Tag Archives: THE HUFFINGTON POST

The Brother Girls.[final edit]

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You’ll find us, easily.  We stand out, in a crowd, even when we’re sitting down.

We’re the girls who are seen out with one guy, who isn’t our boyfriend, for dinner.

Or, drinks. Or, in meetings. Or, in church. Or, at the concert, or the game, or wherever people spend any time at all together.

We’re the lone ladies who come from a family of boys. We’re the Brother Girls.

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I grew up in a brother “sandwich”: one older; one younger. They were quite far apart in age, but the younger was born only two years after me and, because our family was poor without realizing it (thanks to Mum), my little brother and I shared a bedroom until I was 10 years old.

Yes. We talked in the dark, across the room. We heard each other’s secrets, longings, and troubles – just like two sisters. (This, I found out from my girl cousins, a couple of whom lived around the corner and across the street.)

He and I would observe our elder brother, from the distance of age and experience, his activities and escapades filling us with wonder and admiration. I became aware of my little brother’s feelings toward our elder brother, and how they differed from those of my own as sister to each of them.

I learned the art of the boy.

But, as we grew, and encountered puberty, what made us distinct became both more apparent and less amenable to such closeness in proximity. Nevertheless, our emotional dynamics, and the patterns which would shape them, would be set forever.

I believe that women who grow up surrounded only by brothers have a perspective on human relationship specific to the needs of the opposite sex which may elude families of sisters. To many girls, their fathers are their model for the role men will play in their lives; to those with brothers, the models are as varied as the number of boys in the house.

Furthermore, in the absence of other girls, the sister to brothers has a relationship with their mother which is distinguishable from that of the brothers with the same mother. More on that, in a bit.

Brother Girls. We are, first and foremost, comfortable around men. We relax when they enter the room. Generally, they make us feel “at home.” We tend to treat them as familiar to us, even when we haven’t been formally introduced. To others, women with sisters, men without sisters, this behavior might seem forward, or driven by a need to dominate. It isn’t; it’s just our habit.

Men without sisters, for whom girls have played a more distant role ( not having been a part of their family’s ethos) prefer to idolize women. They place a set of expectations upon them, based in the model of their mothers, which are often subjected to disillusion. But, women who crave feeling special, in this way, perhaps due to neglect or trauma, seem nearly perfect for such men.

A brother girl, however, may squirm under the gaze of adoration. Such body language may even provoke from us an amused chuckle. We are far too wise about ourselves, and them, to buy into this brand of fawning. Burping and farting are far more easily tolerated than milky eyeballing and flattery.

(Important to include, here, would be those whose mothers have had a negative affect on men’s lives. In this case, and sadly, misogyny rules the roost.)

Brothers who had one sister may always need to be close to women. Additionally, upon marrying they may confuse the role of wife with that of mother, and continue to seek out the company of other women in search of their newly absent sister.

Why?

The lone sister plays the role of confidante in the lives of her brothers. She learns that their needs are both deep, sometimes confounding, and often persistently unmet. In turn, she learns that mutual revelations are bonding, and is more than ready to forge these. I will not reveal in this forum what I have both been told by my brothers, nor what I have disclosed to them, but I can say that no topic has either been off limits or alarming. It’s as if the brother and sister can confront anything, and that fearlessly.

Now, girls with sisters who are reading this piece might be reaching peak saturation annoyance. They may be thinking: “I have the very same relationship with my sister as you do with your brother.”   Right. Of course. Who’s arguing?

I might. I might suggest that, while similar, they are not parallel. Men and women, countless studies keep implying, do not think the same way. They view neither themselves nor the world identically, either. After all, society’s constructs dictate much of their response, and the history of gender bias in the workplace speaks for itself. No. Brothers need sisters not only to make sense of their feelings; they need them to make sense of their role in the lives of women.

In truth, every permutation of gender in any family dynamic has its pros and cons. In addition, the role of negative and positive influence cannot be ignored. But, I offer this piece from an informed perspective; how I view men is directly the result of my experience with those who lived in my family.

But, what of girls without brothers? Here, I can only speculate. Perhaps a lone girl without a brother forever subjects herself to men, either with joy due to having had a loving father, or with reluctance and fear for the opposite reason. However, in families of many sisters, the league of women may rise and overtake the father’s role, leading to future relationships between such sisters and their husbands marked by female domination of such total affect so as to render the men, at least at home, virtually subservient. I know this, because my mother was one of four sisters.

Now, I would be remiss were I to end this piece without addressing the dynamic between brother girls and other women.

Sister siblings, and brother girls, in the spirit of compatibility, are the least congruous. They have completely different views of men, and play equally distinct roles in the lives of men. Furthermore, because of their blind spot with regard to relating to each other’s experience, they tend to judge one another – and, somewhat harshly.

Brother girls tend to view sister siblings’ relationships with men as immature, lacking in insight or empathy. And, sister women likely see brother girls as a threat to the security of their own culture of female dominance. To them, brother girls don’t care enough about people, or children, nor do they possess any social finesse. And, the fact that their husbands disagree with them about such women is a source of contention and strife.

It may be true that brother girls appear to care more about men than women. But, this may be nourished by a cocktail of familiarity and experience; we are, after all, what we know and, increasingly, who we know. I, for one, have had a lifelong problem trusting women; yet, perhaps it is only sister siblings to whom I am reacting in this way.

I do know that I adore men, men of every type and persuasion. From the vantage point within my brother sandwich, I learned to value their dry wit, fierce intellect, brute strength, and inventive resourcefulness. From my father, I learned to desire creative genius and musical gift. And, from our mother, I learned that a woman should never be either subject or ruler.

So, brother girls, unite; we are, after all, in league with the canines. We are man’s best friend.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo  10/27/16    *inspired by Margaret Andraso, who takes credit for the title. All other rights those of the author, whose story it is, and whose name appears above these two lines.  Thank you, boys.  ❤

littlebarefeetblog.com

I SEE COLOR!

“How did you learn to draw like that?”

That was the [ unanswerable ] question.

Ever since the first Crayon was [ likely snatched ] by my pudgy little infant hand, I have been among those whom society calls “artists”. The mystery that continues to baffle most of us: where does the propensity, let alone the compulsion, to draw come from? This is not a disclaimer; it’s just the truth.

[*Aside: Haters, just go someplace else and do your thing, because we all have something to say.]

From my earliest memory, what could be seen by the human eye utterly fascinated me. Never a casual viewer, I looked at everything – every shape, line, and detail, and every hue.

To this day well, yeah…still the looker, a watcher (go ahead; catch the staring) –  voyeur to life itself.

To an artist, every magnificent human being reveals:

  • form of figure, shape of frame;
  • stance, and gait;
  • countenance, and expression;
  • profile;
  • volume, length, and texture of hair;
  • features of face;

Yes.

And, color of skin.

In America, we have a veritable banquet for the lens. When I look at a “white” person, I see:

short, wiry, ruddy or freckled, auburn Irish, Scot or Welsh; tall, regal, fair, platinum Nordic and stocky Swede; broad, strong raven haired Serb, or blonde German and Netherlander; lean, long limbed, sandy haired English; curvy, bronze, brown haired Latin; petite, wavy haired Sicilian, or olive skinned, acquiline French, Italian, Greek, Macedonian, and bronzed Arab; straight nosed, blue eyed, chestnut haired Russian or Ukrainian; muscular, green eyed, curly haired Polish and Jew;

When I look at a “black” person in America, I see:

licorice skinned, curved forehead Sudanese; tall, straight, reedy Maasai of Kenya;  broad grinned Nigerian; mahogany, black eyed Somalian; golden, robed Ethiopian; wiry, dark, short muscled Pygmy; bronzed, almond eyed Egyptian; freckled, red haired, copper toned Creole; and, a majority of the above, also carrying the deep gaze and strong cheekbone of the Native American.

When I look at what used to be called “yellow” skin, I see Chinese, Korean, Japanese, Vietnamese, Cambodian, Malaysian, Thai, Filipino, Samoan, Mongolian, Polynesian, and those representing countries yet to be known to me.

If we were to meet, for the first time, you might find me staring keenly at your face. I might even ask questions, like: “Are you possibly of Russian heritage, with some Irish?” or, “Are you from West Africa, maybe the Ivory Coast? ” I do not do this to pigeon hole you; I do it because you captivate me.

Racism is a scourge. In our country, it has reached embarrassing and increasingly life threatening proportions. Distinguishing merely “black” and “white”, or “Latino” is literally small minded, vastly uninformed, and hopelessly restricting. In fact, we are a multitude, spanning the spectrum of the living, and if we shift our gaze to what makes us representative of culture and its heritage, what colors our vision will be radiant and illuminating.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo  10/7/16   – All rights those of the author, whose name appears above this line. Thank you for your respect.

littlebarefeetblog.com

NO CANDIDATE.

 

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This is my FINAL POLITICAL POST for 2016.

I, Ruth Ann Scanzillo, HAVE NO candidate in this Presidential election. I support neither Hillary nor Trump. Nor Johnson, nor Stein.

Regardless what many thought of his decision to pull out of the running, to publicly support Hillary, all of that, I chose Bernie Sanders months and months ago – and, never looked back.

THIS POST IS NOT ABOUT BERNIE.

The belief that the Democratic party, and its candidate, have adopted Bernie’s platform with full intent to carry it out meets with dubious acceptance, on my part. Talk is the only thing cheap in politics, and we cannot know how many, if any, of his policies as outlined by him will be given a second thought once the new President is installed.

The Republican party, in my view, is lost. Trump has been, for all his public bluster and buffoonery, shrewd and calculating. The fact that the Republicans did not and, apparently, could not head him off says far more about them than it ever will about him.

For those of you who see me as a simplistically minded, superficial “pseudo- intellect” (and, I had a “boyfriend” who did), you are free to feel any way you will about me. This isn’t about me. It’s about what people take from social media, and how everybody reacts to what is said here.

For most of my adult life, I have been a registered Independent. I chose that party because I learned early on to reject the two-party system, seeing it as representing a petulant, stubborn mentality that serves no real productive end. Recent developments pretty much prove all that out, to me at least.

No; I have no hard answers. All I have is a point of view, and the right to choose. And, this year, I may very well choose to have maxillofacial surgery intended to abolish lifelong migraines, in Houston, during the first week of November.

Absentee ballot, you say? In Erie, Pennsylvania? You’ve got to be kidding, right?

I am a divorced, childless woman pushing 60. We, in my demographic, are regarded by local society as among the least relevant and most powerless. So be it. I have nothing left but gratitude to express to those who both mentored and modeled sound morals and values to me, beginning with my wonderful parents and grandparents. Family may just be a memory in my life, but I am thankful and at peace with my place in the universe.

Selah, kids. Bloom where you’re planted. Life is short. Create while you can, with everything you’ve got.

Thanks.

Oh; and, anybody who posts a defense or promotion of any candidate in the thread below will just have to endure seeing their comments deleted. I’m not trying to generate that kind of discussion. This is just my final opinion, and will have to stand as it is.

To those of you who actually read the entire piece: feel only love. Thank you.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo  10/3/16

littlebarefeetblog.com