Susan's Scribblings the Blog

Adults don’t need as many tangible presents on holidays or birthdays, which is why I think I get some of the best gifts, and they don’t really cost anything. I feel grateful to be alive when I read a positive human story in the news or on social media, and as a year winds down and the new one begins, all it takes is one such story and it feels as if hope never truly dies.

I most enjoy the stories that feature true appreciation of people who used to be marginalized because of visible or hidden life challenges. I read about students with Down Syndrome being crowned prom king and queen. I see posts in which students have adopted victims of bullying, surrounding them with positive presence to keep them a safe distance from their tormentors. Never would I have thought that I would see these things in my lifetime, yet they have come true.

Human kindness is the most inexpensive thing you can give to somebody, yet sometimes it can be the most difficult as well. We’re programmed to accept the disappointments of a cruel world and pass them on as if “it’s always been like that” or “It was done to me that way” is a suitable excuse to do so. When the gang wants to do “A” and one person says, “Let’s just not do ‘A’ for once,” it’s such a shocking revelation that the others become defensive and insist that everybody present must do “A” or some great unwritten rule will be forever changed. Somebody might be the first person to not get hurt; that’s tough, to end the cycle with yourself if you were part of the way it was before. Money wise, though, it still costs nothing.

Folks, it takes some painful changes to make the world better sometimes. I’d even go out on a limb and say that there is surely some radical person out there right now who is watching people like him doing something horrible, and he might be thinking, “I really don’t want to do that.” Of course that scares him, because that impenetrable wall of radical thinking cannot survive even one chink in its structure, so even the thought of not following the prescribed agenda means one is not truly one hundred percent with the program. Two snowflakes are not alike, but by gosh radicalism demands that everybody be the same or risk certain doom. They hit for the soul, these non-changeable folks.

The other week I was watching the panoply of North Korea’s military on parade, and while I admired the precision of the even rows of countless goose-stepping marching militants, I wondered if one of the men wore boxers instead of briefs or even–Heaven forbid!!–was going commando. On the outside they looked the same, so would it matter? Okay, a military parade demands uniforms and uniformity, but how far does sameness go? Down to the underwear, or into the very spirits of humanity?

I have seen people with unusually colored hair or body jewelry nobody would have dreamed of wearing ten years ago on the street, let alone in the workplace. Somebody recently showed me studs consisting of subcutaneous posts inserted under the skin of both arms to enhance tattoos. Jobs get done just the same as they did back in the good old days of uniforms and personal appearance strictures. Sure there are places where the demand for decorum is greater, but we still have choices as to where we want to work and how much compromise we can handle.

Thank goodness there is room for changes to happen today. We could still be in a world where unusual things are shunned in favor of what has always been. That can get expensive and doesn’t warm the heart like real change for the good of humanity.

I’m going to give out the candy this year. For the past few years I haven’t been able to get home in time to participate, so this being a Saturday event, I can’t pass it up. See you next week.

When I was in first grade, the teacher told my parents not to let me read ahead in the textbook because it would make me non-conforming. Imagine: here is a whole book full of excitement and education, and the teacher said don’t read it! Of course, today the reply from most parents (including mine) would have been a flat out refusal of that idea, or even a more coarsely worded version of “Get lost.” But back then teachers were on a level with superhuman demigods whose words were law, especially if they wore the impenetrable mantle of tenure. It didn’t mean they were right: a few years later we all fell victim to the black hole of New Math, from which it seems the education system and millions of children have never recovered.

Curiosity is usually held back from our children. Sometimes it saves lives to step in and stop something like stepping into traffic or touching that nice red stove burner, but if we aren’t curious, we don’t discover anything. We don’t evolve. We go stagnant.

For a time, I was so afraid to read anything that might cause a life-altering event like removal from school, I didn’t read much beyond what I was instructed to cover for assignments. What I didn’t know was that some other students were reading on their own time and the teacher ignored it. But I’m digressing. We should not be afraid to inquire, explore and ask questions. A man once looked at mold on bread and wondered what it did, and had my first grade teacher intervened, we would never have had the benefits of penicillin. Sure, we would have conformed: we’d have all been wiped out by disease, and dead bodies all look alike in the grave.

Why are students not enrolling in STEM (science, technology, engineering and math)? They are not being encouraged to be curious. They’re being plucked not only from music–which teaches math skills–and sports which keep the body (including the brain) in great shape, but from the laboratories and shops and taught how to take tests which measure nothing. In New Jersey, some forty percent of students did not do well in the current version of proficiency tests. Why does that not seem surprising?

I was in a think tank meeting recently, to determine what to do about some website content which is referenced by departments across several areas. A participant indicated that nobody knew what was in much of the linked content on a particular page by its label. Having worked on the content as a project participant some years ago, I was ready to reply that we had been restricted by content size, page capacity and approval issues, so labels were not particularly wide-ranging, but all it would take was a click on a link to see what was in the content.

Don’t look any further than you have to. Conform and don’t make waves.

Conform, my white middle-aged posterior!!! Conformity has its place, but not in human discovery. It doesn’t mean to lock up the brain and close the door on knowledge itself. I’ll be damned if I’ll not read ahead, go ahead, plow ahead and take the head of anybody who stands in my road and ram it into the cream pie in my other hand and call them whipped cream face. I will not stop learning until the brain hits the off button.

What did you learn today? Did you read ahead?

At least once a week I come across a traffic accident. These days fender benders (more like crushers) seem to involve three or four vehicles at a time. The days of a dent in the front of one vehicle and the rear of the one in front of it are gone. In its place are mutilated tin foil masses with tires on them.

On a major highway the most common problem is simply going way too fast. Second place goes to misjudgments in timing when changing lanes or watching for sudden stops. Auto manufacturers have discarded the good, sturdy metal bumper for a sleek fiberglass thing which should be relegated to the Ferrari on the Autobahn. This is why crash tests measure how the “cabin” holds up in a collision; they know everything sticking out of the main passenger portion of the vehicle is doomed in a crash, so as long as the sitting space is protected, they can feel they have done their part to keep drivers safe.

Once vehicles have been compromised by running into each other, the passengers who can exit their rides have the ignominious distinction of standing off to one side with their faces set in the “I never saw this one coming” expression. The cell phones come out and calls are made to expectant parties to inform of pending lateness, while the police and tow trucks and flatbeds seal off the area so it can be stared at and notes taken.

This all results in what traffic reporters on the rush hour newscasts call the Gaper Delay, because people actually slow down to look at the scene and gape with mouths open at the results. It’s probably an instinctive “there but for the grace of God and my good driving ability go I” kind of moment. In order to properly gape, one must get to the point of passing the area of the accident. This can take anywhere from ten minutes to two hours to accomplish.

A properly run Gaper Delay consists of each vehicle in the traffic jam yielding to the principle that, if every vehicle lets another squeeze over into the reduced field of open lanes, everybody can move somewhat faster. This one I just experienced did not run properly. The lucky folks riding in the left lane against the infamous “Jersey barriers” (which is technically against the law) loved having clear passage and would not let vehicles to their right merge. I was in lane three, so I had to drive for about half a mile before I got into lane two.

What also bothers me about these delays is that people in accidents exit their vehicles while other cars are driving by at normal speed (which is about ten miles per hour higher than posted). If all vehicles would stop the minute an accident happens, the victims might be able to get to the median or the side of the road (whichever is closer) quicker. Instead of gaping, we would be acknowledging that life has been slightly disrupted, and that those involved matter. Then we can navigate our way around so the police and rescue teams can do their job. Of course nobody thinks about that while rushing through life, but when you think about it, our mouths gape open for all of us at least once: when the last breath of life is through.

Over the past year I’ve been creating videos with a site called GoAnimate. It’s been fun to publish humorous videos and flex my creative muscle on a project other than flat-out writing. It looks like the fun is about to run out. The site has become a platform for business videos instead.

So the bohemian animators have been rejected.

So what is a customer to do? Complain. I’m going to fire off an email to GoAnimate and tell them they are losing a whole client base by eliminating the fun factor (which, as a hobby, I willingly pay for). I’m also going to upload my videos for viewing until my account expires, after which I’ll cancel and my work will likely disappear into the no-zone of dead Internet material.

It was fun while it lasted.

I haven’t been in the best of moods lately, but my spirits were lifted earlier today by a young man well on his way to being a future person of great character.

I was in the market, running at what Mel Brooks would call ludicrous speed*, trying to finish my grocery shopping in time to pick up my mother from an appointment. Approaching the pickle barrel for a much-needed addition to our upcoming sandwiches for lunch, a young fellow of about eight or nine was standing by while his mother awaited her deli number to be called. “Pickle?” he asked. I looked over, smiled and replied, “Pickle,” in the affirmative. He proceeded to hand me the tongs and raise the lid so I could select my purchase.

I was nearly moved to tears by this simple act. “I’ll tell you something, young man,” I said to him; “If more adult men treated me as kindly as you did just now, I would be a happy person all of the time. Thank you very much.”

I had to leave then, or I might have lost it.

His mother should be proud.

*(That was from Space Balls.)

I managed to escape the area yesterday, not that the papal visit had the effect that New Jersey anticipated; the trains that geared up for massive crowds were empty, and the volume of pilgrims over the Ben Franklin Bridge were mostly moderate and well-behaved. My destiny was to board a bus from Philadelphia going to New York City, and I met some people while waiting in line.

Four ladies were going on a cruise to Puerto Rico, each with her own security compliant piece of uniquely identifiable luggage, well-wrapped snacks and itineraries dutifully printed off on the home inkjet and folded into an orderly stack. This was not their first cruise, so they were experienced packers and snackers. I, too, travel light, with some crackers to take the edge off in case my schedule doesn’t allow for a lunch stop.

Two ladies were going to a Broadway show, and they were just as excited to know I was going to Lincoln Center as I was to know there was an interesting show to see.

Other people queued up for various connections elsewhere, and the line quickly grew from seven to 37. Still, the volume of people already on the bus from Philadelphia was light for a change, and we all were seated comfortably. Once I got the last seat available, in the rear, next to the restroom door. Really, with all the amenities Greyhound has put on their modern motor coaches, I wish they would soundproof the loo a bit better. I chose not to blog about what I heard from the restroom on that trip. That’s TMI.

For the return trip, the walk to the bus station for the Broadway ladies was likely a couple of blocks (plus some tactical dodging of the costumed characters and pasties-wearing models in Times Square), but for me to get to the bus terminal on time from Lincoln Center I had to run like the dickens or hail a taxi. Fortunately I got a cab that was just discharging two passengers; a typical suit and dress couple, likely headed to the apartments nearby for freshening up before heading to an evening event.

When lining up for a bus, it’s important to first make sure you’re in the right line (others in the queue will tell you), and be there ahead of departure, because the line can form to ridiculous lengths and people may almost certainly be bumped to a later bus for arriving too late. That means a 90-minute wait in a city anxious for your tired feet to wear out in front of a restaurant chair, or if you have stamina, to walk you into any store in sight.

Seeing the two ladies from the Broadway show got us talking about the difference in experiences; they felt inclined to try visiting the opera, and I may look into tickets for the show they attended. That’s how a friendly queue can be good for the soul.

I had a truly purpose-driven trip this time, with no stops and, fortunately, no unpleasant waits in queue, having made some casual acquaintances. The bus line did warn to arrive one hour before departure, but that prolonged bout of standing in line did introduce me to six fine people. How often does that happen in life these days?

I’m one of those people whose looks don’t change very much. When I was asked to submit a grade school photo for a contest at work, I politely declined and told them mine would be the photo everybody would know right away. Except for the muscle mass lost in the face and relocated to the midsection, I look like I did before (and after) my age had a one in front of it.

Makes it a bit tough because, when people say, “You look good,” I’m not always sure if it’s a good thing. Maybe folks thought I looked like death warmed over back then and now, or worse now. One thing about being human is our everlasting sense of paranoia about how we appear to others. We do ourselves a disservice this way, but we’re determined not to break old habits.

Today I had been working up a sweat and had run several fast errands before going to the beauty salon to pick up my mother. I ran into a classmate there, who apparently recognized me right away. Her new hairstyle made her look fabulous, which immediately reminded me that I had managed to go from well-assembled to a flat-out mess running errands in the heat all morning, and oh gosh what will she tell people when she gets home?

Well, at least she can honestly say I haven’t changed a bit.

Two weeks from now our country will be welcoming the most popular man in Vatican City. When Pope Francis arrives at his various stops in New York, Washington DC and Philadelphia, there will be overwhelming crowds of people to greet him. There will also be chaos and logistical insanity. Never in our history has security and planning been so intense; our own President doesn’t get this type of treatment, nor did Elvis or the Beatles.

Whole neighborhoods in Philadelphia will be shut down and cleared of vehicles while travel will be rerouted around the center of the city as if a quarantine were in place. Special passes for access to the areas closest to the pope’s outdoor events have been scalped and gone from being free to costing thousands of dollars online. Gift shops are putting out pontifical souvenirs of all sorts (I was just in Philly this afternoon and saw folks filing into a theatre toting clear bags with pope dolls in them).

Where will I be? Not walking across the Ben Franklin Bridge, which will be closed to vehicular traffic. Not in the city, either. I’d rather watch on television or see the events later on the news. Philadelphia will be a combination of the Fourth of July, Woodstock and the second coming all at once when he visits on September 26-27. They don’t even expect the city to return to anything approaching normal until Monday afternoon. I’m glad I don’t work in the city and don’t have anything to do there that weekend. I’ll leave that to braver people than I.

If you like crowds and mayhem, let me know how it went.