The Lady in the Water

My family has a long history of suicide.  By long, I mean my grandfather, my father’s mistress-turned-live-in-girlfriend, and my brother have all committed suicide.  I’m sure there are longer lists out there, but that would be the saddest pissing match ever.

I'm the third child, so pictures from my childhood are hard to come by.

My grandpa was the first.  He wasn’t my real grandpa.  That man died before I was born.  No, this was my grandma’s last husband.  He has a cameo in one of my earliest memories.  Though it is said that the human brain doesn’t start forming solid memories until at least the age of 2, I can fully recall my 1st birthday present from him.  I was in a lowchair.  It’s basically a highchair for parents who don’t particularly want to see their children at the table.  I was in the living room of my dad’s (and mom’s at the time) single-wide trailer, right where the carpet changes from a short, coffee brown, to a luxurious, shaggy gold.  On the plastic tray in front of me was a fruit tart of some sort that I recall disliking.  My grandpa came in and gave me a baby silverware set.  I distinctly remember the fork and spoon as they both had writing and balloons (one blue, one yellow, and one red) on a white, plastic background.  Suddenly, the tart became a project to test out my new tools as opposed to the unpalatable, albeit flaky, breakfast it had been a few seconds ago.

I was still very young when he passed.  It was my first open-casket funeral--probably my first funeral, period.  I had never seen him sleeping, so I couldn’t make that mistake.  My mom’s chainsmoking friend, Gerry (wife to Larry), escorted me from the funeral and watched me after it was done while my parents took care of whatever it is you do behind the scenes at one of those things.   It wasn’t until I was in high school that my mom told me that he was very sick, constantly in pain, and one day went upstairs to put a pistol in his mouth.

My father’s girlfriend (we’ll call her Janet) was next.  She was a symptom of the disease that caused my parent’s divorce.  I was four when my mom packed me in the grey GrandAm and drove me away from my father’s lake-front trailer.  A few years passed between that night and when Kathy moved in.  My father took to sleeping on the couch during that time, which meant I slept on the floor of the living room.  When Janet moved in, they both shared the couch and I got a bedroom adjoining the living room.  I never found that odd, but thinking back on it, it seems as if my dad put himself in the doghouse to pay penance for his past mistakes.  He still sleeps on a couch in the living room to this day.

Janet was always very timid around me.  My dad isn’t an emotional man, but I’m told that when it comes to me, he can be a total wreck.  I can only imagine what it must’ve been like for her to have me stomping around a trailer I hated demanding popcorn at 9:30 in the morning and drinking Coke after Coke.  I can only remember her being stern with me twice, and both were because I was a tiny tyrant, too big for his britches.  Janet and my dad spent every day I was with them grilling on the driveway and drinking beers in the garage.  It seemed like a fairly grown-up, boring life.

A pontoon boat on Lake Centralia

Her funeral was a closed casket.  I was under the impression that she had drowned.  At first, all I knew was that they were dragging the lake.  It didn’t seem too far-fetched considering it was January.  My fifth grade D.A.R.E. officer made the grievous mistake of referencing a body they found in the lake.  He told us that bodies are less buoyant when the water is so cold; he used her as an example against drugs and alcohol.  He told us that she was a known alcoholic and “probably on some other drugs as well.”  In a way he was right.  She was on very powerful antidepressants.  When I mentioned the story the D.A.R.E. officer told, my mom made an angry call to our local police department; that was the last story I heard about her for a few years. It wasn't until high school that I found out she had left a note.

These high school revelations weren’t coincidental.  My brother took his life in the summer of 2002.  His visitation was the same day as my high school freshmen orientation.  I had to wear the same outfit to both. After two years, when I started have some conflicts at school (I started arguments with my Spanish teacher that resulted in her crying; unrelated), my mom decided I should talk to a therapist and let me know about the other suicides in my past.

My brother was thirteen years my senior.  He’s technically only my half brother--his father died before I was born--but we never saw it that way.  His last home basketball game of eighth grade, the night the boys generally give a rose to their mom and shake their father’s hand, my brother stood there alone, in tears while I was being delivered.  It sparked a bit of a rivalry.

He wasn’t exactly book smart.  He was a “bad test taker” and had “issues concentrating.”  The truth is he was a tactile learner.  He could build anything with his hands.  The deck he built by himself for our mom’s pool is still standing 12 years later.  Any splinters I receive serve as reminders of the fact that only one picture exists where both of us are smiling.  

Though his name is John Robert, I always called him Dubby.  He claimed when I was little he would call me “Bubby” and my way of reciprocating just stuck.  When I grew up a bit, our relationship was cyclical.  If we were silent, we were happy around one another.  Eventually, however, I would start sassing him about how good my grades were and how his were never that great.  He would respond with one or more of the following: punching me, wrestling me to the ground and holding my arm in a very painful position, drowning me, or sitting on me.  I would get upset and storm into another room to “process my emotions.”

This, of course, was when we lived in the same zip code.

He joined the Army right after high school.  He went to Cuba and got sun poisoning (despite our mother’s and my light brown hair, he was a ginger until balding at a very early age).  After that, he was stationed in Seattle, where he met his wife and they brought my niece into the world.  She is seven years my junior, making her more of a little sister than a niece.

On the summer my future therapist will point to as my emotional ground zero, my brother and his wife were having problems.  In the middle of a messy divorce, she threatened to take his daughter from him so he’d never see her again.  This, along with a pretty obvious depression, pushed him over the edge.  The last time I saw him, he was in our living room in tears and stormed out.  Apparently he had taken a bottle of some pills and chased them with liquor.  My mom called the cops and he left, angry.  She had me get in the car as we went looking for him.  We found him on a main road in my hometown.  My mother asked to ask him if he wanted a ride.  He responded with a look of vile contempt.  

It’s the last face I’ll ever remember my brother making.  It’s also why I can’t get into an argument to this day without apologizing shortly thereafter.  I can’t bear the idea of doing that to someone else.  The next day, my mother went to check on him only to find he had completed the job with a rifle he owned for deer hunting.  My mom never gave me a good look at the note, but from the glances I managed, his wife fared the worst.  He also left a list of songs he would like played at the funeral (mostly songs by Disturbed) which my mom had me purchase and then get rid of once she had listened to them.

Of the three, my brother’s suicide affected me in the most far-reaching way.  I’ve read that survivors of suicide are 50% more likely to commit it, placing it in the ranks of drug abuse and alcoholism.  I’m not saying the thought hasn’t crossed my mind, but my experiences also drove me to receive training in suicide and crisis advocacy.  I even volunteered for a suicide hotline in college.  Still, I can’t read anything by Sylvia Plath without irrationally hating her for ending her life the way she did.

Yes, my brother’s death has certainly affected me, but it isn’t the reason why I will never willingly swim in a lake again.

Star Wars' Slippery Slope

My Life as an Abolitionist

By: Stephen Garland

            Everyone who has seen Star Wars is aware that the films feature villains who do bad things.  One of those “bad things” is own slaves.  When we watch Jabba in his crime cave on Tatooine, we see that he has plenty of slaves along with underappreciated, subservient “employees.”  When we see this, it just adds to what we already know about Jabba: he is a bad person.  Sure, slavery is horrible.  We all accept this and see that Jabba is engaged in a horrible practice.  He gets his comeuppance, and we are allowed to be happy again.

            Something people seem to overlook is the slavery of the droids.  It’s a convoluted concept, but it centers around what makes a person “a person.”  Is it a beating heart?  If so, every domesticated animal would be a slave in some fashion.  No, it must have something to do with the mind.  We have no problem asking computers to do our bidding because we know a person programmed the computer to do just that.  It has no feelings with regards to our actions, although in great distress my computer has been known to get a little blue.

            Emotions, I believe, are what make someone (or something) a person.  Even psychopaths have emotions, they just don’t have a basis in any morality we seem to espouse as humans.  Droids have a moral code, even a sense of loyalty (though that seems to be tied to the concept of a master.  To what would a droid be loyal if it were truly free?).  Droids also have emotions.  R2-D2 has a genuine concern for Luke’s feelings toward him even though he claims to be the property of Obi Wan.  C-3P0 claims to have negative feelings toward R2 when the little droid won’t reveal the origin of his holographic message from Leia.  He also has a strong emotional reaction when he thinks the trash compactor killed Han, Leia, and Luke.

A boy and his machine, or a slave owner and his "employee?"

            If droids have thought patterns capable of independent emotions, how is it morally permissible to subjugate them?  Is it because they were built and programmed specifically for servitude?  If so, how is that different from a slave owner bedding his slaves in order to subjugate or sell her children?  Going back to the example of Jabba, when Leia excapes her bondage, everyone is thrilled, but the droids get picked up by magnets, almost as an afterthought.  Perhaps our heroes still have some learning to do as well.  Our current technological standing leaves us morally in the clear, but if we ever manage to create something that can truly experience life, definite moral questions should be raised.

Charlie's Angel

My Application for the CIA

By Stephen Garland

            At my new job as a Secret Shopper I find myself making new back stories every time I go in.  I call from a different city and pretend to have lived their my entire life (or to have moved there, if the person spots my “accent”).  In essence, the entire conversation I have with the person I’m shopping is a lie.  Other secret shoppers at least by things or get a meal from the people or places their shopping.  In my case, I set up appointments that will later be cancelled by another member of the team (who does the scoring of the shop).

            Now, I’m not saying I’m a full blown secret agent.  Obviously an agent would do his or her own assessing and then follow through with whatever the operation at hand is.  However, I still feel like I’m pretty close.  I have a main objective with minor objectives I have to achieve along the way.  I get praise when I’m especially sneaky or get myself out of sticky situations in a relatively clean manner.  Also, I only speak with my boss over the phone.  I don’t even know what she looks like.  Farrah Fawcett, eat your heart out!
            This, along with my Russian language skills, should make me a prime candidate for the CIA.  Although, I suppose this blog might hinder my chances…All the same, if you never see me post again, wish me luck!

A Common Misconception

A Teacher with Freedom

As a teacher, I learn as much as I do anything else.  My latest lesson has been in maintaining a social life despite teaching full-time.  Like most twenty-three-year-olds in 2011, I’m intrinsically motivated to succeed.  I went straight to college after graduating high school and straight to high school after graduating from my university (SIUE, go Cougars!).  Now that I’m back on a high school schedule, I’ve begun treasuring spontaneity more than ever.  Sure, as an English teacher I love reading, but me-time doesn’t always cut it for an extrovert.

My students assume I don’t do anything outside of teaching.  It reminds me of when I was six and assumed all teachers lived in some secret wing of my grade school.  There's just something about the teaching profession that evokes an ascetic lifestyle, unless you're talking to a teacher, of course.  Sometimes, those assumptions make me feel justified in staying in, but normally they are added encouragement to get out and be with people.  There are few aspects of my life that I value more than being able to go somewhere and be around people my age for a while.

I recently checked out Sol Lounge on Lindell with a few of my friends.  The cover would’ve been $5 had we arrived before 11:00, but we got there at 11:05, so it was $10.  Any rail drink was $6 and the music was mostly dub steps (which is NOT techno, apparently).  All the same, there were glow stick nun chucks, a disco ball, and a nine-foot robot.  It certainly wasn’t my scene and my friend, Meg, who took me there should’ve known that.  It was, however, a new experience that I will value all the same and I appreciate her for bringing me along on another one of our “adventures.”

This is the freedom I most appreciate at my age.  I’m a teacher in his early twenties and getting to act my age with my friends is a precious privilege.  Whether I’m going to open mic night at my favorite bar or checking out any number of the awesome FREE events taking place in St. Louis (I, personally, love Shakespeare in the Park and Live on the Levee, but I’m also excited about checking out Twilight Tuesdays at the Missouri History Museum), the simple fact that I’m out having a good time gives me a strong sense of accomplishment and personal freedom.

Those Weird Family Car Stickers

Yes, it's an exaggeration, but it proves that I can't be the only one who feels this way.

     My friends and I have a huge issue with these stick-ons.  First off, what is their intended function?  If they are meant to make the vehicle stick out thereby avoid that post-soccer match confusion, it seems these families have made the same mistake as the pioneers of the lower back tattoo—you would be hard-pressed to find a minivan without these “fun” family rosters nowadays.  I’ve considered adding extra baby stickers to some of these windows in hopes of starting an interesting conversation between the family members.

     All joking aside, the real issue with these stickers is the amount of information they reveal about the drivers.  There are some bad people out there looking to follow people home!  Don’t make it that easy for them.  There has to be another way to celebrate your family that doesn’t involve letting every stranger with bad intentions know exactly how many people live in your house including genders and approximate ages.  Go to Sears and get some Christmas Cards made!  Just remember that you can never be too careful.

For the Ladies

The Miseducation of Stephen

I began cursing like a sailor in first grade.  My friends and I would say the dirtiest words we knew on the play ground near a tree as far from adult supervision as a country grade school made possible.  This also seems to be the first time I became a wordsmith.  The excitement of saying words like “fuck,” “shit,” and “damn” wore off quickly.  We eventually began combining these words in new and exciting ways.  We would even combine them with words that were more “off-color,” than “curse words” per se.

Unfortunately, this activity was doomed to meet the glass ceiling of my six-year-old creativity.  On the other hand, my persistence is one of my most admirable qualities.  While I wasn’t spouting off phrases like “blood-queef” as a child, by college it was only part of my nearly infinite verbal arsenal.  Because of my development in this art, I have always been a strong advocate for the idea that a dirty mouth cannot exist without a gloriously filthy mind.  Thankfully, the society around me was nurturing such minds due to people like George Carlin and Jello Biafra. 

Even Meredith Viera drops a curse from time to time when surprised by stories like a virtual driving demonstration on the dangers of texting while operating a motor vehicle.  We can forgive such slips, however, due to the dirty mouths of our predecessors.  Anyone who hasn’t heard his or her father or mother accost a bad driver or exclaim “shit” after realizing the trip to the landlord was wasted because the checkbook was still at home is either in Salt Lake City or the bastard child of the Dalai Lama.  Either way, that child picked it up at school, which is populated by tiny seamen. 

Nevertheless, as foul-mouthed children, we did learn that curse words aimed at a certain group of people are detestable while the others are just obscene.  The only word in this category which seems to always ride the fence is “bitch.”  Until homosexuality became more acceptable to the American people, this word was reserved primarily for women.  While it may have only described a certain type of woman (power hungry, ruthless, tactless, or even manly depending on the context), it certainly didn’t seem to describe many men (the excepting being Charles Nelson Reilly).  Perhaps this is because the original meaning of the word was “a female canine.”  The word has always denoted a sex.  It should also be noted that the word was specific to dogs in breeding, where the bitch is both the female and, naturally, the dog which is mounted. 

Enter Clay Aiken 

The first time I was overexposed to the word bitch was not while hanging out with my friend, Travis, who was obsessed with the Insane Clown Posse or when Meredith Brooks was popular.  It was actually at my first gay house party.  My friend, Caitlin, dragged me to a rundown duplex in the dingiest section of St. Louis’ Central West End (also called the Central Rear End).  Somehow, despite the deficit of females (one for every four dudes), the word bitch was being used more often than “the” or “a/an.”  That night I not only learned I had the ability to be shy (sexual harassment is part of the gay courtship ritual), but also that “bitch” was changing. 

While most racial groups took ownership of their slurs to remove the power those slurs once held, the best the gay community had was “queen.”  Once again, this only referred to a very specific type of male who, as it now seems, doesn’t have to be gay at all.  Being one of the most creative subcultures (i.e. calling hair gel “product,” the establishment of gay-friendly churches, and intercourse styles), the gay community decided to take ownership of a word that was being used to refer to strong women at the time.  This was also during a time when homosexuality in a man was being confused with gender issues.  These fabulous men took a word that symbolized their status in society and owned it just as strongly as might a Crip or “Little Person.” 

Bitch Rainbow   

This process not only empowered men (like the newly outed Ricky Martin), it also assisted in changing the meaning of a word.  Where “bitch” once described a woman who knew what she wanted and would do anything (including the morally gray) to get it, it now rarely even means something bad.  At this point in bitch’s history (not to be confused with the history of women), the word is so amorphous that it needs a helping word or suffix to take true form (much like a verb needs these syntactical tools to change tense).

When the word “bitch” is pluralized (i.e. “bitches”), it can take two forms: it can represent one’s group of friends in the phrase “my bitches,” or it can represent a nasty group of people (presumably females) in the phrase “these/those bitches.”  As a verb, the infinitive “to bitch” generally means to complain, but “bitching” can be the act of complaining or a participle meaning awesome, as in a bitching surfboard.     

The article used in a bitch-phrase is incredibly important.  Just as the phrases “a house” and “the house” have different connotations for most English speakers, “some bitch” and “this bitch” mean two completely different entities.  “Some bitch” generally represents a female that the speaker does not know personally.  “This bitch,” however, is certainly known by the speaker, though the relative negative or positive connotation is reliant almost solely on the context of the phrase.  For instance, if I’m telling a story about how one of my bitches managed to get free drinks the entire night, I might say “This bitch wore a shirt cut so low I could see insider her bellybutton without bending down.”  Conversely, if a female wishes to confront another female while the first female’s friends are with her, she may say something like, “This bitch made out with Paul last night at my party like we hadn’t just broken up on Tuesday!”

Context is key in deciphering the possible negativity of bitch in our current society.  Calling someone a “fucking bitch” leaves little room for interpretation.  This person is obviously a mean and horrible person.  A “little bitch” is obviously afraid to perform some task that would demonstrate masculinity or power (not that these words are synonymous).  It should also be noted that in rare occasions, a “little bitch” can simply be a tiny person. A “huge bitch” is either a very mean person or a very large female.  It could theoretically even represent a very large, cowardly male, but, once again, the context would require hyperspecificity to lead a listener to this conclusion.  These examples lead to a definite conclusion: in order to give the word “bitch” a negative connotation, it now needs to be contextualized negatively.  “Bitch” has transcended the obscene category, leaving it morally gray depending on the group of people and type of conversation. 

Madonna

Some people (i.e. feminists) still abhor words like “bitch” and “cunt.”  Their reasoning is sound and convincing.  Men have used these words to tear down women who, in a man’s position, would be called a go-getter or ambitious.  There isn’t a male counterpart to these words that has the potential to pack as hard of a punch.  Even words like “asshole” cannot cause others to gasp as readily as the word “bitch” when uttered with enough hatred.  Sure, calling a man a “faggot” can harm his reputation and psyche, but most women don’t see the need to tear down a specific group of men in the effort of verbally slapping one.  Men, on the other hand, are bitches (i.e. people willing to overlook a certain set of morals to accomplish a personal goal).  Many see no harm in using a word that could easily describe all women in a manner that shines one (and through this logic, all) of them in a negative light.

For these reasons, I believe it is time to stop hating the word “bitch,”  not because hating the word only gives the word power (see Harry Potter), but because that energy could better utilized in finding a word that better represents the male equivalent.  Words can fend for themselves.  Bitch has managed to reinvent itself at a rate equivalent to rabbit mating.  Will “bitch” ever fade out of the English language?  It is possible, but generations of popular culture would have to be destroyed first.  The possibility of word death, however, pales in comparison to the possibility of word birth.  Let a retaliatory word [1]escape from our language’s womb.

In essence, the purpose for this essay is to offer a logical shield (i.e. a shield made of logic, not a shield that would logically be used).  Those who use bitch correctly probably aren’t offending most reasonable people.  A problem most often arises when someone uses the word indiscriminately.  This type of person probably doesn’t know or can’t imagine the numerous possible uses and meanings of the word.  For the purpose of this essay, these people will be referred to as “idiots.”  Remember, the next time someone calls you a bitch, be sure to ask “Which kind?”  If that person can’t come up with a coherent response, you are most likely dealing with an idiot.  Act accordingly.

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[1] I have some ideas, but this will require at least one sociologist and one woman with as dirty of a mouth as mine.  And yes, I realize in a way I’m suggesting we all be bitches.

The basis of the meaning of this new word should probably focus around the word “weak.”  Since society at some point deemed women being ambitious as a bad thing (I blame the 1950’s), this should just be accepted as that: a historical fact.  Men who have been classified as weak have been torn down in history for centuries.  Judas had weak morals, and sold out Jesus for 30 pieces of silver.  King George III had weak colonial influence and inspired a Revolutionary War.  Benedict Arnold V had weak alliances and weak strategizing skills eventually dying of Gout. 

Men fear these types of fates.  All women have some sort of ambition because they are human beings.  It is a natural part of our path to immortality.  Immortality has a dark side, though.  Living on as a failure is a fate worse than being forgotten to future generations at least for the majority of men in our society.  You have your weapon, ladies.  Now use it.   Find a culturally relevant example of weakness, make it obscene, and create the anti-bitch.