Category Archives: contemplative essays

various themes

A Room Full a’ Lesbians (final edit).

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The first lesbian I ever met was in college. Her name was Anne, she was from upstate New York, and she was hilarious.

She was also the shortest girl at Fredonia. You’d have to look around to find where the funny came from, each time. I think she sat in the back, just so we would.

She always had something to say to me. I was flattered, because I’d always [thought I was] the funny girl in high school, and here was Anne, who could crack me up just by looking at a person.

The funniest part was, while I was in college, I didn’t know a lesbian from a dorm custodian or a mermaid. And, that is not a sexist slur. I really had no clue that the freshman corridor style building where I lived with my roommate was heavily populated with covert couples. Back then, I knew less than nothing about anything.

We had lunch in the dining hall one time, she sitting down to join me. The conversation turned a bit ribald, but that was Anne. I took her bold faced references to anatomy in stride; having been an art major, life class for me had been a daily ritual, and I could handle talking about body parts. Plus, Anne was nothing if not earnest, and she looked like your favorite little sister, even if you didn’t have one.

Another one actually lived in my dorm. She was down that hallway, where the couples were. Her hair was jet black, thick, and curly. I think she was part Indian. Her name was Camille, and we would look at fine art photos and write poetry.  We were friends. I began to notice that her roommate would look at me sidelong, so I decided that I was in the wrong place and backed away. Growing up around cousins and friends who were sisters taught me that.

My first college boyfriend was a closet homosexual. Of course, he did not tell me this. I had to figure it all out, years later, when the light finally went on in my head and the real world opened its doors and asked me why I was the last to know.

In the years following college, my identity was built around waiting tables and working short shifts and living in a squalid apartment. This was when I found out about life. In the restaurant biz, I met at least two lesbians. They were on the cook line, and one night they asked me to join them out. We all met up and attended a local performance of “Jesus Christ Superstar.” There were five of us, and I was the only straight person in the party.

Afterwards, we went to a local mixed bar. As soon as I stepped across the threshhold, a girl I recognized as always appearing at the gigs I played in the local 50s – 60s band walked right up to me and asked me to dance. Back then, I didn’t dance at all, let alone with a woman, so I declined. But, there certainly was plenty to see and hear in the mixed bar. I found a spot in the shadows, between two pinball machines, and watched everybody.

Eventually, one of the guys in our party asked me if I was uncomfortable. I said yes, apologetically. He walked me to my car. They never asked me to join them again, but I remained on really good terms with the whole crew. One of the girls even gave me a cassette tape of songs as a gift, and let me come over to her house so she could teach me how to bondo my car.

Having been raised amongst strict sectarian Fundamentalists, all of this being said probably comes as a startling declaration to many who knew me years ago. Some of them still only whisper about gay people. Still others openly confront everything they represent. But, I, being in the nagging habit of speaking for myself, have this to say:

Given my personal history with human relationships, if I had to choose between a room full of lacquered, spray-painted, trend-set bimbos on a girls’ night out and a Tv room of lesbians having a conversation, I’d choose the latter, hands down. Why?

Because, when a girl is in the company of a lesbian, there’s never any competition for the attention of men. In fact, the whole man in the room dynamic just ain’t happening. Consequently, there’s no underhanded passive aggression; there’s no sniping. There’s no “Theng-kew!” when the real emotion is: “Grrrowf!”. Everything is as you see it. A girl can actually relax. Plus, there’s far more likely to be a stimulating conversation about ideas and mind expanding subjects in such a room than there would ever hope to be in that other one. And, everybody knows that any self-respecting pseudo-intellectual female needs that kind of company.

It feels a lot like the kind of conversation you have with the men you know who are married, until you can’t go any further with it because of the convention and the respect you have for their wives. And, you wish you could, and not because of the whole sexual intimacy factor. There are just lines drawn around those relationships. And, you wish there weren’t.

Yes; I know that, categorically speaking, it is simple minded to assume that all lesbians avoid face paint and hair spray. Likewise, straight women are not all stupid. But, hopefully, most readers will get the larger point (which is that I am a superficial sap with no style.)

Get this part straight, however. I am not physically attracted to women. Yep; the boys have me, hands down, head to foot. I’m a man’s woman. But, let’s give some time of day to the girls who live in that realm just outside of their reach. It must be nice to be in charge of your own little world. I can respect a reality like that.

And, while we’re at it, could we make room for everybody?  Yes; even the bimbos. Sooner or later, we’ll all need each other. There’ll be a sick call, or a crisis. Or, maybe just a pay it forward moment that takes us beyond ourselves. And, it might come in the form of somebody who hails from a walk of life that just isn’t a part of our own, personal DNA. I’ll tell you one thing: when that day comes, you won’t be thinking about anything else. You’ll just be grateful to receive human compassion. Which is kind of why I wrote this thing in the first place.

Can we get a “Hear! Hear!”  for the hims and the hers?

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo

3/12/15

littlebarefeetblog.com

The Importance of Being First (Take Two)

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The First and Last.

Whether we realize it or not, we’ve all been both first and last. The first, or last in the check out line; the first, or last one chosen for the new product survey at the mall; in first, or last place in Monopoly; or, first or last to finish dessert. One ends up being last for a host of reasons, and first, either randomly or because, occasionally or persistently, one excels (at Monopoly).

Yes; way back in the ’60s, when all good music was live, I came of age. And, my embodiment seemed to be one of extremes: having never crawled like a “normal” baby, I could not seem to organize my arms and legs. So, in school recess, I learned early on how it felt to be the last one chosen – for kickball, for relays, for any team. Absolutely, dead last. In fact, not even actually chosen, I was simply the one left; any team whose captain didn’t select carefully was stuck with me, like a second, immature, flabby bladder budding from a blowfish.

But, as nature, ever equilibrious, would have it, and due to a certain cerebral bent and what my generation stubbornly called inherited “talent” I was also known, to an increasingly grating degree, to be somewhat of a first. My student profile dragged a moniker with it like a Hello! sticker at the annual sales convention. The smarty pants. The gifted girl. The weird, annoying child. I also hailed from a particular neighborhood in a small city, a verrry small pond where the gene pool was, shall we say, gracious. And, perhaps due to repeated experience with playground rejection, I found a private solace in finally being considered first choice – to play the piano, to draw the picture, to sing the song.

[*Important Aside: This is, by its nature, a sensitive topic. One calls to mind the blonde Brit who fancied herself so physically appealing so as to determine, in her own mind, the litany of reasons why her coworkers treated her badly. That story was rather sickening. Do not equate this halting attempt with anything addressed by her monstrosity.]

Over time, I grew not only familiar with being the first, but worse: to expect it. And, expecting to be first brings its own, strange burden. In fact, it becomes a real load.

For the past nearly thirty years, I have been fortunate to make my living, in part, as a professional musician. When orchestral instrumentalists convene, they create a room full of firsts. The energy, present in that isolated space, is tremendous. Nobody even gets a seat, in a professional ensemble, without proving mettle to a very high degree that is concurrently physical, mental and – often forgotten – emotional. And, those seats are a visible hierarchy: principal (first); second chair, third chair, etc. And, as we all know, human behavior can be curious. Taught by well meaning and often well cultivated parents to be polite, civil, interested in others, socially sophisticated…….the bee dance begins.

Nobody really knows how to act. Who is going to be supremely “first” in this room? To whom do we owe allegiance? And, where do we fall in the line-up? Most importantly, will we accept our position when our rank becomes clear? What if that with which we either expect or feel familiar is not our lot in the calculated draw?

And, why is this even a problem?

Well, and here’s the theory. Perhaps maintaining the status of being first actually becomes not merely an expectation but an emotional  n e e d. Yes; some no longer merely want to be, or expect to be. Some   n e e d    to be  – to feel stable, to feel whole. And, sometimes, individuals beset by this matrix of need present themselves in ways that leave an awful lot of chaff in their wake.

Now, this isn’t meant to be a treatise on self-importance (it works though, doesn’t it?). It’s simply about the learned belief that, if one does not come out “on top”, then something is inherently wrong – not with the system, but within the mind and heart of the one who has come to believe that, in every scene, there is always a first place to occupy.

There isn’t. And, dispensing with the notion can be life-altering.

Two years before attending my [first] Suzuki Summer Institute (Stevens Point, WI)  as a trained string player, I accepted my [first] music teaching job in, of all locations, the public school system wherein I was raised. The position as advertised was choral, but the district had, apparently, more pressing needs. In a rush of self-possessed confidence, I heard myself declare to the high school principal on the interview committee, in satin plaid skirt and white pumps: “Yes! I would love to teach marching band! ”

After all, my outstanding father, lead bugler for the 3rd Armored Division, 9th Field Artillery, US Army, had led his unit in a parade for the dignitaries. This had earned him the rank of Corporal. Surely, “daddy’s little girl” could follow in those footsteps. Ten hut. That’s all it took. Yes?

No.

Enthusiasm for the shiny new job, and the fantasy of leading a parade, faded within a week. I learned so fast and so hard, there are no words to describe it. Yes; well, here are some: Teenagers; “F horns”; graduated bass drums and quad toms; flag-making( thank y.o.u., Mum); float-building; floppy graph paper drill designing; parent booster club organizing; and, that cultural phenomenon with which the film community has its own field day: “band.camp.” All for fifteen minutes of live music, performed seventeen times in nine and a half weeks. This, from a fledgling who never took so much as the weekend marching band mini-course in college. My students, who came from the most underprivileged sector in the entire county, had almost no background in holding their instruments correctly, let alone presenting themselves in front of a stadium full of football fans during half time.

The slog was first hot, then cold and long and wet, and it went on for weeks. Any notions of personal grandeur were soaked to the bone under pole lights and sleet. I was so terribly proud of my students, many of whom are my friends to this day, but the competitive marching band association in our region was ruthless and provided for them not so much as a wall plaque for Most Developed in the Shortest Amount of Time. We, according to everybody else but ourselves, came in profoundly, and completely, last.

Becoming a Suzuki-trained educator changed the whole scene.

Here, I was introduced to the concept that every child can not only learn, but excel. Imagine my amazement. Gone was the “best” in the room, and, with it, the expectation. Everywhere one turned, there were bests of every description — really young children, from all over the country, performing at a standard my generation used to call masterful. And, they were genuinely happy human beings. I was floored – and, subliminally, relieved.

Competition, for me as an artist, is a paradoxic state. In fact, in my heart, I do not even see it as a legitimate arena for art. Cinematic director Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu, in his acceptance speech at this year’s Academy Awards ceremony, echoed my sentiments almost to the letter; if art, by its definition, is an expression of the soul’s experience, the mind’s eye, the heart’s beat, then placing oneself on a block in a formidable space and performing a work of art on demand against that of others’ offerings seems counter to its intuitive intent. The requirement can be alienating, distancing, interruptive, like blood flow stopping for a clot.

Nearly two decades ago, I inherited a position of leadership in an orchestra from a very gracious woman who had occupied her seat until an encroaching physical condition prohibited her from continuing. She was a lovely musician, and an even sweeter person. There was no competition for this chair; rather, I simply slid across to assume the position at her leave taking. To this day, I honor both the chair and the responsibilities required of it to the best of my ability. But, every so often, during a reprieve in our process, I look around and remember the days when hormones drove every decision, nigh every thought.  I recall how many times I wondered whether I truly made the cut, whether there was someone in the wings with an eye on my spot.

And, now, this. Over the past decade, reality television has provided for our culture a strange and riveting phenomenon: The Bachelor. Some twenty five eligibles appear in front of camera to vie for the prize – a future spouse. And, over several months of episodes, the world watches as the pack is narrowed down to one, final “rose” – the winner, the one deemed most adored by the prize waiting to be offered up.

Who will be first? Who will be last? Who decides? And, why? How important, pray tell, is isolating a “best one” in matters of the heart? in matters of anything, for God’s sake? How many more decades will our society persist in preening its feathers, ready to declare absolute preeminence?

I’m not sure I care to find out. The winter may end, after all. There is a garden waiting to be nourished and nurtured. Soon, there will be vibrant growth everywhere. Some blooms will be large, some small, but all will be beautiful. Every single flower, every ripe berry. The first one, all the way to the last.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo

3/6/15  all rights reserved. Thank you for enduring.

littlebarefeetblog.com

A Word.

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There is nothing else like an unhappy woman.

A man who is unhappy turns to escape. He drinks heavily. He watches porn. He spends a lot of time in crowds.

A woman who is unhappy gets out of bed at the start of her day and tears into it like a Sherman tank. She spends alternately little or significant time on her appearance, depending on which people are likely to see her during the working hours. When she comes in contact with others, the first thing she notices are the flaws – in everything around her. And, then, she attacks.

These attacks may be verbal, even confrontational, but not necessarily. Sometimes, they come in the form of the casual reference, done quietly as an aside; at others, full on, in your face accusation. Either way, equally deadly.

This is her pattern. Perhaps this pattern is the result of the role power has played in her life. The function of woman couched since time began in social expectation, even the emerging females of this fledgling generation can bear the imprint of those who came before. She finds herself in a convention – be it a job, or a marriage, or a locale – recognizes that she is neither satisfied nor content, yet sees no clear path toward change. Leaving would upset too many other people – children, employees, friends and their families – to whom she would then be beholden. And, perhaps the woman might just be programmed to keep the village running smoothly. Or, maybe she is paralyzed by fear – fear of the unknown, of forces stronger than she might be. Forces like those which might present in the form of superior competence. Though she has been granted power of position, she finds nothing in herself from which to draw strength. So, she spends all her energy trying to endure.

And, as for meeting personal need, well, a woman is far likely to defer self-care in favor of self-promotion. So, passing moral judgment is a form of succour to the unhappy woman, such an act temporarily shifting the spotlight away from self-examination and, ultimately, self-nourishment. She is caught in the convention which she either chose, or which was chosen for her. And, she sees no recourse but to live it out to its final breath.

Beware the exerting force of an unhappy woman. She will see to it that those around and under her walk in trepidation, with extreme caution. Spend a brief encounter with such a woman, and her overall effect is likely to be minimal. Spend any significant length of time, however, and feel the burn. The response is actually physiological; the thymus gland, located in the sternum, begins to shrink. The chest feels tight. The heart rate changes. The muscles of the face contract.

Most importantly, be not misled or fooled by ebullient laughter, enthusiasm, charisma; the unhappy woman has polished these traits to perfection. For her, these are merely tools, intended to disarm the uninitiated.

An unhappy woman can wield a major weapon. She can run a whole operation. She can get the job done. And, when it is done, anything living remaining in the room is likely stripped to the bone, entirely and comprehensively exhausted, and at a loss to know why.

Nine times out of ten, the last to know is the woman, herself. She does not recognize who she is or what she has become. She only sees the image she is hell-bent on projecting to the world. If you find yourself in her trajectory, stop; consider your options. Then, move.

In fact, keep moving. You might move toward her, with your arms outstretched. You might gather her to yourself. If you have anything in your heart that is driven to comfort, to compassion, to healing, proceed in her direction. But, prepare to be pricked.

If you need to turn away, do so with courage; in the end, the best course of action is always the one which hurts the fewest among us. Because, unlike any angry man who has ever raged across the terrain of civilization, an unhappy woman has the capacity to destroy the human spirit in a single instant. And, she can do so with just one word.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo

2/27/15  all rights. Thanks.

littlebarefeetblog.com