diverse. Though some of them get more racially diverse when I show up, and less when I leave, if that's not too opaque. Which I am totally ok with, both ways. I'm not really sure about how I feel about all the points in this paragraph, so feel free to tear it apart--it helps me understand how I feel about things more clearly, especially if I totally disagree with you. And I digress.

Back to my personal story of the mixing of the races.

I have some other 'racial' elements from my father's side. I've heard Cherokee, and I've heard Choctaw, and I've heard baptist, which isn't even a race, though of course it is a community and a religion. But I never even met these grandparents, who were actually both born before the last century. And I have heard very little about these great-grandparents. Not much about origin stories like this one. Which is my origin story.

Am I legally a minority, because of those jewish great grandparents of spanish descent? I rarely enjoy claiming my 'due', because I, like a great many other very confused people of 'color', including about half of the first cousins I have met, am invisible AS a person of color.

The indigenous peoples element doesn't really come up because I am far more separated from those communities, perhaps because those people, my antecedents, were more excited by assimilation and integration than dealing with the man as 'other'. Or maybe they weren't excited at all, but saw it as the lesser of two evils--far more likely. And it's just barely possible that they married into new tribes without really examining what they were giving up other than in the normal nostalgia generated by leaving something you love behind. It is also, sadly, ALL too possible that there was coercion involved.

In coloring, I do not match my mother. Or my sister, who is much closer to mom than I, but not matchy-matchy either. I am probably a cross between my maternal grandmother and my father, but since I am not yet as old as they were when I met them, I have trouble evaluating that.

In my elementary school, they had a native american studies pull-out program, where they pulled out kids of native ancestry and taught them about local native culture in public school. These days I think they teach it to the whole class. They pulled out my sister, I do not really know why. She probably spoke up. Or maybe, in her case, they did just assume. And since she has been looking out for me all my life, she asked why I wasn't pulled out too. They assumed I wasn't that closely related to her, because I was probably the one blonde kid in native american studies, after they sorted it out and accepted me in the program too.

Just for reference, my color may be that which is commonly referred to peaches and cream, by people who are particularly generous. Often I am quite pasty. I, like everybody else on this planet, did not pick it, and I, unlike some of them, am not proud of it. My hair is no longer blonde

It shows dirt readily, which is a mark against it, and the actual skin is much more frail than that of almost everybody I know, including most of my family. But it is mine, it keeps the guts in and some of the cold and most of the bugs out, so I do admit to loving it no matter what color it shows.

Hopefully some of you do too. I know I love a lot of your skins almost as well.

And I want to make sure I bring up another important point that adds to my confusion. Now I feel a very profound sense of belonging. With other people of all kinds. And maybe that is part of something I have, as someone who 'passes' as white, so to speak. Here in the USA.

White Privilege. White Privilege is the collection of benefits that us pale folk get showered upon us without hardly even trying.

I do not intend to dismiss or minimize the effects of White Privilege. Which, I think, are usually benefits that 'us' white people assume everybody else is actually already getting, or taking for themselves, in some way or another. I went over it in the schoolroom somewhere, a little bit. And in actual real life, a fair amount.

It is extremely hard to identify one's own privileges, as almost everyone who has ever felt like a self-made-man can probably attest to.

Passing, though, I totally get what that is like. Both in the communities where I pass, as someone 'obviously' a member of the predominant culture, and from the communities where I stick out like a sore thumb.

Which, technically, is almost all of them. Because I am a weirdo. I am a squeaky wheel. I am always doing something unexpected.

And I'm bad at keeping that a secret.

I must thank every community that has welcomed and invited me inside to share with me. It's much harder to learn about diversity from the outside. We are all a little uncomfortable with customs we are not familiar with. And we are all a little defensive.

Edited to add: A great article on this topic came out since I wrote the above (or at least I read it after.) The author talks seriously about the issue of segregation in my actual community of origin, Seattle, including some comments about the high school I graduated from that I had never heard before. But totally 'get', as someone who attended classes on pretty much every floor. Sometimes I really do believe in zeitgeist.

Deeply Embarrassed White People Talk Awkwardly About Race by Jen Graves - Seattle Features - The Str...

http://www.thestranger.com/seattle/deeply-embarrassed-white-people-talk-awkwardly-about-race/Content

Deeply Embarrassed White People Talk Awkwardly About Race - Deeply Embarrassed White People Talk Awkwardly About Race

Facebook, you are not horrible

I use facebook a lot, and I have for quite a while. I enjoy it a lot more now that I don't make time to play the games, which I will not say any good things about, even though there is plenty to be said. Ahem.

But the best I can say about Facebook to friends who have not yet joined is the title of this post, "Facebook is not horrible". That aside, having clarified these thoughts a little more, I am totally willing to offer Facebook a virtual cupcake. And I haven't even seen the movie yet!

What I cordially dislike: The search function obviously wants to help me find friends. Or other things to 'like'. Which I do not object to. There's a place for that.

But there also ought to be a place for me to find a status update from a friend two weeks ago where she talks about HER blog, which has a hilarious movie about things bosses ought to know already. And I can't remember her name, and I think she may cordially dislike me, because I'm not sure we're still 'friends'.

And I don't even mind that, because all I really want to do right this second is link to her blog post about neutral language in a different post on this, my own, blog. (Edited to add YAY, still friends. I just can't remember to spell her name correctly. And now that I've written that down, I must forgive myself yet again for being both flaky, forgetful, and insensitive. And now illogical. Must stop typing. Ahem.)

Google, who is usually there for me in situations like this, can not help me out as easily as I would like, because not as many people love her blog as they love other things related to "neutral language movie blog boss supervisor", so I am STILL looking. But don't worry, google. I blame facebook.

I also cordially dislike the protest button. I do not enjoy witnessing supposed adults treating each other unkindly, but I am inured to it. I am fine with pictures of nursing mothers, and gay people kissing, and I LOVE reasoned debate. And frankly, on the subject of debate, I'll take what I can get, and let reason go hang if there are important topics that only unreasonable people are willing to talk with me about. Online. Because that is where I prefer to talk to unreasonable people, just in case it is not already clear. Ahem.

I do not like the idea of making parts of the internet a 'safe place for kids'. I do not enjoy a lot of the things that are labeled, however imprecisely,  as 'adult', but I love free speech. Fast and furious and respectful debate most of all, but even scary and disturbing free speech needs a home. Facebook may not be it, which I absolutely appreciate, but I also do not cordially like. I am comfortable with these contradictory views.

And I can't remember the other thing I don't like about facebook anymore, so it's probably really trivial and petty. Plus, I ran out of steam finishing the post I started before this one, which I care about a whole lot more than the problems with facebook.

Move along, nothing to see here.

I am not a Saint.

It may seem odd to people who don't know me well, that I am compelled to explain that I am not a saint. 

I am compelled because I have plenty of evidence refuting this point. I even have a list. And for a couple of reasons, this idea, "Clarica is a Saint," seems to keep recurring in my life.

And because I love a good digression, and because I am very probably more narcissistic than the next guy (you), I will tell you about some of those reasons. This is a much shorter list.

A friend of mine recently wrote this about me: Clarica is like magic angel permanent marker--everything good.

When my oldest nephew went through Catholic religious training, he was given a worksheet to help clarify his thoughts on saints, and I was the best example he could come up with from real life.

And same story, different nephew.

God bless my sister, she laughed uproariously both times and passed it on to me.

Now I will happily admit that I am quite a nice person. I cannot deny that I love to help people. And I have only very recently admitted to myself that my capacity to understand my fellow man only seems limited by my capacity to endure finding out more about his pain. Which is not large. And by time and space, because like Saints, I am not infinite.

I would like to add another digression here, before I get to the evidence supporting the differences between me and actual saints.

I love Neil Gaiman, and I love Lenny Henry, and I probably adore Trinidad, which I do not know much about. I am willing to take a chance, and say that all of you are definitely cupcake worthy!

Neil Gaiman is an artist, a writer, whom I have adored from afar for far too short a time.

Lenny Henry is an artist, an actor, whom I have adored from afar for almost exactly the same length of time.

And Trinidad seems to be home to a people who seem, based on the two things I know about them, to be kindred spirits. And what I know about them is not much. 1) What Neil Gaiman wrote in his book, Anansi Boys. (Which I can't, in fact, remember. This book was narrated by Lenny Henry. Thank you for that book, guys. It may have saved me from madness many a time. Long nights suffered through the hell of insomnia. A lot less hellish, because of you.) And 2) a little bit of chat from some friends of mine who experienced Trini's in person in college, and through the wonder of modern technology: international long distance technical support. And based on those three things, god bless you!

Back to the main point of this essay: I am not a saint. And I probably am not a bodhisattva of compassion, either, whatever that means. Here is a partial list of the evidence against it.

I do not have a mission to help some people. Or all people, unless they will all benefit from me writing this blog.

I am not classy.

I can barely be bothered to pick up after myself, and I loathe picking up after almost everybody else.

I am too lazy to do a lot of work, mostly because everybody else is much better at it than me. Oh wait, that's not lazy, that's easily discouraged. Trust me, I am lazy too.

It's really easy to hang around with me. Or so I hope. Feel free to chime in if you disagree. (But especially if you don't!)

I laugh at fart jokes.

I make jokes about God, and cancer.

I am entirely uninterested in forgoing the pleasures of the flesh.

I do not like being sorry about most of the times I have hurt somebody's feelings because I am actually willing to be mean spirited.

And I am not sorry about any of the times that I share the limited fruits of that tiny joy with you all.

I don't even like the idea of god's will or god's plan, and I can assure you I have no pretensions to understanding such a lame-ass idea. No offence meant, I just don't like it, and I really don't get it.

And this last point is really, I feel, the most persuasive, but I am not going to end this post on that point. And not because it is long-winded and self-congratulatory at the SAME TIME as being modest and self-effacing.

And not because I would like to say something about shadenfruede pie. Because I can not shut up yet.

I'm going to end it with a link to a video based on a song apparently performed by Neil Gaiman, and quite possibly written by him, and a bunch of other cool people.

Because I just found out about this video today, and today I am trying to explain how I am not a saint.

Joel Marks and defenseless baby chicks.

Joel Marks is my new best friend. (Sorry about the lameness of that link, buddy. I don't have time right now to do better. Feel free to drop me a line about it.)

Joel Marks is totally cupcake worthy.

And I am totally excited about Joel Marks, in case you cannot tell, even though the only things that I know about him are: What he wrote in a recent article published in the New York Times.

Opinion

The Stone: Confessions of an Ex-Moralist

By JOEL MARKS

Published: August 21, 2011

How one philosopher learned to live without moral truth.

One of the things I love about the world, since I have fallen out of my depression, decided to dance with my deepest desires and look at my fears even more directly than I had in the past, is that I am constantly falling across people who are doing these things better than me.

I have also fallen in love with a good, long, run-on sentence, in case you haven't already noticed. My bad.

People doing things better than I do, so I don't have to: Joel Marks. And my friend Lily Elaine. And a friend of hers. And another friend of mine. And, literally, dozens of others. And I digress.

Because I would be happy to take Joel Marks up on an ethical question he raises, that I have already resolved for myself.

It is a difficult ethical question. And we have both gone opposite ways. Again.

And I don't want to get lost in the eleven pages of commentary on the article linked above, though I thoroughly enjoyed reading the first page of the (at this time) approximately 272 responses.

This ethical question is regarding what we do about baby chicks we don't need. Which is a problem currently solved using a wood chopper. Totally gross! And horrific! And possibly terribly wasteful, considering a good capon makes quite a tasty dish.

Are they bad capons, that they must suffer so? Not the question I asked myself. The question I asked myself was this:

Does it matter to the baby chick? Wood chopper or Birds of prey. Hmm, let me see.

I introduce birds of prey because we used to raise chickens for the eggs, my brother and I. We bought them from the store, and tended them carefully until they were grown. They didn't get gobbled up by birds of prey as promptly as their own baby chicks, and our grown chickens are another question, because I am talking about other baby chicks.

And in particular the baby chicks raised in the benevolent neglect provided by their own parents, in the context of living off of the public tit--our roadside property.

In my own heart, I do not believe it matters to the baby chicks. Or their parents.

But it probably matters to humans, because nobody really wants that job. Tossing the baby chicks into to the wood chopper. Who is it going to hurt? It hurts that person's soul, who would like a more fulfilling job, like tending baby chicks in an ethically responsible way. But can't find one, because the bottom line has called up the wood chopper. And because we don't have the right kind of social support to allow most people the luxury of examining any other option for as long as it takes to find the right job. Or even one that is good enough.

Egg farmers, this is your problem, and you need to fix it. And for the love of god, help that guy at the wood chopper find a better job, or give him one. If you, the owner, are willing to stand at the wood chopper yourself to benefit, your bottom line, fine by me. I may or may not buy those eggs, who knows. I can't actually cook eggs, so I don't buy a lot of them.

Everyone else? Make sure this is not a process used in the production of eggs you are willing to personally purchase.

One way or the other, these problems have better solutions. Labeling is the next problem. Which I do not have a smarty-pants answer for. Chopper-free? Doesn't quite have the right tone.

Alcoholics Anonymous

Alcoholics Anonymous? You deserve a cupcake.

You deserve a cupcake for the 12-step program, which I have read, but can only readily remember 3 or four of. And for popularizing the serenity prayer.

I don't think either is absolutely perfect, and I'll go into a couple of reasons why, in detail, after I get done singing your praises.

Quite a few friends of mine love your work too, either on their own behalf, or on the behalf of others that they love. And I'll tell you about one of them.

Now, I'm sure I met this guy before he quit drinking, but I don't actually remember that, so I don't know how you changed his life. But he does.

And what I love about what he's told me about it, is this:

He felt forced to attend some number of meetings to stay out of jail or avoid some lesser punishment. I'm hazy on the facts. It's not that uncommon a condition, for legally resolving problems caused by the drinker.

And he told himself from the get-go that come hell or high water, he would drink as much as he wanted as soon as he had fulfilled all the legally mandated requirements of that agreement.

And he does.

I totally adore this guy for a bunch of other reasons, not the least of which is that he, much like me, is annoying to a bunch of other people I care about. Not to me! And he knows who, and they know he knows. We are none of us much fooling very many others. But I digress!

Alcoholics Anonymous? Enjoy that cupcake.

The serenity prayer has a beautiful ending. "And the wisdom to know the difference."

I love this line. And I love wisdom. But I think that the first two lines are good enough advice, because they already suggest there is a difference. And while we would all like to have wisdom, not having it should never be a bar to, say, accepting the things we can not change, or changing the things we can.

Unfortunately for me, it feels unfinished if you stop after two pieces of advice, like the third makes it truer somehow? I was trying to resolve this for myself on a plane flight the other day, both before and after I imbibed, and I didn't come up with anything better than just stopping short, but I'll share them with you anywa, because I am just that giving.

Now the first try I wrote down was: Grant me the wisdom to accept the things I cannot change, the strength to change the things I must, and the courage I need for both. I do not like the word must, it's too too. It's pretty much how I feel about most thing I love doing, but as advice it might rile up people not so great at accepting the things they cannot change. Which I am not too worried about, but obviously it worries me on some level.

Then I wrote: The courage to do whichever is best? The courage to do whatever is required? best? indicated? The courage to do whatever is necessary.

What a relief I felt at that point, for whatever reasons. It's still not perfect. But, luckily, perfection is not my goal. Better is nice, and good enough will be awesome.

Back to AA

Now I could do the research on the 12-steps and take them apart with the same ruthless passion for exactly the most helpful amount of clarity, but someone else has done some of the work, and I will share the upshot with you here, and analyze that instead of the actual 12 steps.

From Wikipedia:

• admitting that one cannot control one's addiction or compulsion;
• recognizing a higher power that can give strength;
• examining past errors with the help of a sponsor (experienced member);
• making amends for these errors;
• learning to live a new life with a new code of behavior;
• helping others who suffer from the same addictions or compulsions.
  

  ok don't know how to get out of quote.

  with bullets. flailing around. don't want to edit html, though perfectly capable.
  
  

apparently I was trapped in a list, not a quote. big relief. find personal flailings and blogger funny, leaving it in.

Back to the razor sharp analysis: higher power is imprecise. Though I totally respect it because it is purposefully imprecise.

The people who wrote it originally probably meant God. And as an agnostic and lover of atheists, turning to god is both a little bit of a weird thing for me to understand, AND not something that I can compassionately endorse to everyone I know.

But self control is a higher power too, and people who feel a compulsion and exercise self control to eliminate the unnecessary drama drinking causes in their lives totally have it.

And it is even more confusing to say that you are having a probem with self-control, and you must turn to self-control to solve it. Purposeful imprecision works better than actual clarity in this instance.

There are apparently also 12 traditions that go along with the 12 steps, which I'm not sure I've ever heard of before and also totally love. But maybe that's another post, because this one feels finished.

Cheers!

Early Influences

My PP, or paternal progenitor, was a fascinating man. I call him my PP because though biologically, he was my father, socially he was more like a cross between an uncle and a friend of the family. Close, thoroughly endorsed by my mother at at least one point in her life (and plenty after), and someone I could absolutely turn to if I ever needed to. And to whom I hardly ever turned.

Which absolutely makes him a tragic figure, in the romantic sense. But this is not to say that Tex Grove did not have any significant effect on me, even though he missed out on being my Dad. And it may be that him not being my dad was better for me, though there is certainly no way to tell.

I definitely don't mind, because my real dad always has been there for me, and I have never harbored any confusion on who he was, despite plenty of confusing and conflicting information on the topic. Which is approximately three other stories, at least. And I digress.

He died several years ago, and at his wake someone passed out a piece of ephemera which I will share, in part, with you all.

A Magic Cup
by Tex Grove

The cup of my love is ever full
And it is yours to share
The cup of my love is ever filled
By those who have shared it anon
The cup of my love it overflows                                          5
And sometimes splashes my knees
This bounty you make, who sit by my side
For those who wait in the court

Would your hand
Cover the brim
To drive the beggars away

Would you tip
From time to time
The excess to flow down a drain

Better you drink
Then pass the bowl
It sooner comes 'round again

The magic is lost
The spell will break
If I waste a drop of it.

Now, as poetry I take issue with line 8. And as philosphy, I take issue with the last stanza. Both of those could go, and I would love this poem WAY more than I do now. Which is actually not that much! But I don't usually like poetry, so please do not sue me. And I digress.

But speaking of going to court, I don't dislike that line 8 as much anymore now that I remember that part of Tex's tragic history as a father was losing custody of some of his children to his sister and brother in-law. Or maybe his mother. Long story that I know hardly any of.

Here are the highlights:

Second wife crazy and possibly suicidal.
Sent kids home to mom while sorting things out. Years go by.
Spent all his money on second wife's health care.
Surrendered second wife's care to state.
Divorced second wife, remarried. Engendered more children.
On roadtrip to final court date with new, pregnant wife in car, car breaks down in desert.
Lost custody to some of his children.
Father sick, dying.
Estranged firstborn son dies in Vietnam.

Technically, those last three items aren't even highlights of the story I was trying to tell, but they are facts, and they enhance the dramatic effect of the totally-not-charmed life my PP led.

I could literally write BOOKS about this man, this man that I hardly know. So much promise. So much heartbreak. And not just his.

Except for the small problem that because he was NOT my dad, I hardly knew him.

Does anybody know a good story about Tex Grove? Let me know.

Feel free to leave a comment, or send it to Rosebud@u.washington.edu if it's really juicy.

I know he won't mind.