Crisis of the Eternal Opimist and the Case of Lynching

Yesterday in African American literature we discussed lynching. I wish I had something wise and academic to say about the whole matter, but I don't. I can only get at it from an emotional stand point. I'm not going to pretend I understand the African American experience in regards to lynching. I will never know or understand fully what it feels like to live in a country that did this for sport to one's own race. I can only understand it in regards to me. This is not a self absorbed idea, I think it would be minimizing to discuss a feeling that is foreign to me.

I feel disgusted to be a white American. So many of the privileges I receive is a result of heinous treatment African Americans received. I notice I write that in the past-tense by really, it is never ending. You'd think lynching, murder for sport,really, is a thing of the past. In class, we learned about actual accounts of lynching, masses of people would gather to watch the process of an untried man being decapitated, finger by finger, his skull broken, and then hung. What makes it all the more worse, these people who watched treated this as a family outing. People dressed in their Sunday best, with picnic baskets in hand celebrating a hanging of a "Negro." You think this happened decades ago, we have evolved. No, we haven't. In 1998, James Byrd, Jr. was beaten savagely to the point of unconsciousness, chained to the back of a pickup truck by his neck, and dragged for miles over rural roads outside the town of Jasper, TX, and then was decapitated. What does that say about us? What does that say about our society?

I am outraged. I am angry. Never have a felt so helpless. I don't even know what to do. As an advocate for social justice, I always looked on the bright side--the eternal optimistic. Ha, it seems so naiive now.

Never has anything shaken me to my core so much. My thought was always, "even on the worst days, people are still mostly more good than bad." This idea has stayed with me despite knowing the Holocaust, violence against women worldwide, war for greed, mass killings-- horrible, horrible things. Some how I still managed to believe people were mostly good, perhaps misguided, but mostly good. I have put up with extreme realism of professors, and denied that people are evil thus the need for government.

Was I wrong all along? Are people really that horrible? Nothing has ever made me question my world view like this has. I don't know why...why is this so special? I don't like this feeling, the feeling that I was wrong about humanity all along. And if I am wrong, and people are really horrible then what's the point in fighting?

9/11

(Let's pretend I posted this yesterday.)

Eight years ago the United States experienced a tragedy that most of the world experiences everyday, terrorism. I am not writing this entry to minimize the horrific experience of innocent people and their families. The aftermath of the September 11th attacks was felt by everyone in the country. Suddenly, our little world of safety, perhaps false safety was shaken to the core. The fragility of life, and the harsh reality of the world we live in was exposed. In a small way we became citizens of the world that day. Sadly, even the wealthiest of countries, that has not been attacked on its own soil since the Pearl Harbor (and that was during wartime) had to learn it was not above the atrocities of the world.

Most people live their whole life the way we lived for one day. In America we have a tendency to ignore or have become desensitized to events like Mosque bombings in the Middle East, suicide bombings in Israel and Palestine.

Some terrorism is less overt, as it is not marked by a pivotal event. Instead it is so ongoing that is not one event as a reminder the world is not safe, but a lifestyle one must employ to stay safe and alive--that is their terrorism. In Africa, everyday people live in fear of rebels invading their village, destroying their shack-homes, raping their mothers and daughters, their children being kidnapped and forced to become soldiers. Moreover, this invasion is accompanied by starvation, inadequate sanitation, poverty and illiteracy.

Terrorism of these people is so unknown Westerners. We think that is over there--this is not us. If we have learned nothing else from 9/11, we should learn that their terrorism is our terrorism.

It Will Build Character...

I don't really know what inspired me to write about this, but I had this strong urge to write about about the Summer of 2006. That Summer is what I warmly recollect as the Summer of character building. I learned a lot about myself and I began to understand the world better as well.

I was in need of a full-time job that Summer, and with nothing falling into lap, I looked elsewhere. My dad owns his own construction business so I asked him if I could work with him. I assumed he'd let me do what I did over Winter break--working in the office selling extra materials on E-bay.

No, that was not what I did.

My dad thought it would be a great experience for me to work out in the field with the guys (though this may seem like a stereotype, that all construction workers are men, but no, all his employees were men at the time). He thought it would "build character." I protested and for most of the Summer I tried to weasel my way out of working actually on a job site with the guys.

I managed to be the "materials runner" most of the time. This consisted of picking up materials at a warehouse (where no women were around) in the beat up blue Ford truck that had two gas tanks to switch back and forth from and had an extended bed (Fortunately, the CD player worked.), then delivering the materials to the guys at the construction site(also, where no women were in sight). My dad's business specifically is commercial heating, air conditioning, and plumbing, so often the materials I delivered was large pieces of duct work. My dad made a point to tell me that the guys were not to be disrupted from work to help me unload the truck. Yes, I was to do it alone. I have to tell you, this did not go well. A lot of the times, despite my protests, the guys would always help me and I ended up trying my hardest to keep my dad from finding out.

I could go on and on about the mini adventures I accrued that Summer delivering materials. Like the times I got lost going to different warehouses all over central PA--I learned where all sorts of highways were, that I got funny looks when I asked for some very specific toilet part at the service counter, that this one time I drove the pick-up from the other side of Harrisburg to Lebanon with 10 toilets in the back shifting around that were to be placed in the movie theater at the Lebanon Mall, and when my sister came up to visit, her and I began the "sister initiation" of backing the pick-up truck into a loading dock jamming the tailgate, and then our dad blaming one of the guys. So far, 3 of 5 sisters have done this. Yes, that was the fun part of my job. But sometimes, there was no way of getting out of working at the job site, doing work the guys did. --I think my dad enjoyed me doing this most.

The first time I worked on site was with my Uncle at the Great Escape Theater priming copper pipping for the bathrooms. My hands became somewhat rough and cut up because the copper pipe ends were sharp and the wool was abrasive. But I got over it and learned how to solder pipe (not that my Uncle ever let me do it), cut pipe, learn all sorts of pipe names, and test for leaks. My dad's guys never treated me with disrespect, but I could tell some of the guys in the other companies thought I was in the way and that I shouldn't be there. This was a constant feeling I had all Summer.

My favorite experience was with painting, not because it was fun, but because the experience I had with one of the guys. My dad wanted me to paint at his newest property with Tom, an older grandfatherly type guy who has worked with my dad for awhile and who I had installed and caulked sinks with at the Theater earlier in the Summer. When we arrived at the house the guy I was supposed to work with that I never met was already upstairs. Now mind you, we are painting the interior walls of a house; it's not like fitting pipe. When I reached the top of the steps with Tom, he tells the guy, "your help has arrived!"
He looks me up and down as says to Tom, "Are you serious?"
Then Tom tells him that, "this is Rob's daughter."
They guy says, "Oh..."
Then suddenly he whole demeanor changed.

But really, it's painting a freaking wall. How is this a daunting task that young ladies can't tackle? There's not even a learning curve, I've painted before!
This guy, for the whole Summer outwardly showed his annoyance for working with me every time my dad stuck us together...sadly, since he was as unskilled as I (This was the irony of it all) this happened often. The best was stacking wood, somehow he assumed I wasn't fit to do this and grumbled and huffed the whole time. By the end, he huffed less and actually talked to me about my plans for school...I think by the end he at least respected me.

That is not the only time it sucked being a woman that Summer. This guy, at least my dad knew so he didn't do anything belligerent. However, while I was working at the Theater something happened that I really don't like talking about. It makes me so uncomfortable that I didn't even tell my dad, only after the fact did I tell my Uncle. I was trying my hardest to fit in, be somewhat respected as "one of the guys," in so far as that was possible. I didn't slack off, I carried the heavy stuff without being asked, I tried to be efficient--I didn't play up being a girl.

One day I had to walk out to the truck to get something and a group of men working on the side of the building began whistling and catcalling. I felt ridiculous. What was worse was these guys didn't speak English, there was no way of calling them out on it. But, really if I could have, I don't think I would have. It wasn't flattering or charming. I was trying to work and those men reminded me that a construction site was still a man's world. They took all the uncomfortableness that was bubbling inside me and brought it to the surface. I hated being there, I prayed none of the other guys heard them, I wanted to be taken seriously. They put me in my place,their tactic worked. I was not a construction worker, I was a woman who didn't belong.

It took me a long time to get over it. I don't know how I managed to walk past them to go back inside. I wished I was strong enough to do something, anything. But I wasn't, I was terrified. It was first hand objectification. I'd like to say from then on I was stronger woman. I didn't take shit.

It took me a long time to grow into the feminist that I am. I am certain that the Summer of 2006 helped to become who I am. It certainly was character building. I wouldn't trade that Summer for anything. I am forever thankful for my dad making me do the dirty work. That was my summer of 06.