Who What Where?
(Most Don't Care)
Our hellos are guarded,
our nods terse when we meet.
Not much interaction
occurs here on this street.
I admire her flowers;
she smiles and looks away.
(If she's feeling chatty
she'll note the pleasant day.)
Talk is very tiny
here in my neighbourhood.
No one wants to visit.
No one thinks they should.
I don't know their stories
and none of them know mine.
What I find disturbing
is that they think that's fine.
Can't match names to faces,
and don't know who lives where.
I am bothered by this,
but most don't seem to care.
Don't know who has children
or owns a dog or cat -
and I am alone in
my worries about that.
Don't know who's seen sorrow,
or where a babe's been born -
this lack of connection
has given cause to mourn.
I mourn friendships not forged
and celebrations missed.
We are not connected.
We merely co-exist.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 20, 2015
At this point I'd probably settle for peaceful co-existence. It would at least be a step in the right direction. But somehow that seems like a very low standard to aim for. Surely a more community-like vibe is possible in neighbourhoods today - right?
Several weeks ago we had our old car towed away. We had to - someone had called in a bylaw complaint because it didn't have a current sticker on the plate. Apparently that's a big no no in this city, even if the car is in relatively good shape - which ours was. It was about a dozen years old, and not an eyesore. It wasn't hurting anyone, but we were told we had to park it in the garage (which is full) or get a sticker on it to leave it in the driveway. Since getting a sticker would entail making expensive repairs (so that it would pass a safety check), and since it's a tight squeeze to put a car in our garage even when it's empty (which ours certainly isn't!), we opted to have it towed. We had only hung onto it for the past few years because having a second, but unusable car gave us a financial break on our son's car insurance. Now that he's married and taking care of his own insurance costs, we would have gotten rid of the car anyway.
But darn - it really ticked us off that somebody was persnickety enough to see if the car had a current sticker and then call in a complaint.
The problem started as soon as we moved in. I had this feeling that I should push myself a bit and introduce myself to the neighbours, but I didn't. There was still this stubborn part of me that said that because I was "the new kid on the block" they should be the ones to extend themselves and make introductions. In my excitement over being new, I forgot how easily all of us miss what is a huge big event to someone down the street, and how quickly our lives can get busy enough that even the best of intentions get pushed aside. Needless to say we didn't make any friends in the neighbourhood.
We did learn the names of the fussy people over the fence. They introduced themselves the first summer we were here - mostly because they wanted someone to gripe at about another neighbour. When we failed to come up with adequate complaints to keep the conversations flowing, they started to gripe about us too. I heard him once, out in his yard, laughing with one of his paid minions (either the pool man or one of his landscaping crew) about how we must have "come into some money" to get our roof done and put in new sod and garden beds. While the landscaping was being done they had harassed our landscapers - he had complained about them parking in front of our house and "congesting traffic". She had complained to the landscapers about our tree shedding blossoms over her fence, wanting them to come into her yard and prune it free of charge. I'm sure they spent all kinds of time complaining about how bad our lawn was when the cinch bugs and drought pretty well destroyed it, but they didn't seem happy about the fact that we made improvements either. No great surprise there - I'd already realized that they were the kind of people whose only satisfaction in life comes from complaining about what others aren't "doing right".
So when our car got towed away, I could hazard a guess as to who'd made the complaint. They probably thought an older model car parked next door would bring down their property value. Or maybe making that complaint was their thrill for the week. Who knows what goes on in the minds of some people?
Earlier this spring I'd noticed that he never seemed to be around. Usually, as soon as the weather got nicer, he'd be out in his yard, talking loudly on the phone or barking orders at one of the people he employed to work in his yard. But this year, as I readied my garden there was silence over the fence. At first I didn't really notice - I was largely preoccupied with my own thoughts. My younger son was getting married in a few months and we were throwing a reception for the happy couple. But as I thought about Dan getting married, it occurred to me (and not for the first time) that there was something wrong with our neighbour situation...
I grew up in a working class neighbourhood in Sault Ste. Marie. Most of the people who lived on our street were Italian, and a whole lot of them were related to each other. They mostly associated with each other, but we all knew everyone else's names and we all knew when big events were happening within families on the street. We heard rumours about who was getting married or having a baby. We smiled when we saw Mrs So and So out pushing the new bundle in her baby carriage, and maybe stopped to admire the baby. When the neighbourhood had trouble with flooding we all helped bail out each other's basements. And when someone on the street died, a neighbour would go door to door taking up a collection for a floral arrangement "from the neighbours."
It really began to bother me that my son was graduating and getting married within an eight day span, and not one single neighbour knew or cared. It bothered me even more when I began to consciously make note of the grumbling that I wasn't hearing from over the fence. My conscience was terribly bothered by the fact that I didn't know if my neighbour was dead or alive. Sure - we'd never really hit it off, but that didn't mean I wished any ill on him or his family. I still felt that something was wrong with a scenario where there could be so much excitement and misery going completely unacknowledged by the neighbourhood as a whole.
That's when I finally acknowledged just how dysfunctional my neighbourhood is.
Oh, we acknowledge each other with nods and perfunctory hellos when we pass each other, but that's as far as it goes. We don't know each other's names, recognize each other's children or pets, or have any idea what happens behind each other's doors. I'm convinced that most of them are very comfortable with the way things are. And I think that's exactly what makes us dysfunctional.
Is it right to grow comfortable with apathy? Is it right to not want to care about your neighbours?
When did we become so desirous of privacy that we started barring the doors to our hearts?
When did society adopt such a scarcity mentality that we couldn't acknowledge any beauty on the other side of the fence?
What happened to the sense of community that I knew as a child?
We don't need to be best friends with our neighbours, but we should know who they are. We should know their names and recognize the people in their households. We should be able to manage being kind to our neighbours - or at the very least manage to refrain from being small-minded and unkind. We should care enough to discuss reasonable complaints face to face and in a mature, rational manner.
We shouldn't ever be in a position to wonder for months whether a neighbour is dead or alive. I got my answer finally when I read his obituary in the newspaper. Needless to say, nobody on the street took up a collection for flowers. Maybe I should have, but a part of me said the effort would've been too little, and far too late.
Next time we move, I'll follow my gut instinct and make more effort to introduce myself and get to know the neighbours. It might not ensure friendships, but it will make hostility more difficult.
And maybe, just maybe, it will help my next neighbourhood become a more functional and friendly community to live in.
Thursday, 3 September 2015
Monday, 24 August 2015
Just Another Flower in the Garden - By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
In the Garden:
Though aphids eat hibiscus leaves
its flowers will still bloom -
with blossoms big as dinner plates
on lofty stalks they'll loom.
Some lilies that we thought were pink
burst out in scarlet red,
and since I've seen them all abloom
I'd not choose pink instead.
I've other lilies also -
some yellow and some cream
that sport bright fuchsia centers
and blend with colour scheme.
Coneflowers are so healing,
and here they are profuse.
I ought to sit here daily
and put them to good use.
Oh garden you're not perfect,
I've noticed mildew spots,
seen weeds and damaged flowers
and work unfinished - lots.
The snails munched on my hostas -
their leaves are ragged now;
the pink hydrangeas - how they thirst!
Their heavy heads they bow.
Yet in this imperfection
is feast for hungry eye,
and languid scent of lavender
my nose cannot deny.
I close my eyes and feel it -
a breeze upon my face -
my senses all respond to
the magic of this place.
- By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 13th, 2014
My garden is a lot of work. I spend hours weeding it each week, and it still never looks perfect. When I inspect my efforts carefully there's always some weed that escaped my eye. I give it a good watering when the local bylaws tell me I can, and a splash of water from my trusty old tin watering can between times, but too often it looks dry. It struggles to be healthy - aphids and snails and powdery mildew constantly conspire against me and my plants. It can be extremely frustrating to put so much effort into something that never achieves the pristine perfection of gardens seen in magazines.
When that sort of frustration sets in I give myself a shake. That kind of airbrushed, colour enhanced glossiness is an unrealistic goal for my garden, which does the best it can with less than ideal soil, an inexperienced gardener, watering restrictions and weeds that can't be sprayed away. In spite of its many disadvantages, my garden grows and blooms and gives me pleasure.
Some of the things that I thought I didn't want in my garden - like the giant red lilies that we thought would bloom pink - have ended up being things that thrill me most. The twisty trees that I love so much were a last minute substitution for the landscaper's first choice, which was on backorder. She was hesitant about putting them in, but I can't imagine any other trees filling those spots so nicely.
In contrast, some of the things we were initially excited about haven't lived up to our expectations. The new trees we put in along the back fence are thirsty little guys - not at all well suited to an area that often battles summer droughts and has watering restrictions permanently in place. If I had unlimited resources I'd replace them with something heartier. But then again, if I had a ton of money to work with I'd have hired professionals to come and tend the garden for me, and I'd have sprinklers on timers to ensure that my plants and trees get every ounce of water that they're allotted.
I've come to see gardening as the perfect analogy for life. We don't always get what we think we planted - and sometimes that makes for wonderful surprises when we discover unexpected hidden abilities and rise to challenges that we could've never foreseen. We constantly re-arrange things to achieve maximum satisfaction and highlight the best and brightest aspects of our lives. We battle invasive weeds and pests and fight to build strong roots in what is often somewhat inhospitable soil. Life is a lot of work - and it's not always terribly gratifying.
The more time I spend in my garden, the more aware I become of the fact that I'm just another small plant in the vast garden of humanity. I'm just a single green shoot struggling to break through to the surface and enjoy some sunlight. I'm a tender young planting trying to get established in a patch of soil that has rocks that threaten to crush my roots and weeds that threaten to strangle them. I'm a fragile green shoot opening my leaves to the sun, sending out hesitant buds and hoping they'll bloom before the bunnies arrive to nip them off. I'm a lily in full flower, a hydrangea looking for water and the woody shoot of old growth patiently waiting for new buds to take hold on me and prove my worth.
Some flowers will thrive, while others barely survive. Some will wither and die without blooming. Some will be choked by weeds. Some will wither from the root. Some won't survive the weeds that overpower them. Some will suffer from too few nutrients, or too little water.
Every one of us, as flowers in this common garden will face multiple challenges. We'll expect ourselves to bloom longer than we will. We'll be impatient with the constraints placed on us - curse the bad soil we were planted in, the rain for not falling generously upon us, or the sun for not placing us in the spotlight. We may feel neglected by those we've counted on as caretakers. None of us want to be a host for aphids or sport black spot, but it happens. And in spite of these blights in our lives, most of us will manage some bloom time anyway.
Every flower wants to be the most perfect specimen in the garden. Every flower can't be the most perfect specimen in any garden. And that's because gardens are made up of all kinds of flowers, perfect and imperfect, straggling, struggling and staggeringly beautiful.
Real beauty, in any garden, comes from the contrasting shapes and sizes and colours of the plantings. A rose will always be bigger than a violet, but the larger size and flashier nature of one doesn't detract from the beauty of the other. A lush, gorgeous garden is full of differing flowers all blooming at different times, ceding their place of prominence to those who bloom later. Tulips don't compete with asters - they don't need to because each knows its place and season. The ornamental grasses have their place among the blossoms, and the bright foliage of some plants more than compensates for their lack of flowers. When all are sown together they can all be part of a glorious riot of colour and texture that could never be achieved if each was expected to stand alone.
The happiest flowers understand that they're all part of a garden - no more important than the plant next to them. They don't allow themselves to compare their fading glory to the fresh shoots that are just coming on. They just bloom as brightly as they can, for as long as they can.
Enjoy the sun, soak up the rain, and remember, fellow flowers - there is beauty in imperfection. Fading flowers have their place, and the blossoms that persist above the mildew deserve to be admired.
Bloom on.
Though aphids eat hibiscus leaves
its flowers will still bloom -
with blossoms big as dinner plates
on lofty stalks they'll loom.
Some lilies that we thought were pink
burst out in scarlet red,
and since I've seen them all abloom
I'd not choose pink instead.
I've other lilies also -
some yellow and some cream
that sport bright fuchsia centers
and blend with colour scheme.
Coneflowers are so healing,
and here they are profuse.
I ought to sit here daily
and put them to good use.
Oh garden you're not perfect,
I've noticed mildew spots,
seen weeds and damaged flowers
and work unfinished - lots.
The snails munched on my hostas -
their leaves are ragged now;
the pink hydrangeas - how they thirst!
Their heavy heads they bow.
Yet in this imperfection
is feast for hungry eye,
and languid scent of lavender
my nose cannot deny.
I close my eyes and feel it -
a breeze upon my face -
my senses all respond to
the magic of this place.
- By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August 13th, 2014
My garden is a lot of work. I spend hours weeding it each week, and it still never looks perfect. When I inspect my efforts carefully there's always some weed that escaped my eye. I give it a good watering when the local bylaws tell me I can, and a splash of water from my trusty old tin watering can between times, but too often it looks dry. It struggles to be healthy - aphids and snails and powdery mildew constantly conspire against me and my plants. It can be extremely frustrating to put so much effort into something that never achieves the pristine perfection of gardens seen in magazines.
When that sort of frustration sets in I give myself a shake. That kind of airbrushed, colour enhanced glossiness is an unrealistic goal for my garden, which does the best it can with less than ideal soil, an inexperienced gardener, watering restrictions and weeds that can't be sprayed away. In spite of its many disadvantages, my garden grows and blooms and gives me pleasure.
Some of the things that I thought I didn't want in my garden - like the giant red lilies that we thought would bloom pink - have ended up being things that thrill me most. The twisty trees that I love so much were a last minute substitution for the landscaper's first choice, which was on backorder. She was hesitant about putting them in, but I can't imagine any other trees filling those spots so nicely.
In contrast, some of the things we were initially excited about haven't lived up to our expectations. The new trees we put in along the back fence are thirsty little guys - not at all well suited to an area that often battles summer droughts and has watering restrictions permanently in place. If I had unlimited resources I'd replace them with something heartier. But then again, if I had a ton of money to work with I'd have hired professionals to come and tend the garden for me, and I'd have sprinklers on timers to ensure that my plants and trees get every ounce of water that they're allotted.
I've come to see gardening as the perfect analogy for life. We don't always get what we think we planted - and sometimes that makes for wonderful surprises when we discover unexpected hidden abilities and rise to challenges that we could've never foreseen. We constantly re-arrange things to achieve maximum satisfaction and highlight the best and brightest aspects of our lives. We battle invasive weeds and pests and fight to build strong roots in what is often somewhat inhospitable soil. Life is a lot of work - and it's not always terribly gratifying.
The more time I spend in my garden, the more aware I become of the fact that I'm just another small plant in the vast garden of humanity. I'm just a single green shoot struggling to break through to the surface and enjoy some sunlight. I'm a tender young planting trying to get established in a patch of soil that has rocks that threaten to crush my roots and weeds that threaten to strangle them. I'm a fragile green shoot opening my leaves to the sun, sending out hesitant buds and hoping they'll bloom before the bunnies arrive to nip them off. I'm a lily in full flower, a hydrangea looking for water and the woody shoot of old growth patiently waiting for new buds to take hold on me and prove my worth.
Some flowers will thrive, while others barely survive. Some will wither and die without blooming. Some will be choked by weeds. Some will wither from the root. Some won't survive the weeds that overpower them. Some will suffer from too few nutrients, or too little water.
Every one of us, as flowers in this common garden will face multiple challenges. We'll expect ourselves to bloom longer than we will. We'll be impatient with the constraints placed on us - curse the bad soil we were planted in, the rain for not falling generously upon us, or the sun for not placing us in the spotlight. We may feel neglected by those we've counted on as caretakers. None of us want to be a host for aphids or sport black spot, but it happens. And in spite of these blights in our lives, most of us will manage some bloom time anyway.
Every flower wants to be the most perfect specimen in the garden. Every flower can't be the most perfect specimen in any garden. And that's because gardens are made up of all kinds of flowers, perfect and imperfect, straggling, struggling and staggeringly beautiful.
Real beauty, in any garden, comes from the contrasting shapes and sizes and colours of the plantings. A rose will always be bigger than a violet, but the larger size and flashier nature of one doesn't detract from the beauty of the other. A lush, gorgeous garden is full of differing flowers all blooming at different times, ceding their place of prominence to those who bloom later. Tulips don't compete with asters - they don't need to because each knows its place and season. The ornamental grasses have their place among the blossoms, and the bright foliage of some plants more than compensates for their lack of flowers. When all are sown together they can all be part of a glorious riot of colour and texture that could never be achieved if each was expected to stand alone.
The happiest flowers understand that they're all part of a garden - no more important than the plant next to them. They don't allow themselves to compare their fading glory to the fresh shoots that are just coming on. They just bloom as brightly as they can, for as long as they can.
Enjoy the sun, soak up the rain, and remember, fellow flowers - there is beauty in imperfection. Fading flowers have their place, and the blossoms that persist above the mildew deserve to be admired.
Bloom on.
Wednesday, 5 August 2015
Mine to Keep Covered, Thanks -by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Ontario - Yours to Uncover!
A girl from Guelph
left bra on shelf
deciding to bare all -
went on crusade
breasts on parade -
to modesty recall.
"A woman's right!"
she claimed her fight
for us to tops remove,
but most of us
despite her fuss
heartily disapprove.
Biology
is wired, you see
and shouldn't be denied.
Since proof attests
men look at breasts
mine will, in clothes reside.
Women who shout
their breasts to "out"
would be first to call foul
on any man's
chauvinist plans
to let his fingers prowl.
That's not to say,
in any way
that touching is excused.
Consent's required
for what's desired
and none should be abused.
Brushing an arm
does not alarm
nor a touch on the hand,
but touch a breast?
Now we're distressed!
Thus we should understand
that if a breast
is like the rest
of any of our parts
there's no excuse
to claim abuse
for touching when it starts.
But I'm hands off
for I'll not doff
nor bare for all to see.
With pride unfeigned
I'll have retained
a bit of mystery.
Since that parade
a case was made
so women could breasts show.
Nobody stops
girls without tops
here in Ontario.
Or no one would
(it's understood)
if any female dared.
It can be done,
so where's the fun?
A very few have bared.
And while her cause
did change our laws
it's obvious to me
that while some try,
we can't deny
breasts' sexuality.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August, 2007
Exactly eight years after I wrote this poem there was a topless rally in Uptown Waterloo. According to reports there were about five hundred supporters, but many kept their breasts covered. I've lived in this area for a dozen years, and I've only seen one topless woman the entire time. And that's fine with me. If I had my way men would have to keep their shirts on in public places too. In Panama, men can be arrested for going shirtless in public. If a man wants to take his shirt off he goes to a beach or a private pool, or stays in his yard. I have no objection to women being able to take their tops off in these same settings. But in public places I think society would be better served if we all kept our shirts on.
I think before we get in an uproar about who can do what where, we need to determine which "public places" lend themselves to going topless and which don't.
Would you want to be served in a restaurant by a topless waitress? Would you want to have your blood taken by a topless nurse? Would you want your court case tried by a topless lawyer?
I don't believe that taking our shirts off makes a huge statement about women's rights or rape culture.
I am not an apologist for rapists. Rape is never excusable. From a strictly logical point of view, most can see where an occasion might arise that makes stealing or killing necessary. Most of us would steal to feed ourselves or our families if we were starving. Most of us are capable of using violent force against those who threaten our lives, or the lives of those around us. There are circumstances that make these crimes justifiable, but rape can never be justified. I don't care what anyone is wearing or not wearing - to blame the victim for another person's complete lack of self control and morality is always absolutely wrong.
I am not a prude. I like sex, and because I do, I'm going to say something that a lot of those topless rally attendees will heartily disagree with.
I think breasts are sexual. Men often feel aroused when they look at breasts. I'd hazard a guess that men have had lustful thoughts triggered by the sight of breasts since the beginning of time. Taking off our shirts isn't going to make lust go away. Lust isn't the problem anyway, because rape isn't triggered by sexual desire, but by a desire to physically overpower another human being. While most men will look at breasts that are exposed, and they might feel a momentary pang of desire, the vast majority will never feel the urge to rape. But they will be distracted. I'm not saying that men are all pigs because I don't think that's the case at all. Women tend to be a whole lot less visual than men, but if men suddenly stopped wearing pants a whole lot of women would be distracted too.
I think breasts are sexual. Women's breasts experience sexual pleasure. (I said it! I know it's something we're not supposed to own up to these days, but I thought I'd stir the pot a bit by stating what is obvious to a lot of us.) I know that breasts serve a utilitarian purpose when we feed our young. I get that. I know that breast feeding is natural and best for infants, but I never felt a strong urge to bare my breasts while feeding my children. I don't regard my breasts as being just another body part - on par with a hand or a foot. I don't like strangers touching me anywhere, but if someone touches my hand I'm not too freaked out. If someone touches my foot, I'll think they're weird, but I'll get over it. But if someone touches my breast I will feel threatened. I'll probably even feel violated enough to press charges.
I think most women feel the same way.
I don't want biology to be denied. Why should it be? We live in a time when homosexuals are no longer allowed to be discriminated against. We understand and respect the fact that there are biological factors that contribute to people's sexual preferences. We are becoming more aware of biological factors that contribute to mental illness, and we're learning to be compassionate to those who suffer from its effects. Generally speaking we're becoming more aware of our "biology" in a myriad of ways, so it seems hypocritical to me that we've become so adamant about denying biology when it comes to breasts and their part in sexual arousal. Men feel desire when they look at them. Women like having them touched during consensual sexual encounters.
I think it would be a shame if seeing breasts became so commonplace that they didn't give any of us any sensual pleasure anymore. I don't like to think that there would ever be a time when a stranger could turn to me and casually remove a piece of lint off my breast without me batting an eye. I find it hard to believe that these same women who want to go shirtless would be comfortable having men brush up against their breasts in a crowd. And I think that most women would feel threatened by having another woman massage her breasts in front of their sexual partner. That's where I think the "scratch test" might be helpful in determining what is appropriate to show. If you can't scratch or rub that part in public without it appearing lewd, than you probably should keep it covered up.
One comment I've heard repeatedly since this issue came to the forefront again is that "we should be desensitizing people to the sight of bare breasts."
I see a problem with this too. If we raise our daughters to believe that their breasts aren't private, how many cases of child abuse may go unreported when the perverts of this world give the child the argument that if breasts were private they'd be covered like our other sexual parts are, so it doesn't matter if he touches them? I would argue that encouraging daughters to go shirtless could facilitate grooming in pedophiles, because half the battle is convincing the little girl that it's okay if her breasts are touched. Parents can try the "people can look but not touch" approach, but had things been presented that way to me as I child, I think I would've asked why looking was okay but not touching.
I am not advocating that we look upon breasts with shame. I like being a woman and I like having breasts. I'm not giving any man the green light to ogle or to make sexual comments, and I don't feel that I'm encouraging a rape culture by advising women to think twice before allowing their breasts into the public domain. I'm just saying that "look but don't touch" sends out a mixed message.
If they're private parts that others shouldn't be casually touching, then maybe we should cover them up. Deny your own biology all you want, but my breasts are sexual, and that makes them private.
I'll be keeping my shirt on, thanks.
A girl from Guelph
left bra on shelf
deciding to bare all -
went on crusade
breasts on parade -
to modesty recall.
"A woman's right!"
she claimed her fight
for us to tops remove,
but most of us
despite her fuss
heartily disapprove.
Biology
is wired, you see
and shouldn't be denied.
Since proof attests
men look at breasts
mine will, in clothes reside.
Women who shout
their breasts to "out"
would be first to call foul
on any man's
chauvinist plans
to let his fingers prowl.
That's not to say,
in any way
that touching is excused.
Consent's required
for what's desired
and none should be abused.
Brushing an arm
does not alarm
nor a touch on the hand,
but touch a breast?
Now we're distressed!
Thus we should understand
that if a breast
is like the rest
of any of our parts
there's no excuse
to claim abuse
for touching when it starts.
But I'm hands off
for I'll not doff
nor bare for all to see.
With pride unfeigned
I'll have retained
a bit of mystery.
Since that parade
a case was made
so women could breasts show.
Nobody stops
girls without tops
here in Ontario.
Or no one would
(it's understood)
if any female dared.
It can be done,
so where's the fun?
A very few have bared.
And while her cause
did change our laws
it's obvious to me
that while some try,
we can't deny
breasts' sexuality.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, August, 2007
Exactly eight years after I wrote this poem there was a topless rally in Uptown Waterloo. According to reports there were about five hundred supporters, but many kept their breasts covered. I've lived in this area for a dozen years, and I've only seen one topless woman the entire time. And that's fine with me. If I had my way men would have to keep their shirts on in public places too. In Panama, men can be arrested for going shirtless in public. If a man wants to take his shirt off he goes to a beach or a private pool, or stays in his yard. I have no objection to women being able to take their tops off in these same settings. But in public places I think society would be better served if we all kept our shirts on.
I think before we get in an uproar about who can do what where, we need to determine which "public places" lend themselves to going topless and which don't.
Would you want to be served in a restaurant by a topless waitress? Would you want to have your blood taken by a topless nurse? Would you want your court case tried by a topless lawyer?
I don't believe that taking our shirts off makes a huge statement about women's rights or rape culture.
I am not an apologist for rapists. Rape is never excusable. From a strictly logical point of view, most can see where an occasion might arise that makes stealing or killing necessary. Most of us would steal to feed ourselves or our families if we were starving. Most of us are capable of using violent force against those who threaten our lives, or the lives of those around us. There are circumstances that make these crimes justifiable, but rape can never be justified. I don't care what anyone is wearing or not wearing - to blame the victim for another person's complete lack of self control and morality is always absolutely wrong.
I am not a prude. I like sex, and because I do, I'm going to say something that a lot of those topless rally attendees will heartily disagree with.
I think breasts are sexual. Men often feel aroused when they look at breasts. I'd hazard a guess that men have had lustful thoughts triggered by the sight of breasts since the beginning of time. Taking off our shirts isn't going to make lust go away. Lust isn't the problem anyway, because rape isn't triggered by sexual desire, but by a desire to physically overpower another human being. While most men will look at breasts that are exposed, and they might feel a momentary pang of desire, the vast majority will never feel the urge to rape. But they will be distracted. I'm not saying that men are all pigs because I don't think that's the case at all. Women tend to be a whole lot less visual than men, but if men suddenly stopped wearing pants a whole lot of women would be distracted too.
I think breasts are sexual. Women's breasts experience sexual pleasure. (I said it! I know it's something we're not supposed to own up to these days, but I thought I'd stir the pot a bit by stating what is obvious to a lot of us.) I know that breasts serve a utilitarian purpose when we feed our young. I get that. I know that breast feeding is natural and best for infants, but I never felt a strong urge to bare my breasts while feeding my children. I don't regard my breasts as being just another body part - on par with a hand or a foot. I don't like strangers touching me anywhere, but if someone touches my hand I'm not too freaked out. If someone touches my foot, I'll think they're weird, but I'll get over it. But if someone touches my breast I will feel threatened. I'll probably even feel violated enough to press charges.
I think most women feel the same way.
I don't want biology to be denied. Why should it be? We live in a time when homosexuals are no longer allowed to be discriminated against. We understand and respect the fact that there are biological factors that contribute to people's sexual preferences. We are becoming more aware of biological factors that contribute to mental illness, and we're learning to be compassionate to those who suffer from its effects. Generally speaking we're becoming more aware of our "biology" in a myriad of ways, so it seems hypocritical to me that we've become so adamant about denying biology when it comes to breasts and their part in sexual arousal. Men feel desire when they look at them. Women like having them touched during consensual sexual encounters.
I think it would be a shame if seeing breasts became so commonplace that they didn't give any of us any sensual pleasure anymore. I don't like to think that there would ever be a time when a stranger could turn to me and casually remove a piece of lint off my breast without me batting an eye. I find it hard to believe that these same women who want to go shirtless would be comfortable having men brush up against their breasts in a crowd. And I think that most women would feel threatened by having another woman massage her breasts in front of their sexual partner. That's where I think the "scratch test" might be helpful in determining what is appropriate to show. If you can't scratch or rub that part in public without it appearing lewd, than you probably should keep it covered up.
One comment I've heard repeatedly since this issue came to the forefront again is that "we should be desensitizing people to the sight of bare breasts."
I see a problem with this too. If we raise our daughters to believe that their breasts aren't private, how many cases of child abuse may go unreported when the perverts of this world give the child the argument that if breasts were private they'd be covered like our other sexual parts are, so it doesn't matter if he touches them? I would argue that encouraging daughters to go shirtless could facilitate grooming in pedophiles, because half the battle is convincing the little girl that it's okay if her breasts are touched. Parents can try the "people can look but not touch" approach, but had things been presented that way to me as I child, I think I would've asked why looking was okay but not touching.
I am not advocating that we look upon breasts with shame. I like being a woman and I like having breasts. I'm not giving any man the green light to ogle or to make sexual comments, and I don't feel that I'm encouraging a rape culture by advising women to think twice before allowing their breasts into the public domain. I'm just saying that "look but don't touch" sends out a mixed message.
If they're private parts that others shouldn't be casually touching, then maybe we should cover them up. Deny your own biology all you want, but my breasts are sexual, and that makes them private.
I'll be keeping my shirt on, thanks.
Friday, 17 July 2015
An Ode to Work - (Or Why Work Shouldn't be Odious!) By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
An Ode To Work:
Why is it the mere thought of work
goes so against the grain?
Those efforts that we make to shirk
and ailments that we feign
are unbecoming - that's for sure -
we really ought to see
how all the labours we endure
enrich humanity.
Those menial tasks we undertake
(the ones we think demean)
are often done for others' sake,
unnoticed and unseen.
Scrubbed toilets will go unadmired
by those who on them sit,
though sanitation is desired
more than a little bit.
Plants thank not when you intercede
by plucking from below
the roots of an invading weed
to give theirs' room to grow.
Few people stop to think about
the clean plates that they use.
We take for granted, without doubt,
the work we'd never choose.
Yet someone's bound to do the chore
I didn't want to do -
the messes that I might ignore
will be cleaned up by you!
The things you notice not at all
I simply must put right -
I might tend tasks that seemed so small
they never caught your sight.
It seems to me most volunteer
for tasks they tolerate,
while others that they think too drear
they'll try to delegate.
But in the end all have to cede
to work that must be done;
to pitch in when they see the need
for help from everyone.
Thus we'll move mountains, stone by stone,
if that's what is required,
and feel exhausted muscles groan
and brow become perspired.
And when the thankless task's complete
it cannot be denied
that fewer things are quite as sweet
as feeling satisfied.
So heed the moral of this verse -
there's more to life than fun.
Hard work is really not a curse
or something we should shun.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, July 2013
When I was a child I was given chores to do. I had to clean my room and help do dishes and laundry and vacuuming. My mother sometimes asked me to help prepare meals or dust the house or tidy the basement. My grandmother sometimes asked me to walk with her to the bank or the grocery store. And I'm ashamed to say that far too often I considered these tasks to be a hardship in my life. It took me a while to understand the value of work.
When I moved away from home, my attitude toward many tasks began to change. Once I had my own apartment I developed a sense of pride in keeping it neat and tidy. Maturity began to kick in, and I learned to be grateful for being raised in a home where everyone was expected to pitch in and help. Sometimes I feel badly about how reluctant I often was to help in my youth.
When I was in my early twenties I accepted a job cleaning houses for a residential cleaning agency. I learned to really enjoy working alone, without anyone standing over me. The pay was better than any of the fast food or retail jobs I'd had before, and I found the work oddly satisfying. I arrived to a house that was messy (and sometimes pretty dirty!), but when I left everything was clean and orderly. My clients were seldom home, and when they were, they were mostly pleasant and grateful for the service I provided them. I had a few clients who were physically impaired, and a few who were senior citizens, and these people were friendly with me, and seemed especially grateful that I could attend to their homes in ways that they no longer could. Those jobs were particularly gratifying.
Once while I was thus employed I met a young man who seemed quite appalled when I told him what I did for a living. I was surprised by his attitude - I felt that my work was gratifying. It was lucrative, and it was honourable to be able to help those who needed help keeping their homes clean. I liked knowing that I could provide some of my neediest clients with clean homes and a few hours of friendly companionship while I got their place into shape. Not only was I was proud of the fact that I wasn't afraid of a bit of hard work - I actually began to feel sorry for those who thought that I was working at a "demeaning" job.
I can't tell you that I always love working, but I can tell you that I get bored pretty quickly when there isn't much work to be done. I've morphed into one of those people who can't sit and watch television or read a book all day. Too much inactivity is painful to me. I try to sit in my garden and enjoy the sun, but it gets stale really fast. I think I actually enjoy pulling weeds and trimming plants. (But please don't call me to do it for you. Don't deny yourself the character building exercise of taking care of your own patch of earth.)
Too much chaos and clutter and mess around me, especially in my own home, makes me feel irritable. Pulling the covers over my head won't just make it all disappear. I need to get off my butt and make the house clean and tidy. If you catch me when it's messy, don't implore me to leave it alone. I'm not cleaning for you - I just can't enjoy a visit without being distracted by my mess. Let me dash around for five minutes and straighten it up, okay? Oddly, if the mess is at your house it will bother me a lot less.
Watching others, who refuse my assistance, is a highly frustrating exercise for me. Let me help. If I really objected to helping you I wouldn't have made the offer. (I'm not that polite!) Likewise, I've learned the importance of accepting offers of help, even when it's a bit embarrassing. (Like when you overhear me saying bad words in the kitchen when supper preparations get out of hand. I'm not a fabulous multi-tasker, and another hand stirring a pot can really sweeten my mood.)
I've learned that some jobs will always feel like chores. I don't like cooking much, but it's my job to put supper on the table and complaining won't make it any easier or more pleasant. And because it's not my favorite task I feel especially gratified, and satisfied, when I manage to make a really nice meal. If you express appreciation for that meal, you've made my day.
Work is noble. Everyone has to eat, and I'm grateful that there are those who earn their bread working at jobs that I would find yucky. Scraping plaque off people's teeth seems disgusting to me, but I'm glad there are people who don't mind doing it. I'm glad there are people who scrub public restrooms and repair sewers and dig ditches. (For the record, I'd rather scrub toilets than be a proctologist, which proves that there are a lot of high paying and prestigious jobs that I wouldn't ever want to do.)
I admire people who take on the work of helping those in need, whether it's building houses for Habitat for Humanity or taking care of the ailing, mentally ill, or elderly. I admire the farmers who sacrifice sleep to make their living and provide food for my table. I admire professionals who worked their brains for years acquiring knowledge, and blue collar workers who work their fingers to the bone - both make my life easier through their efforts.
Work is necessary. It builds character and gives us a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. It allows us opportunities to contribute to society. Work exercises body and soul and exorcises our demons too. (Angry, annoyed, frustrated? Work it out!) Work gives us purpose.
If you're still lamenting the fact that you have to work I have one suggestion for you:
Work on that.
Why is it the mere thought of work
goes so against the grain?
Those efforts that we make to shirk
and ailments that we feign
are unbecoming - that's for sure -
we really ought to see
how all the labours we endure
enrich humanity.
Those menial tasks we undertake
(the ones we think demean)
are often done for others' sake,
unnoticed and unseen.
Scrubbed toilets will go unadmired
by those who on them sit,
though sanitation is desired
more than a little bit.
Plants thank not when you intercede
by plucking from below
the roots of an invading weed
to give theirs' room to grow.
Few people stop to think about
the clean plates that they use.
We take for granted, without doubt,
the work we'd never choose.
Yet someone's bound to do the chore
I didn't want to do -
the messes that I might ignore
will be cleaned up by you!
The things you notice not at all
I simply must put right -
I might tend tasks that seemed so small
they never caught your sight.
It seems to me most volunteer
for tasks they tolerate,
while others that they think too drear
they'll try to delegate.
But in the end all have to cede
to work that must be done;
to pitch in when they see the need
for help from everyone.
Thus we'll move mountains, stone by stone,
if that's what is required,
and feel exhausted muscles groan
and brow become perspired.
And when the thankless task's complete
it cannot be denied
that fewer things are quite as sweet
as feeling satisfied.
So heed the moral of this verse -
there's more to life than fun.
Hard work is really not a curse
or something we should shun.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, July 2013
When I was a child I was given chores to do. I had to clean my room and help do dishes and laundry and vacuuming. My mother sometimes asked me to help prepare meals or dust the house or tidy the basement. My grandmother sometimes asked me to walk with her to the bank or the grocery store. And I'm ashamed to say that far too often I considered these tasks to be a hardship in my life. It took me a while to understand the value of work.
When I moved away from home, my attitude toward many tasks began to change. Once I had my own apartment I developed a sense of pride in keeping it neat and tidy. Maturity began to kick in, and I learned to be grateful for being raised in a home where everyone was expected to pitch in and help. Sometimes I feel badly about how reluctant I often was to help in my youth.
When I was in my early twenties I accepted a job cleaning houses for a residential cleaning agency. I learned to really enjoy working alone, without anyone standing over me. The pay was better than any of the fast food or retail jobs I'd had before, and I found the work oddly satisfying. I arrived to a house that was messy (and sometimes pretty dirty!), but when I left everything was clean and orderly. My clients were seldom home, and when they were, they were mostly pleasant and grateful for the service I provided them. I had a few clients who were physically impaired, and a few who were senior citizens, and these people were friendly with me, and seemed especially grateful that I could attend to their homes in ways that they no longer could. Those jobs were particularly gratifying.
Once while I was thus employed I met a young man who seemed quite appalled when I told him what I did for a living. I was surprised by his attitude - I felt that my work was gratifying. It was lucrative, and it was honourable to be able to help those who needed help keeping their homes clean. I liked knowing that I could provide some of my neediest clients with clean homes and a few hours of friendly companionship while I got their place into shape. Not only was I was proud of the fact that I wasn't afraid of a bit of hard work - I actually began to feel sorry for those who thought that I was working at a "demeaning" job.
I can't tell you that I always love working, but I can tell you that I get bored pretty quickly when there isn't much work to be done. I've morphed into one of those people who can't sit and watch television or read a book all day. Too much inactivity is painful to me. I try to sit in my garden and enjoy the sun, but it gets stale really fast. I think I actually enjoy pulling weeds and trimming plants. (But please don't call me to do it for you. Don't deny yourself the character building exercise of taking care of your own patch of earth.)
Too much chaos and clutter and mess around me, especially in my own home, makes me feel irritable. Pulling the covers over my head won't just make it all disappear. I need to get off my butt and make the house clean and tidy. If you catch me when it's messy, don't implore me to leave it alone. I'm not cleaning for you - I just can't enjoy a visit without being distracted by my mess. Let me dash around for five minutes and straighten it up, okay? Oddly, if the mess is at your house it will bother me a lot less.
Watching others, who refuse my assistance, is a highly frustrating exercise for me. Let me help. If I really objected to helping you I wouldn't have made the offer. (I'm not that polite!) Likewise, I've learned the importance of accepting offers of help, even when it's a bit embarrassing. (Like when you overhear me saying bad words in the kitchen when supper preparations get out of hand. I'm not a fabulous multi-tasker, and another hand stirring a pot can really sweeten my mood.)
I've learned that some jobs will always feel like chores. I don't like cooking much, but it's my job to put supper on the table and complaining won't make it any easier or more pleasant. And because it's not my favorite task I feel especially gratified, and satisfied, when I manage to make a really nice meal. If you express appreciation for that meal, you've made my day.
Work is noble. Everyone has to eat, and I'm grateful that there are those who earn their bread working at jobs that I would find yucky. Scraping plaque off people's teeth seems disgusting to me, but I'm glad there are people who don't mind doing it. I'm glad there are people who scrub public restrooms and repair sewers and dig ditches. (For the record, I'd rather scrub toilets than be a proctologist, which proves that there are a lot of high paying and prestigious jobs that I wouldn't ever want to do.)
I admire people who take on the work of helping those in need, whether it's building houses for Habitat for Humanity or taking care of the ailing, mentally ill, or elderly. I admire the farmers who sacrifice sleep to make their living and provide food for my table. I admire professionals who worked their brains for years acquiring knowledge, and blue collar workers who work their fingers to the bone - both make my life easier through their efforts.
Work is necessary. It builds character and gives us a sense of accomplishment and satisfaction. It allows us opportunities to contribute to society. Work exercises body and soul and exorcises our demons too. (Angry, annoyed, frustrated? Work it out!) Work gives us purpose.
If you're still lamenting the fact that you have to work I have one suggestion for you:
Work on that.
Tuesday, 7 July 2015
Respectfully, I Disagree! By Sharon Flood Kasenberg
I'm disagreeable - we all are at times. Every one of us should be capable of respectfully disagreeing with the views of those around us. The only alternative would be downright frightening. I can't imagine how horrible it would be to go through life like a modified bobble-head doll that is only able to nod in assent. That's not for me - I like being able to assert my own opinions and to express disagreement with those held by others on occasion.
There is a huge difference between expressing an opposing point of view and being disrespectful. Every contrary opinion that's expressed shouldn't be seen as an attack on views that you hold or beliefs that you value. I have enough faith in humanity to dismiss the notion that most people devote their time to expressing ideas or re-posting quotes with the intention of irritating me or anyone else. Having said that, I will point out that sometimes on social media, people can simply feel bombarded by the sheer volume of disagreeable posts circulated by friends, and retaliate by letting the online world know that they feel differently.
I got fed up at one point because a few "friends" on my list had issues with the same bees buzzing endlessly in their bonnets, and I removed them from my friends list. None of these people were particularly close to me, and since I had no meaningful interaction with them and got sick of their endless tyrannical preaching, it seemed the wisest course of action. Most of us soon tire of people who seemingly have only one topic of discussion. This is especially true when our views on that subject are in strong opposition to theirs, and when those people adopt an attitude that reeks of such a superiority complex that their every comment drips with insinuation that anyone who sees the matter differently is an idiot - period.
Often we're too emotionally affected by a subject, or too closed-minded, to discuss our differences rationally - and that's when we should refrain from engaging in debate. In the instance I mentioned, the people involved were entirely disinterested in hearing opposing opinions. They were looking for converts to their cause, not honest discussion. They asked for alternate opinions so that they could belittle those who thought differently. Their like-minded friends bullied those who expressed other viewpoints. There was name-calling and unkindness in every chain. Ad hominem attacks abounded. I knew it was useless to engage on any subject with people who were so unprepared to listen respectfully, and so I did myself a favour and deleted them before I became too tempted to sink to their level. Their behaviors too often demonstrated a willingness to cross boundaries of civility that I had no intention of becoming comfortable crossing.
Boundaries:
My domain is limited -
the space I see as mine;
long ago I staked a claim
and drew a borderline.
I cannot grant free access
to everything I feel.
Some deep wounds must be covered
before they start to heal.
Some thoughts I have are private
and so I keep them fenced -
enclosed and safely locked up
when other views are sensed.
Opinions are like tourists,
their visits should be brief.
And they shouldn't emigrate
unless they seek relief.
My silence should speak volumes,
I simply don't agree.
None of your "greater wisdom"
will change the world I see.
Don't trespass on my feelings;
respect what I believe.
Don't climb upon my fences
or you'll be asked to leave.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, (May 2010)
Deleting friends on social media over ideological differences isn't something I recommend doing in most circumstances. If there is any level of real friendship, mutual respect or common and fond history between you then you should be able to ignore disagreeable posts or disagree agreeably. The much easier solution to seeing less that you object to is to control your news feed. There's a little grey inverted V that appears in the top right corner next to every status update on Facebook. Click on it, and you can hide the offending post or even discontinue seeing all future posts from that individual or source. (My Facebook feed has become so much more pleasant since I've started systematically eliminating all evangelical sources of religious rah rah and network marketing from my sight : )) You don't even have to see every source of annoyance out there, let alone comment on it.
When you feel that you must register your disagreement, do your best to be kind and show respect toward those who obviously see things differently. Respectful disagreement might involve sharing what you perceive as factual evidence to the contrary, but bear in mind that not everyone will see your sources of information as valid. (Consider the questionable validity of a certain television doctor who is too quick to push unproven therapies on uneducated masses. His fans, who tune in daily, will accept whatever he tells them, but the rest of us are more skeptical.) Does your "expert" have an axe to grind, or is he/she truly sharing the results of unbiased research? If the facts shared are matters of public record - well documented dates or historical accounts that are not easily falsified - most should see them as reliable. Still, you need to accept that if they challenge a cherished belief in any way, they are apt to be discredited. The humility to accept that an error in judgement has been made can be a very hard pill to swallow.
No matter how reliable your facts are, people are often biased by their feelings, and in those instances, no amount of debate, respectful or otherwise, will ever change their opinions. Remember that others may be too invested (monetarily or otherwise) to consider another point of view. (You can present all kinds of reliable evidence that a particular dietary supplement might not be everything it's cracked up to be, but if the person you're trying to tell this to has just invested a thousand dollars and a hundred hours so that they can sell this product, they won't be very inclined to listen to you.) We all have biases, and before we engage in sharing contrary opinions we need to consider whether this person is willing to listen respectfully to what we have to say. If not, we should save our sanity and move on.
Don't make the mistake of expecting others to be swayed by whatever argument you give them, and don't ever expect people to understand what you think, what you mean, or what you feel. Feelings are especially problematic. Who can explain feelings logically? All are driven by emotions and their associated experiences. Logic is great - until someone presents it to us in such a way that we feel an expectation to exchange our soft, squishy feelings for cold hard facts.
For example, I might feel really good about giving to a particular charity. Don't expect me to tell you why I feel this way - my feelings might be influenced by something I've never consciously taken note of. Maybe my grandma said she thought that charity was noble waaay back when I was three and her comment just subconsciously lodged in the back of my head. So now when I send off a cheque to these folks I feel good. You might feel differently, and you might even have evidence that my pet charity doesn't make the wisest use of its funds. You can share it with me - it might prompt me to choose another group to contribute to. But if I have had numerous occasions when I felt good contributing my time or money to further the causes of this charity, then I might not be willing to change my donation habits. I might even think you're being mean-spirited for criticizing something that I've always had good experiences with.
There's no denying that we can all get our knickers knotted because somebody sees something differently and says so. We might be secretly upset with ourselves because we can feel our comfortable world view being challenged. We might feel a bit annoyed because there was an implication that we'd know more if we studied up a bit. We might bristle at a carelessly worded thought or become downright testy if unkindness reared its ugly head in the course of our disagreement. We're allowed to feel insulted if a personal attack was made on our standards, actions, intellect or choices during an exchange of differing opinions. These are risks we all take when we share our opinions. I think it's a risk worth taking in the name of freedom of expression. There is beauty in diversity, and it really is okay to share the planet with those who have differing perspectives.
We can't really expect anyone else to understand what we do, what causes we support, or what matters to us, let alone hold out hope that we'll influence them to change their point of view. It's unrealistic. (Some might say it's even a bit masochistic.) One day, in frustration, I wrote the following lines as a Facebook status update:
The paths we tread may go unseen by the unaided eye -
and difficulty of terrain we often can't deny.
You may not know the reasons for the path that I select.
My route is not yours to approve, but only to respect.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, December 2013
Any time you post anything in a public forum, there's a decent chance that someone will have an adverse reaction to it. For the most part, adequate civility exists to enable our blissful ignorance of how thoughtlessly irritating we can truly be.
You may think you're sharing impeccable wisdom with your friends. You may think you're offering an opportunity that they perceive as nothing but an annoyance. You may be trying to sell something that few want to buy. You may see a post or a quote as a profound "truth" - and others may vehemently object. What you might find uplifting, others will sneer at. You might respond with a resounding "Amen" to something that will only motivate me to think, or even say,
"Respectfully, I disagree."
There is a huge difference between expressing an opposing point of view and being disrespectful. Every contrary opinion that's expressed shouldn't be seen as an attack on views that you hold or beliefs that you value. I have enough faith in humanity to dismiss the notion that most people devote their time to expressing ideas or re-posting quotes with the intention of irritating me or anyone else. Having said that, I will point out that sometimes on social media, people can simply feel bombarded by the sheer volume of disagreeable posts circulated by friends, and retaliate by letting the online world know that they feel differently.
I got fed up at one point because a few "friends" on my list had issues with the same bees buzzing endlessly in their bonnets, and I removed them from my friends list. None of these people were particularly close to me, and since I had no meaningful interaction with them and got sick of their endless tyrannical preaching, it seemed the wisest course of action. Most of us soon tire of people who seemingly have only one topic of discussion. This is especially true when our views on that subject are in strong opposition to theirs, and when those people adopt an attitude that reeks of such a superiority complex that their every comment drips with insinuation that anyone who sees the matter differently is an idiot - period.
Often we're too emotionally affected by a subject, or too closed-minded, to discuss our differences rationally - and that's when we should refrain from engaging in debate. In the instance I mentioned, the people involved were entirely disinterested in hearing opposing opinions. They were looking for converts to their cause, not honest discussion. They asked for alternate opinions so that they could belittle those who thought differently. Their like-minded friends bullied those who expressed other viewpoints. There was name-calling and unkindness in every chain. Ad hominem attacks abounded. I knew it was useless to engage on any subject with people who were so unprepared to listen respectfully, and so I did myself a favour and deleted them before I became too tempted to sink to their level. Their behaviors too often demonstrated a willingness to cross boundaries of civility that I had no intention of becoming comfortable crossing.
Boundaries:
My domain is limited -
the space I see as mine;
long ago I staked a claim
and drew a borderline.
I cannot grant free access
to everything I feel.
Some deep wounds must be covered
before they start to heal.
Some thoughts I have are private
and so I keep them fenced -
enclosed and safely locked up
when other views are sensed.
Opinions are like tourists,
their visits should be brief.
And they shouldn't emigrate
unless they seek relief.
My silence should speak volumes,
I simply don't agree.
None of your "greater wisdom"
will change the world I see.
Don't trespass on my feelings;
respect what I believe.
Don't climb upon my fences
or you'll be asked to leave.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg, (May 2010)
Deleting friends on social media over ideological differences isn't something I recommend doing in most circumstances. If there is any level of real friendship, mutual respect or common and fond history between you then you should be able to ignore disagreeable posts or disagree agreeably. The much easier solution to seeing less that you object to is to control your news feed. There's a little grey inverted V that appears in the top right corner next to every status update on Facebook. Click on it, and you can hide the offending post or even discontinue seeing all future posts from that individual or source. (My Facebook feed has become so much more pleasant since I've started systematically eliminating all evangelical sources of religious rah rah and network marketing from my sight : )) You don't even have to see every source of annoyance out there, let alone comment on it.
When you feel that you must register your disagreement, do your best to be kind and show respect toward those who obviously see things differently. Respectful disagreement might involve sharing what you perceive as factual evidence to the contrary, but bear in mind that not everyone will see your sources of information as valid. (Consider the questionable validity of a certain television doctor who is too quick to push unproven therapies on uneducated masses. His fans, who tune in daily, will accept whatever he tells them, but the rest of us are more skeptical.) Does your "expert" have an axe to grind, or is he/she truly sharing the results of unbiased research? If the facts shared are matters of public record - well documented dates or historical accounts that are not easily falsified - most should see them as reliable. Still, you need to accept that if they challenge a cherished belief in any way, they are apt to be discredited. The humility to accept that an error in judgement has been made can be a very hard pill to swallow.
No matter how reliable your facts are, people are often biased by their feelings, and in those instances, no amount of debate, respectful or otherwise, will ever change their opinions. Remember that others may be too invested (monetarily or otherwise) to consider another point of view. (You can present all kinds of reliable evidence that a particular dietary supplement might not be everything it's cracked up to be, but if the person you're trying to tell this to has just invested a thousand dollars and a hundred hours so that they can sell this product, they won't be very inclined to listen to you.) We all have biases, and before we engage in sharing contrary opinions we need to consider whether this person is willing to listen respectfully to what we have to say. If not, we should save our sanity and move on.
Don't make the mistake of expecting others to be swayed by whatever argument you give them, and don't ever expect people to understand what you think, what you mean, or what you feel. Feelings are especially problematic. Who can explain feelings logically? All are driven by emotions and their associated experiences. Logic is great - until someone presents it to us in such a way that we feel an expectation to exchange our soft, squishy feelings for cold hard facts.
For example, I might feel really good about giving to a particular charity. Don't expect me to tell you why I feel this way - my feelings might be influenced by something I've never consciously taken note of. Maybe my grandma said she thought that charity was noble waaay back when I was three and her comment just subconsciously lodged in the back of my head. So now when I send off a cheque to these folks I feel good. You might feel differently, and you might even have evidence that my pet charity doesn't make the wisest use of its funds. You can share it with me - it might prompt me to choose another group to contribute to. But if I have had numerous occasions when I felt good contributing my time or money to further the causes of this charity, then I might not be willing to change my donation habits. I might even think you're being mean-spirited for criticizing something that I've always had good experiences with.
There's no denying that we can all get our knickers knotted because somebody sees something differently and says so. We might be secretly upset with ourselves because we can feel our comfortable world view being challenged. We might feel a bit annoyed because there was an implication that we'd know more if we studied up a bit. We might bristle at a carelessly worded thought or become downright testy if unkindness reared its ugly head in the course of our disagreement. We're allowed to feel insulted if a personal attack was made on our standards, actions, intellect or choices during an exchange of differing opinions. These are risks we all take when we share our opinions. I think it's a risk worth taking in the name of freedom of expression. There is beauty in diversity, and it really is okay to share the planet with those who have differing perspectives.
We can't really expect anyone else to understand what we do, what causes we support, or what matters to us, let alone hold out hope that we'll influence them to change their point of view. It's unrealistic. (Some might say it's even a bit masochistic.) One day, in frustration, I wrote the following lines as a Facebook status update:
The paths we tread may go unseen by the unaided eye -
and difficulty of terrain we often can't deny.
You may not know the reasons for the path that I select.
My route is not yours to approve, but only to respect.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, December 2013
Any time you post anything in a public forum, there's a decent chance that someone will have an adverse reaction to it. For the most part, adequate civility exists to enable our blissful ignorance of how thoughtlessly irritating we can truly be.
You may think you're sharing impeccable wisdom with your friends. You may think you're offering an opportunity that they perceive as nothing but an annoyance. You may be trying to sell something that few want to buy. You may see a post or a quote as a profound "truth" - and others may vehemently object. What you might find uplifting, others will sneer at. You might respond with a resounding "Amen" to something that will only motivate me to think, or even say,
"Respectfully, I disagree."
Tuesday, 16 June 2015
Tapestries - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
Threads:
My father always told me
do what you feel is best,
allow conscience to guide you -
remember you are blessed.
Don't ever follow blindly,
put wisdom to the test;
you are not any better
or worse than all the rest.
Indelibly imprinted
are views that he opined -
blunt and untempered statements
like ore that's unrefined.
They took some time to process
in hearts he left behind -
now they are embedded deep
and often come to mind.
So much my father told me
in youth I criticized.
Many of his attitudes
I thought that I despised.
As I gain experience
quite often I'm surprised;
reviewing his opinions,
my own are oft' revised.
His simple earthy wisdom
and childlike joie de vivre
are traits in me inherent -
they shape what I believe,
the way I give to others,
and too, how I receive.
These threads interwoven in
the tapestry I'll leave.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg. September 2, 2007
My father was a character - a complicated man, irascible, short-tempered and dogmatic, but also quick to laughter and capable of great generosity. He was a very intelligent man who was limited by his circumstances. He was a product of his era and his upbringing.
Raised on an isolated island in Lake Huron, he was a boy who suffered an identity complex. Should he be the rough and ready son his father, a quintessential "man's man" wanted, or the scholar that his mother, a former school teacher, desired him to be? He tried to be both, but had no stomach for hunting, and I think that he often felt that he failed to meet his father's expectations. His mother, on the other hand, often showed his children, with considerable pride, the trophy that he won in a spelling bee.
"It was actually a tie", she'd tell us with a smile, "but the judges decided that whoever could darn socks better would get the cup."
And thus my father won - against a girl! I'm betting my grandfather had mixed feelings about that victory.
He grew up fast - finished high school classes in a one room schoolhouse by the time he was sixteen, and went to work helping his father clear lumber "in the bush" and "working the boats" in the north channel. He enlisted in WWII at the age of nineteen, and upon returning home at the age of twenty-three he enrolled in University under the GI bill. But his educational aspirations were cut short by his inability to stay awake during classes.
It took the doctors at Sunnybrook Hospital a while to diagnose narcolepsy, and they never did manage to find effective treatment for him. He moved back to Sault Ste. Marie and began working at Algoma Steel, aka "that stinkin' plant", the same place his father died in a smelting accident. I don't think he ever got over his feelings of defeat at having to put aside dreams of being an architect, engineer or teacher to work on the loading dock of a steel mill.
Shift work was doubly hard on a man who had no control over his sleep patterns. He suffered from insomnia when he needed to sleep, and fought to stay awake and alert on the job. Ignorant coworkers bullied him by playing very unfunny practical jokes on "sleepyhead Bill". He felt tormented.
He was often an angry man.
His life was filled with complicated relationships. I think he felt unappreciated by his wife and children. We resented having to tiptoe around him when he was trying to sleep, or grumpy from lack of sleep. He was strict as a parent, and had very high expectations of his children - especially when it came to academic performance.
And yet, he was gregarious and affectionate. When he wasn't at work he grabbed life with both hands. His evenings were filled with friends, and square dancing and card games. As a teenager I felt ripped off that my parents had a busier social life than I did. Occasionally my brother Robert and I would tease them on the way out the door, saying,
"Try not to come in too late, okay? And if you bring friends home, can you keep it down? We need our sleep!"
My father loved to talk - to just about anyone. I remember walking in the neighbourhood with him as a child, and how he'd greet everyone we passed. I'd think to myself, "Dad knows everyone!" Later I learned that he didn't - but that didn't stop him from starting up conversations with them anyway.
He was an extrovert, and he always wanted his more introverted, bookish children to be more like him. But most of us preferred English to Mathematics and none of us ever took up card playing or square dancing.
When my father died in 1997 we were all shocked that a man so strong and forceful had succumbed to death so soon. He was only in his early seventies, and had hailed from a line of notoriously long-lived folk. We all thought he'd be around decades longer, and perhaps mellow into a more lovable curmudgeon. At his funeral many of us were plagued by varying degrees of guilt - our last conversations with him having been riddled with disagreements. No great surprise really, as all six of his children had spent most of our lives arguing with him. Still, we'd all grudgingly admired him and all secretly longed for his approval - just as he'd longed for praise from his father.
My father shaped my life better than his father shaped his. He taught me to be smart and tough - to stand up for myself, and to push myself out of my introverted comfort zone. I learned how to talk to strangers, speak in front of groups and "work a room" at social functions.
Thanks to hours of listening to my father's tales, I can tell a good story. I have his temper, but I also have his joie de vivre - that inner imp that was often manifested in him by a twinkling eye or an impromptu out of tune ditty. (Luckily I can carry a tune). I'm a terrible dancer, but I dance anyway. To me, he passed on his sweet tooth, his love of real estate and house plans, and a penchant for enjoying sunsets and being near large bodies of water. Now I sometimes I get chatty with strangers myself, and I value friendship deeply.
My father was complicated, and so was my relationship with him. That's okay - nobody ever said love had to be easy, or that you had to see eye to eye with somebody in order to love them. On my wedding day my father took Todd aside and said,
"Good luck with this one. I love her, but I just don't get her at all!"
I laughed when my new husband recounted the comment. It was so hilariously ironic that we were united in a complete inability to relate to each other. It was comforting to know that all the times we'd seen things from completely different angles he wasn't just being stubborn - he was genuinely as baffled by me as I was by him. And this in spite of the fact that, if there was a family vote taken, I'm betting my siblings would say that I'm the one most like him.
My father is gone, but my striving for self approval isn't. I wonder what threads off my loom my children will chose to incorporate into their own tapestries. I'm hoping that my goofball sense of humour and affectionate nature are remembered more often that my outbursts of temper.
When I married a very smart man and had a couple of endearing and precocious sons I felt that I'd achieved a nod of approval. He agreed that I'd chosen well, and he thought I was a good mom. He would have enjoyed fascinating conversations with my older son Sam, and would've been thrilled to see my younger son's love of mathematics, and to know that he'd graduated with a degree in Math and Computer Science. He'd be bursting his buttons with pride that Dan made the Dean's list and graduated with distinction. And he would've danced up a storm at the wedding on Saturday - as long as he had legs he would've danced.
Happy Fathers' Day, Dad.
Rest in peace - I will dance for you.
My father always told me
do what you feel is best,
allow conscience to guide you -
remember you are blessed.
Don't ever follow blindly,
put wisdom to the test;
you are not any better
or worse than all the rest.
Indelibly imprinted
are views that he opined -
blunt and untempered statements
like ore that's unrefined.
They took some time to process
in hearts he left behind -
now they are embedded deep
and often come to mind.
So much my father told me
in youth I criticized.
Many of his attitudes
I thought that I despised.
As I gain experience
quite often I'm surprised;
reviewing his opinions,
my own are oft' revised.
His simple earthy wisdom
and childlike joie de vivre
are traits in me inherent -
they shape what I believe,
the way I give to others,
and too, how I receive.
These threads interwoven in
the tapestry I'll leave.
By Sharon Flood Kasenberg. September 2, 2007
My father was a character - a complicated man, irascible, short-tempered and dogmatic, but also quick to laughter and capable of great generosity. He was a very intelligent man who was limited by his circumstances. He was a product of his era and his upbringing.
Raised on an isolated island in Lake Huron, he was a boy who suffered an identity complex. Should he be the rough and ready son his father, a quintessential "man's man" wanted, or the scholar that his mother, a former school teacher, desired him to be? He tried to be both, but had no stomach for hunting, and I think that he often felt that he failed to meet his father's expectations. His mother, on the other hand, often showed his children, with considerable pride, the trophy that he won in a spelling bee.
"It was actually a tie", she'd tell us with a smile, "but the judges decided that whoever could darn socks better would get the cup."
And thus my father won - against a girl! I'm betting my grandfather had mixed feelings about that victory.
He grew up fast - finished high school classes in a one room schoolhouse by the time he was sixteen, and went to work helping his father clear lumber "in the bush" and "working the boats" in the north channel. He enlisted in WWII at the age of nineteen, and upon returning home at the age of twenty-three he enrolled in University under the GI bill. But his educational aspirations were cut short by his inability to stay awake during classes.
It took the doctors at Sunnybrook Hospital a while to diagnose narcolepsy, and they never did manage to find effective treatment for him. He moved back to Sault Ste. Marie and began working at Algoma Steel, aka "that stinkin' plant", the same place his father died in a smelting accident. I don't think he ever got over his feelings of defeat at having to put aside dreams of being an architect, engineer or teacher to work on the loading dock of a steel mill.
Shift work was doubly hard on a man who had no control over his sleep patterns. He suffered from insomnia when he needed to sleep, and fought to stay awake and alert on the job. Ignorant coworkers bullied him by playing very unfunny practical jokes on "sleepyhead Bill". He felt tormented.
He was often an angry man.
His life was filled with complicated relationships. I think he felt unappreciated by his wife and children. We resented having to tiptoe around him when he was trying to sleep, or grumpy from lack of sleep. He was strict as a parent, and had very high expectations of his children - especially when it came to academic performance.
And yet, he was gregarious and affectionate. When he wasn't at work he grabbed life with both hands. His evenings were filled with friends, and square dancing and card games. As a teenager I felt ripped off that my parents had a busier social life than I did. Occasionally my brother Robert and I would tease them on the way out the door, saying,
"Try not to come in too late, okay? And if you bring friends home, can you keep it down? We need our sleep!"
My father loved to talk - to just about anyone. I remember walking in the neighbourhood with him as a child, and how he'd greet everyone we passed. I'd think to myself, "Dad knows everyone!" Later I learned that he didn't - but that didn't stop him from starting up conversations with them anyway.
He was an extrovert, and he always wanted his more introverted, bookish children to be more like him. But most of us preferred English to Mathematics and none of us ever took up card playing or square dancing.
When my father died in 1997 we were all shocked that a man so strong and forceful had succumbed to death so soon. He was only in his early seventies, and had hailed from a line of notoriously long-lived folk. We all thought he'd be around decades longer, and perhaps mellow into a more lovable curmudgeon. At his funeral many of us were plagued by varying degrees of guilt - our last conversations with him having been riddled with disagreements. No great surprise really, as all six of his children had spent most of our lives arguing with him. Still, we'd all grudgingly admired him and all secretly longed for his approval - just as he'd longed for praise from his father.
My father shaped my life better than his father shaped his. He taught me to be smart and tough - to stand up for myself, and to push myself out of my introverted comfort zone. I learned how to talk to strangers, speak in front of groups and "work a room" at social functions.
Thanks to hours of listening to my father's tales, I can tell a good story. I have his temper, but I also have his joie de vivre - that inner imp that was often manifested in him by a twinkling eye or an impromptu out of tune ditty. (Luckily I can carry a tune). I'm a terrible dancer, but I dance anyway. To me, he passed on his sweet tooth, his love of real estate and house plans, and a penchant for enjoying sunsets and being near large bodies of water. Now I sometimes I get chatty with strangers myself, and I value friendship deeply.
My father was complicated, and so was my relationship with him. That's okay - nobody ever said love had to be easy, or that you had to see eye to eye with somebody in order to love them. On my wedding day my father took Todd aside and said,
"Good luck with this one. I love her, but I just don't get her at all!"
I laughed when my new husband recounted the comment. It was so hilariously ironic that we were united in a complete inability to relate to each other. It was comforting to know that all the times we'd seen things from completely different angles he wasn't just being stubborn - he was genuinely as baffled by me as I was by him. And this in spite of the fact that, if there was a family vote taken, I'm betting my siblings would say that I'm the one most like him.
My father is gone, but my striving for self approval isn't. I wonder what threads off my loom my children will chose to incorporate into their own tapestries. I'm hoping that my goofball sense of humour and affectionate nature are remembered more often that my outbursts of temper.
When I married a very smart man and had a couple of endearing and precocious sons I felt that I'd achieved a nod of approval. He agreed that I'd chosen well, and he thought I was a good mom. He would have enjoyed fascinating conversations with my older son Sam, and would've been thrilled to see my younger son's love of mathematics, and to know that he'd graduated with a degree in Math and Computer Science. He'd be bursting his buttons with pride that Dan made the Dean's list and graduated with distinction. And he would've danced up a storm at the wedding on Saturday - as long as he had legs he would've danced.
Happy Fathers' Day, Dad.
Rest in peace - I will dance for you.
Wednesday, 3 June 2015
Rehabilitating Reggie: The Story of a Rogue Redeemed - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
This poem in this post was inspired by my love of P.G. Wodehouse - a prolific British author who specialized in wry humour, convoluted plot lines, and mix-ups and mayhem - especially in matters of the heart. His female characters often have a sort of gum-popping in-yer-face kind of chutzpah that clearly indicates that they're in control. (I like that!) His male characters tend to be a bit eccentric - and I like that too. (Among my favorites in the nutty menfolk category is Clarence Threepwood - the 9th Earl of Emsworth, the unpretentious owner of Blandings Castle, who is somewhat obsessed with his prized pig - aptly named The Empress of Blandings.)
The scheme cooked up in my poem between the jilted Cheryl and her PI friend May is, in my humble opinion, very Wodehouse-ish. I could see a couple of his female characters putting their heads together to force a cad into seeing the error of his ways. (Think of their plot as an intervention for a chronic flirt who has a bit of a phobia around commitment : )
Does Cheryl succeed in "changing" Reginald? I don't think so. I prefer to think that she was only successful at helping him to see how much his behavior had hurt others. Furthermore, it seems that Reg really did regret his treatment of her, and when faced with the unsavory fallout resulting from his philandering ways, he finally saw himself as the loser that he was - and a man who could only turn around his losing streak by marrying the one, of all his past paramours, that he ever really cared about. If she'd still have him. (Perhaps that's what Cheryl secretly hoped for all along?)
So without further ado, here is my epic tale of romance a la Wodehouse. Enjoy!
Rehabilitating Reggie: (or Poetic Retribution)
Reginald was a ruthless cad -
an oaf, a boor, a bounder;
a rogue who'd make a nice girl mad
each time he was around her.
He was so prone to flirt and gad
he'd thoroughly astound her.
He'd take a woman to a dance
and escort her on his arm -
(by this implying grand romance,
'til he sounded the alarm)
but somehow never miss a chance
to spread around his charm.
He fancied he was quite a catch
and lived his days in peril -
a handsome price his head would fetch -
his ex-conquests grew feral.
The one who thought him most a wretch,
a dance hall girl named Cheryl.
Reginald rose one summer day
and nothing odd suspecting
arranged to meet a girl named May
whose bus'ness was detecting -
and currently in Cheryl's pay
was evidence collecting.
To meet him, May dressed with great care -
intentionally floozy -
so many folks would stop and stare
while she got him quite boozy.
In tipsy state she hoped he'd dare
to drop names and be newsy.
They met at the appointed time
in the designated place.
May thought revenge would be sublime,
she would bring him to disgrace;
expose him as seducing slime,
wipe all smugness from his face.
Reginald sat slyly winking
at the barmaid passing by;
May was through the details thinking
when this action caught her eye,
and his hand was, snakelike, slinking
under table - up her thigh.
May bit her tongue and grabbed his hand,
thus halting its progression -
'twas clear to her that he had planned
to start a make-out session,
and really didn't understand
her most amused expression.
"Reggie, you're so very dashing -
how could any girl resist?
You are altogether smashing
and so ardently persist!
You have eyes so dark and flashing
and lips begging to be kissed.
Many girls are held in your thrall,
but I'd rather not succumb -
somehow to be at beck and call
seems to me - well, rather dumb -
if you have any heart at all
I would guess that it's grown numb."
Reggie most aback was taken
by her accusation bold -
He said, "May, you are mistaken
if you think my heart is cold -
for my passion you awaken
if the truth is to be told."
"I have no doubt you have passion -
it's quite obvious to see
you have that in ample ration
and will share liberally.
I have noticed it's your fashion
to want every girl you see."
May's response, tersely delivered
halted Reggie in his tracks -
he with trepidation quivered
like she'd threatened with an axe,
and at frost filled glance he shivered,
for he'd weathered such attacks.
"Look around you," May shot, taunting,
"you may not have realized
how your passion you've been flaunting
for innumerable eyes.
And your sentiment is wanting -
we're all tired of your lies."
Now poor Reg, in furtive glances
noticed girlfriends he had spurned
whose eyes pierced like poisoned lances
as his stomach madly churned.
To be faced with past romances
was the punishment he'd earned.
Women soon en mass advancing
made him hyperventilate.
All his ludicrous romancing
lies had brought him to this state.
Noting now, as at door glancing
chances of escape weren't great.
So he braced for confrontation
hoping life would be preserved,
forced to see, in agitation
how he'd got what he deserved;
still, to face such aggravation
left him thoroughly unnerved.
There stood Cheryl front and center
to whom he'd once been engaged.
She would be his prime tormentor -
this scene she had surely staged.
But he couldn't quite resent her
being bitterly enraged.
Her tirade he then preempted
uttering repentant pleas,
but to harm him some were tempted
'til he got down on his knees
and apology attempted
before they could body seize.
"Cheryl you were cruelly jilted,
I abused your tender heart,
and in conscience I feel guilted,
for I plied seducer's art.
Now my viewpoint has been tilted,
I desire a brand new start.
To you I'll make restitution
though the price I'll pay is dear.
I hope I'll find absolution
ere my reckoning is near
for poetic retribution
seems astonishingly clear:
Before you can hatchet bury
somewhere deep within my chest
I propose that we should marry -
you can put me to the test.
Let my sins extraordinary
now be fittingly addressed.
Before all these angry exes
I ask you to be my bride.
Help me build moral reflexes
that will bind me to your side.
In this battle of the sexes
I have no safe place to hide!"
Cheryl tugged the rogue toward her
knowing it was not too late.
His proposal truly floored her
but she didn't hesitate.
This cad surely still adored her!
He would rehabilitate!
May stood up to watch them leaving -
'twas another job well done.
All the lies Reg had been weaving
caught him in the web he'd spun
and his days of girls deceiving
were now definitely done.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, January 2008
The scheme cooked up in my poem between the jilted Cheryl and her PI friend May is, in my humble opinion, very Wodehouse-ish. I could see a couple of his female characters putting their heads together to force a cad into seeing the error of his ways. (Think of their plot as an intervention for a chronic flirt who has a bit of a phobia around commitment : )
Does Cheryl succeed in "changing" Reginald? I don't think so. I prefer to think that she was only successful at helping him to see how much his behavior had hurt others. Furthermore, it seems that Reg really did regret his treatment of her, and when faced with the unsavory fallout resulting from his philandering ways, he finally saw himself as the loser that he was - and a man who could only turn around his losing streak by marrying the one, of all his past paramours, that he ever really cared about. If she'd still have him. (Perhaps that's what Cheryl secretly hoped for all along?)
So without further ado, here is my epic tale of romance a la Wodehouse. Enjoy!
Rehabilitating Reggie: (or Poetic Retribution)
Reginald was a ruthless cad -
an oaf, a boor, a bounder;
a rogue who'd make a nice girl mad
each time he was around her.
He was so prone to flirt and gad
he'd thoroughly astound her.
He'd take a woman to a dance
and escort her on his arm -
(by this implying grand romance,
'til he sounded the alarm)
but somehow never miss a chance
to spread around his charm.
He fancied he was quite a catch
and lived his days in peril -
a handsome price his head would fetch -
his ex-conquests grew feral.
The one who thought him most a wretch,
a dance hall girl named Cheryl.
Reginald rose one summer day
and nothing odd suspecting
arranged to meet a girl named May
whose bus'ness was detecting -
and currently in Cheryl's pay
was evidence collecting.
To meet him, May dressed with great care -
intentionally floozy -
so many folks would stop and stare
while she got him quite boozy.
In tipsy state she hoped he'd dare
to drop names and be newsy.
They met at the appointed time
in the designated place.
May thought revenge would be sublime,
she would bring him to disgrace;
expose him as seducing slime,
wipe all smugness from his face.
Reginald sat slyly winking
at the barmaid passing by;
May was through the details thinking
when this action caught her eye,
and his hand was, snakelike, slinking
under table - up her thigh.
May bit her tongue and grabbed his hand,
thus halting its progression -
'twas clear to her that he had planned
to start a make-out session,
and really didn't understand
her most amused expression.
"Reggie, you're so very dashing -
how could any girl resist?
You are altogether smashing
and so ardently persist!
You have eyes so dark and flashing
and lips begging to be kissed.
Many girls are held in your thrall,
but I'd rather not succumb -
somehow to be at beck and call
seems to me - well, rather dumb -
if you have any heart at all
I would guess that it's grown numb."
Reggie most aback was taken
by her accusation bold -
He said, "May, you are mistaken
if you think my heart is cold -
for my passion you awaken
if the truth is to be told."
"I have no doubt you have passion -
it's quite obvious to see
you have that in ample ration
and will share liberally.
I have noticed it's your fashion
to want every girl you see."
May's response, tersely delivered
halted Reggie in his tracks -
he with trepidation quivered
like she'd threatened with an axe,
and at frost filled glance he shivered,
for he'd weathered such attacks.
"Look around you," May shot, taunting,
"you may not have realized
how your passion you've been flaunting
for innumerable eyes.
And your sentiment is wanting -
we're all tired of your lies."
Now poor Reg, in furtive glances
noticed girlfriends he had spurned
whose eyes pierced like poisoned lances
as his stomach madly churned.
To be faced with past romances
was the punishment he'd earned.
Women soon en mass advancing
made him hyperventilate.
All his ludicrous romancing
lies had brought him to this state.
Noting now, as at door glancing
chances of escape weren't great.
So he braced for confrontation
hoping life would be preserved,
forced to see, in agitation
how he'd got what he deserved;
still, to face such aggravation
left him thoroughly unnerved.
There stood Cheryl front and center
to whom he'd once been engaged.
She would be his prime tormentor -
this scene she had surely staged.
But he couldn't quite resent her
being bitterly enraged.
Her tirade he then preempted
uttering repentant pleas,
but to harm him some were tempted
'til he got down on his knees
and apology attempted
before they could body seize.
"Cheryl you were cruelly jilted,
I abused your tender heart,
and in conscience I feel guilted,
for I plied seducer's art.
Now my viewpoint has been tilted,
I desire a brand new start.
To you I'll make restitution
though the price I'll pay is dear.
I hope I'll find absolution
ere my reckoning is near
for poetic retribution
seems astonishingly clear:
Before you can hatchet bury
somewhere deep within my chest
I propose that we should marry -
you can put me to the test.
Let my sins extraordinary
now be fittingly addressed.
Before all these angry exes
I ask you to be my bride.
Help me build moral reflexes
that will bind me to your side.
In this battle of the sexes
I have no safe place to hide!"
Cheryl tugged the rogue toward her
knowing it was not too late.
His proposal truly floored her
but she didn't hesitate.
This cad surely still adored her!
He would rehabilitate!
May stood up to watch them leaving -
'twas another job well done.
All the lies Reg had been weaving
caught him in the web he'd spun
and his days of girls deceiving
were now definitely done.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, January 2008
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