Chapter Thirteen Finishing School for Fathers
Chapter Thirteen
Finishing School for Fathers
“The petty despot of
the man – made home is hindered in his humanness by too much manness.”
--- Charlotte Perkins
Gilman in Chapter Two, “The Man – Made Family,” of her 1911 work,
Our Androcentric
Culture, or The Man – Made World
There was Mona at the first, of course, then Justine,
Trevor’s mom and a local municipal judge’s wife able to work at mothering from
her home 24 / 7 and very watchful of Trevor’s asthma which I, as his soccer
coaching assistant, had to also be.
Justine was not overprotective. I
was actually surprised. Jesse was a bit
this way – asthmatic – but not too badly.
Exercise – induced and viral – induced, the pediatricians were terming
it to me from time to time, especially two or three days into cold – and flu –
like illnesses, but we had experienced nothing yet really serious with Jesse
although with that kinda’ little cardiac thing of his, too, I always wondered
about the potential of his pulmonary system to turn against him and worsen. And although Justine had been elated to learn
Dr. Edinsmaier would be coaching, she was equally reassured and satisfied with
my skills as a veterinarian to be able to discern when enough was enough and
easily allowed Trevor to participate.
The brisk, cold air coming on strong in November and early December
could help relieve at the onset of an attack or it could bring it on in the
first place; that was somewhat mysterious but just the way it was for him, and
Trevor himself handled this with the polish of an emergency room nurse so we
all managed. Lastly, I met with the
loftiest luck a lady could run into when I was introduced to Grace Portia, who
in everyday parlance, certainly was the epitome of both her first and married,
last names. All soccer moms – so all of
them with little boys in Mirzah’s Unit A, too.
Grace and Grace’s gentle – hearted and, thankfully, not too
blue – blooded husband, Lionel, have remained my friends. Simply there, and at any time, day or
night. If not this year, then when I needed
‘em the next year, they were. One time
recently when I hadn’t talked to Grace in months, Jesse asked, when her name
must’ve come up or that of one of her kids, if I ever still saw her.
“Well, it’s been awhile, I guess.”
“Well, how long?”
“Uuhhh, I don’t know.
Maybe six months, maybe eight. I
don’t remember.”
“Then how can you say you’re still friends with her?”
O o o o o o! Grace
had that answer when next I did visit
with her and told her of this exchange with so youthful a Jesse but who was now
a legal adult. “It could be years and
then when one of us rang up the other, it’d be like we took up where we left
off, ya’ know, … ‘last week’. I mean it. It could really be years.”
It isn’t as if Grace and Lionel hadn’t a thing else to do
with their lives than attend to me either.
Lionel is a microbiologist,
even now working his entire microbiologist heart out on that marvelously
elusive (for it, anyhow) Mycoplasma
creature in all its variants. Such a
bugaboo this itty bitty bug is to swine, feline and, O, yeah, people – and all
of their lungs and some of their joints!
I like a lot what Lionel is doing for a living, and he does it a
lot. His passion, Mycoplasma.
I like a lot what Grace does, and not only does she do it a
lot, too; but so do I, and have, for quite a few years now. But before we both got into keeping secrets
– secretarying, that is – secretarying
for a salary, we did a bunch of other stuff together first. Grace is the mother of three kids, just as I
am. Boys they happen to be, too. And, voila, they are all just within the same
knockabout ages as mine, each just a year younger so both of her two younger
sons, Nathan and Noel, were Mirzah’s teammates and became the fastest of
friends with both my Mirzah and Jesse.
Zane, maybe because of his proximity to most of the Portia family by way
of his own brothers, took an interest in Grace’s oldest, Neil, or the other way
around, I don’t remember. At any rate,
all three of her and Lionel’s Boys and all three of mine, it really was incredible
to watch. And I loved it.
Grace had been an accountant with Willard’s Department Store
chain for seven years before growing and bearing anybody. Very gently married that entire length of
time and on the road much of it, she, too, was able and very much wanted to
stay at home like Justine and I were doing.
Mona, on the other hand, married but not so tenderly as Grace, took care
of BJ and his older sister and traveled on treacherous wintry Iowa highways the
nerve – wracking 35 racing interstate miles it is into the capitol city to work
evening shifts as a pediatric intensive care nurse who had actually saved
children discovered unconscious and way under the iciest of waters for long,
long over life’s time limit. This just
frickin’ fascinated me as well as her stories of the little kids’ plastic
surgeon there, Dr. Jude Carruthers, who made it the holiest of his missions in
life to lower Iowa’s legal limit on blood alcohol to 0.04 striving, he was, to
stop the butchery to those same little kids’ smiles – and the emotional carnage
to the viscera of their mommies and daddies.
* *
* *
One of those other jobs Grace still accomplishes superbly
and did so extremely well for years before she as aptly assumed her duties as a
merit – level university secretary is the evidently difficult work of
listening. With the exception of
AmTaham, I know of no one who has mastered this job of developing empathy for
nearly all other people through the work of listening as Grace has.
She should open a private college of her own where the only
major offered is Listening. And, for
tuition, charge the bloody beYesus out of the students who most need ... to be
willing ... to learn to listen:
politicians, world leaders, judges, lawyers, corporate executives, some
teachers – – the always – a – teacher ones, some college
administrators, all the journalists and media and entertainment artists, film,
television, music and otherwise, athletes, militarists and many, many doctors,
in fact most of them actually. Most
definitely, every last one of those walking around the World who think in any
way – most especially via their particular path to freedom and peace – that
they are going to proclaim it their life’s purpose, much less, make it their
life’s earnings to go around telling the rest of us others how we all should
know a redeeming and delivering god and act like we do know one. Ya’ know, ‘holy’
… men.
Grace could start with the basics as in any undergraduate
degree program. Like with a course
called “On One Simple Observation of the Earth.” For the media students and entertainment
industry folks, this would be a requisite, the
nucleus course, I am thinking. As it
would be the same for the degree requirements of all the world leaders and
politicians and certainly for the programs of all of them that are the generals
and any other manner of military leaders.
I guess included in the militarists’ category are also all of the
lawyers and the judges who, we so well remember, are still lawyers after they get elected or appointed to judgeships.
As well as, equivocally it may appear at the first, those
peacenik catechists espousing from this nation’s Washington Mall pulpits,
sermonizing love and brotherhood and commitment all over its vast gymnasia and
sports areas and any other of the Entire Globe’s rooftops, basilica balconies,
bloodied mosques, enshrined embankments, big – sky blocs, disheveled levees,
simple taluses, tabernacle bunkers, Baptist alters. And master bedrooms.
Course content would center, then, around just what its
title states, one simple observation the World over.
The fact that there are children across six continents isn’t
the observation either. But nearly.
Connectedly enmeshed to this fact that there are these said children – and that are not our children everywhere really the ‘it’ that anyone working toward
being able to call herself or himself by the title of Ancestor does anything for every single day during her or his own
entire lifetime – is the Truth
that: this fact is fuckingly and
totally forgotten with every single move
that every one of Grace’s college students thinks up and makes. That’s
the simple observation the course covers.
In depth.
Or, not. It can probe
it shallowly, too, for that matter.
Because it isn’t difficult nor profound to see and to understand. Certainly not hidden or disguised at
all. It’s everywhere in everything any
one of these community pillars thinks up and, then, decides to go ahead and do.
And that is because of the only corollary to Grace’s core
college course matter. The one easily
established and known for millennia already:
the heartbeats, thoughts and opinions, the passions and struggles, of 53 percent of the general, daily
human population is, by the media and by almost all of the legislatures and
societies of the Earth, lumped into
both its reporting and into its statue – making and into its decision – making as if that 53 percent acquiesce to or,
for that matter, wholly support – by their silence, their softness, their submissiveness,
their servility, their deference and their kowtowing – the massively
destructive decisions made that so smash their Not Male comings and goings on
this Planet.
The IMPACT on
certain others, certain others known as the
majority, of what these dudes think up and then implement is, well, it’s
just staggering and, nearly always, life – altering. That is simply and merely all that there is
that can be said about these everyday decisionings by these guys who cannot
possibly hope to start, on their deathbeds, as even interning, amateur or
apprentice Ancestors if they, first,
haven’t graduated from Grace’s curriculum.
Each breathing his last breath will only be that forever. No one two years, ten years, 100 years after
the guy’s death will care. Much less,
remember him. It will merely be as if he
… never walked the World at all.
Ever.
Not if he hasn’t learned, while still breathing, that the
job of Ancestor is the only one that
there ever really is. As the character
with the Listening degree waiting in the dungeon, Sengbe Pieh his name was,
after his ship, the Amistad, beached had been well – taught.
An easy illustration:
About a particular hot spot or raging issue, all major networks’ anchors
report, evidently without glancing at their own footage, their own photographs,
their own recordings, any images or words beamed from their satellites in the
heavens or their nebulous and amorphously received internet transmissions,
something like the following, every
single night, on the World’s news, “India today denounced yada, yada, yada
brought about by scores of uprising Pakistanis to the north and east, yada,
yada, yada. And the militant Pakistanis,
in return threatened retaliation against the deploying Indians who now have
unparalleled nuclear capabilities in the south, blah, blah, blah, blah.”
The honest and
accurate account, whether printed or broadcast, one that would be … dah,
accountable and, well, truth, might,
instead, be projected to all us listeners, even those of us who listen only with
our eyeballs or our fingertips, as something like:
“The men of the
armies and government of
But. Do we ever hear the general, daily news
reported in as flat – out an accurate and honest an accounting as that? Let
alone, account after account after account --- through an entire broadcast of up – to – the – hour
news, through every single enraging issue printed in newspaper accounts? Even when it is the TRUTH. We do NOT. We do not.
We never, ever do.
On television this morning, 04 October, this very same
mother – fucking morning that a dozen years ago already a most fat and
irascible lummox in one thud on my Forest door launched against it and me, the
Ancestor who I am studying to be, the divorce proceedings’ papers thereby
annihilating my world peace, what do we see instead? Madeleine Albright, literally now, bursting
out from the Palestinian and Israeli shitfuck otherwise known as a ‘negotiation
session’ and, literally again she is, running down the corridor after one of
the mother – fucking (remembering, I am, to be literal a second time here in
just this paragraph alone) ‘world leaders’, some guy in a head turban thingy
which seems to mean to the rest of us all that he is some sort of a religious
person. And I, do I, believe that this
well – fed guy is religious because he wears this drape, calls himself a leader
of something or someone led and, with the alliance of a few or a lot of other
guys, cripples and kills a few or a lot of humans who aren’t in his cabal – all
in the name of his Allah?
AmTaham used to invoke Allah, too. I first remember hearing the word when I was
probably three. AmTaham knew everything;
he was my daddy. And when he prayed, no
one died. No one even got spanked. “Allah, our Allah,” this archival and
ancestral Missouri Synod Lutheran all his years prayed, “Thank you for our
little Legion. Thank you for this little
bit of land.” I was beside him again,
both of us barefoot on the dewy, cold grass just out the south front porch
door, the smaller of the two porches just off the massive kitchen but this one
also with the gray – painted floor suitable for the harsh seasonal weather –
beatings and the color of all the farm porch floors in Iowa. It was 5 am, and I was watching him, no small
feat for a three – year – old; Daddy was 6 foot 2 inches tall forever, and I
never was.
We would then quietly glide inside, we angels of Allah,
after a deep breathing and a – praying session, our
daily negotiation, and have coffee together whitened with real and fresh cow’s
cream from the
And AmTaham gently negotiated with mutual whispers and sips,
ones probably not the best for a little itty bitty kid, but, hey, not harmful
at all by comparison to those taken in some Kashmiri embankment or aboriginal
backwater rez or rat – infested boiler room in South Tremont where the one
Canuck, white – trash twin died on me in her dresser drawer – crib set by her
mama just a couple inches up, literally now, off that Bronx slum’s well –
packed and greasy dirt floor when, 17
years hence, I was ‘practicing’ some type of maternal – child / public health /
student nursing religion, “How would you like to be able, when you grow up,
Legion, to get up every single morning, go out onto this land of Allah’s and
feed the World, too?”
So I learned, AmTaham being an excellent teacher – just like
this other religious guy is an excellent teacher, the one who fucked with Ms.
Albright and truly fucked with her
beseeching, with her begging of him – I learned from watching AmTaham but who,
then yet, at my tender age of three hadn’t tutored me on reality, I learned from him that men, that
Males were wonderful, absolutely wonderful human beings.
Madeleine Albright, the only one of the majority to ever be
the Secretary of State in United States history, the only woman to boss that
federal Cabinet agency possessed of the cunning to exact profound international
impact, and this is what she has to
do to try to allure the attention of
this child – killer?! The pains, even
their deaths, of any one of those little itty, bitty kids bursting out and
running down corridors away from the bullets and the landmines is, to him,
shitfuck on his shoe soles. Not to
mention the spirits of the starved and breathing dead ones never to bound forth
from anywhere. If it weren’t – – if it weren’t
so much mother – fucking and mere shitfuck to him, then he wouldn’t kill any
children. And he wouldn’t allow anyone
else to either. Period.
Not amazingly deep nor crafty at all. Pretty simple, that.
AmTaham True is dead and gone to Allah now, but Ms. Albright
could sure use him, I am thinking.
Then I think better of that:
even though AmTaham knew everything, even he can’t get this other
outwardly religious guy to actually frickin’ practice his own religion. It’s about change and the two, implementing
tools of it again: awareness and
willingness. Daddy owned nearly
everything there was to own in the way of true wealth, most especially
knowledge and wisdom – not the same things, of course – and the unquestioning
constancy of the love and loyalty of his family and friends. But even AmTaham True never owned another’s
willingness.
Another easy illustration:
On an enraging issue this one is:
race. Or, is it about race? It isn’t really about race at all. Race and racism is just the spun
camouflage. When he delineated them and
I first heard him do so, I thought C. Everett, our former First Physician, was
right about i) the abrogation of personal accountability, ii) greed and iii)
racism as being the three diseases that, if not immediately and completely
stemmed and eradicated worldwide, would, in such short order, that is, inside my lifetime, totally destroy it,
the World. He isn’t. He isn’t right.
Pompously presumptive of me?
Uppity? Damn straight. About time, too.
“Deal with it,” so sayeth da’ judge. My judge.
All of them. And that must have
come to a total of about 25, I am thinking.
Let’s see. Counting the two
judges at district court who ruled finally and all of ‘em whose chicken tracks
just appeared out of the wild, the blue or nowhere at all on all those legal
documents issued and decreed as law, before
those three last district decisionings, and the five at the state’s court of
appeals level two different times (the chief being on each of my three – judge
appellate panels there both times) and the one only who calls himself ‘a
justice’ that it took at the supreme court level flicking my case – and my life – away from himself with
such the disgusted and nose – in – the – air flapping of his left wrist and his
one – sentence ruling, yeah, well, the count of 25 judges altogether
just might be about correct.
Same number of words in that ‘Deal with it’ phrase tossed at
me often enough by Herry as well as ‘the court’ as there are in some others’
winning choice of three – word phrases flung about with as much meaninglessness
at other women, “Free at last. Free at last.
Thank who? We’re free at last?!”
Noooot quite. Not
before the marches. Just those in my
lifetime alone. The ones on Washington
or Pine Ridge or Selma or
Afghanistan or Rwanda or Salvador or Ukraine or Jakarta or Belgrade or
Saudi or Khartoum or Soweto or Jordan
or Manila or Kashmir or Quebec or Pretty Woman’s street corner in Bombay or a
second – level Lorraine Hotel room in Memphis in May or one at New Year’s
because of trafficking from Qing – Dao or the North Slope’s Arctic Ocean beach
splattered with sealing skiffs.
And we – we women – not peaceful and not free after all of
that marching either.
All of the marching and all of the warring and all of the
breathing episodes impacting all of us DEhumans – the majority throughout
recorded history, that being about 12,000 of something called ‘years’ and put
down into a time – and – event construct called a calendar. Whether a religious calendar or a not - so –
religious one, these calendars with events placed on them then that are made,
and made important, by only men.
Throughout all recorded history and over all the World then,
… peace? Peace? Justice?
Equality? Freedom? Free?
All of us folks of the majority then?
Including Herry’s great black fuck, Edwina? The fellow teacher at his same inner
city middle school? Whom he wouldn’t
marry? Ever, he said. Whom he wouldn’t even bring home to meet his
mommy, Detanimod, or any other of the Edinsmaier wolf pack?
But with whom he certainly felt, free
at last, to glut and to fuck? For
four years straight? It wasn’t
that she was ten years his senior, the bearded and good, good draft – dodging
and so very, very ‘liberated’ and ‘progressively leftist’ and ‘peace –
espousing’ and ‘nonviolence – advocating’, so ‘reverent’ Dr. Edinsmaier himself
told me. Herry said it was her race.
But. But. That wasn’t it. That’s what he said it was. That is what Dr. Koop says. And that – racism – is what it would so successfully and so
selfishly be concealed as being, too – – by the not – so – reverent – after –
all Reverend Doctor King Junior who himself, along with the ease and with the
aid of all of the other ‘religiously’ complicit and silent men in the civil
rights movement, brought the majority of us DEhumans exactly squat in the
amount of ‘good’ and of ‘peace’ and of ‘nonviolence’. Actually … logically and mathematically,
realistically and literally here, Martin Luther King Jr, massively continued in
and only contributed to the
furtherance of the negative number that
is the amount of peace and freedom from brutality and tyranny done by the
minority onto the majority. And he and
they, the minority all right, all
knew it. As they were thinking it up and making it their bloody, mother –
fucking choices to go ahead and
perpetrate their mother – fucking violence upon us DEhumans … anyhow.
Even Martin Luther King Jr’s most mordacious and trenchant
biographer to date, Michael Eric Dyson, who writes on pages 163 and 164 in
Chapters 8 and 10 of I May Not Get There With You how it was that King
himself, like so much chaff, threw around the word “motherfucker” behind closed
hotel suite doors, refers in his book’s dedication to his own wife – in the
year 2000 – as his “wife, friend, lover”.
Still.
Well, heeellloooo, Mr. Dyson! Let’s just be redundant and then redundant
some more, shall we? Or, are you truly only revealing by your so
entitling of her this way, Mr. Dyson, what we all already know to be your and
other so – called men – of – conscience’s definitions of entitlement for the word “wife”.
That
Ms. Dyson wasn’t, and isn’t still, by her simple act of
marriage to you alone, already your
friend and lover. Already your best friend and your only lover.
Back in his mid 20s then, they’d all be wrong about Herry’s
not marrying Edwina, about 36, being racism.
And they would all know, as
they were spouting this, that they were
choosing to be wrong. That they are
ingrained hypocrites entrenched in something else entirely. The something they always, always already knew as they did their
pontificating about Herry’s not wedding Edwina being due to racism that not one of them was ever, ever, ever about
to give the hell up. Hell. Throughout about the most recent 12,000 man – made years, throughout
christianity, islam, judaism and a shitfuck of other man – made ‘religions’, women, big girls and little itty bitty
girls and all of the fucked mothers among them, have had to always, always,
always – suck it up.
Crying racism is such a great, great cover – up for the core
content and its corollary taught here at
Grace’s college. These men and
other men would say it is ‘the most’, racism is. The most controversial, the most
inflammatory, the most galvanizing and, therefore, unwaveringly bound to put
into words and into riots everyone’s
bottled – up and stunned state at the hideousness of how racist and, therefore,
how evil Dr. Edinsmaier truly
is. He would never marry Edwina because
she was black. Incense them so, this non
– deed of his would, that they would be right ready, tonight, to march some
more they would. If not demand his
complete undoing. Or some such. And they’d still all be wrong. And, all of them, know it.
Except about one thing:
Herry is evil.
See, in addition to all of that of Herry about which we
already know, Herry quite literally fucked a whole lot of folks, all of the
critters female of which I ever knew including most probably all of the cattle,
dogs, pigs and chickens which, according to Rolodex inventory cards scripted in
his own hand, he also fucked. You can
close that jaw of yours that dropped way back in Chapter One when you read
about the wine – bottle dildos, now can’t you?
Herry, who didn’t think I ever knew about those ‘ladies’ as well as the others
with whom he’d shit all over me in the dark nights of the Forest master bedroom
– but about which I did know – Herry,
the (raised – up – a) christian, well – nourished, well – educated and
apparently well – fucked, English – speaking caucasian, never entertained
wedding Edwina because, for him … now get this:
She was the wroooong woman. Maybe
she was even the wrong species. Probably
she wasn’t, although I don’t know, sheep – like enough for him, ya’ know, soft,
servile and deferent enough for him.
“Baaaahh, Herry, O, baaaah, my darling Herry.” But, for sure, she was the wrong
DEhuman. The wrong woman.
Simply that. And not
a thing any more outrageous, controversial, inflammatory or galvanizing … than
that. Not a thing.
Long, long before Herry ever met Edwina he knew what would,
for him, constitute the right woman.
After all, he’d written The Textbook on it. Now I am not going to presume to know who she
is or what her characteristics
are. Lord knows, I wasn’t she.
* *
* *
Grace could even offer a PhD program and that program would exclusively be,
absolutely and without exception, required for any man in the World who wanted
to hold the title of ‘husband’. Keyword
here, for admissions into the program,
being ‘wanted’. The dissertation, also a
requirement and without exception, would be each candidate’s take on what ‘wanting to be a husband’ means. And his proving of it. Ya’ know, the authenticating and
substantiating proof part of the
dissertation. That way, every one of
them, like all PhD dissertations are allegedly supposed to be, would be
original work: ya’ know – never before
done.
This is where we
would, in theory, find out who, as far as Herry believes, would be his right
woman. In theory, I say, because
Herry Edinsmaier would not be accepted into the program. Because of that key and absolutely necessary
qualification to acceptance, that is, the ‘wanting’
to be a husband. The willingness to do the work of being one in the first place. Much less at the end of the program, that
is, inside a marriage. To a DEhuman.
To a female human.
The focus of this ‘situation’ with Herry and Edwina and
racism and O! just how absolutely heinous is this whole thing! is all simply a
smokescreen to rapaciously continue to ensconce in shrouds, again, and preserve from the slightest
divestiture for all of accounted history where the focus and the investment in
this day – to – day breathing truly ought
to be. With … Edwina! She is of the majority here! And she
is where the focus should have always been placed at the first. This
is how it was before recorded history
began and this is what is soooo
dangerous to men everywhere for the last, O, 12,000 or so – – since recording did begin.
Flip / Reverse. Finally. After 12,000 years.
What about her finding
and marrying the right man, her being
well – fed, her being well –
schooled, her being well – loved and well – made – love – to? What about that?! What about her impacting Herry if Edwina wanted to, so smashing anything of
his or his family’s? And he remaining,
or at the very least, becoming for the first time in that written – down history
of ours, soft, servile and deferent about it?
What about her forgetting about
his needs, his wants, his desires, his this, his that, his anything. Period.
And he attending, and always attending,
and wanting to, to all of that only
in her? What about that?! What about Dr. King
and Dr. Edinsmaier being made, like by her
if Edwina wanted to, to never mother – fuck again? Ever.
What about that?!
Now the bachelor’s degree is a BL, of course, the bachelor’s
degree in Listening. No arts, no
science, no BA, no BS letters about
it. Listening degrees are granted only
after passing the finals in Willingness, the other core tool given as the
laboratory accompanying and required with every single course taught at Grace’s
college. Ya’ only get one chance at
these finals, too, and graded only pass / fail as well. Grace pretty much knows about your
genuineness right off so no amount of choice – making on answers later is going
to snow her. Kinda’ like veterinary
medical school when I attended. You fuck
up and fail one course? … Tough shit.
You’re out. No appeal.
The job opportunity for which one needs to have successfully
graduated with this major in Listening is that of Ancestor. You cannot ever hope to be one by any other
major studied elsewhere or by any test – out nor by any licensure, registration
or certification nor by any other means including … breathing, breathing,
breathing … then not breathing. Ever
again. You initially receive and
subsequently maintain the title of Ancestor with the duties and
accountabilities thereof only through
earning the Listening degree from Grace’s college. Even if you grow and bear or spawn itty bitty
little kids because you fucked a mother somewhere sometime or are, yourself, a
fucked mother.
Only minor, both undergrad and grad and also required if one
ever intends to be called Ancestor, will be one’s credits earned in
Silence. Here, all of these students
arriving at Grace’s college and deplaning from their enterprising planetary
leadership starship will study all the various forms and uses of Silence. Uses both for good and for bad purposes in
life which are sometimes, as we all know, the same use – just put
differently. Sometimes ever so slightly,
so subtly, too.
The basic core course, “Centering”, in this minor is, of
course, learning to Hear your own Inner Voice: the itty bitty “That of God” inside
yourself. That “that” that everyone
everywhere, on this Planet at least,
has. And probably in the entire universe
although about that Grace and I do not know.
Grace states that only the very disciplined will ever make it through
Centering’s first class although after the first day the student gets another
chance. And another. And another.
Ad lib. If they are willing to try. And actively seek out the chances. Kinda’ like … confession. Only this one sticks.
Because with each class session the student gets better and
better. She or he just can’t help it but
get better. The trick, the key to
passing this in the minor curriculum is in … coming back to class. That’s where the discipline leads to
willingness which automatically leads to and results in … getting centered …
eventually. And successfully completing
the minor program.
One of Grace’s most prestigious and distinguished visiting
scholars will be Dr. Sierra Blue Elk, PhD immunologist and attorney,
presently breathing with her husband and their two children on the banks of Spicy Creek outside of
Another of Grace’s professors, one of only two males on her
college faculty for sure, the other being Wyoming’s infamous folksy country
solicitor and defender Gerry Spence, is radical feminist, John Stoltenberg, who
has for a long, long time so carefully in his writings, one being Refusing
To Be A Man: Essays on Sex and Justice
and another being his articles appearing in On The Issues, cautioned
students already on recognizing and understanding, when Listening, who the
Silent and stealthily stalking wolves really are. The Jerry Falwells, the Rushes and the
William F. Buckleys, the Enriqué Bolaños Geyers, the George Wills and all of
the Promise Keepers, the Geto Boys and Ice Cube and Ice – T, the Pat
Robertsons, the Osama Bin Ladins and the Talibans of the Earth, the Karl Roves,
the Sigmund Freunds and the Clarence Thomases, we can all Hear.
But. But. Mr. Stoltenberg writes, “Men of the liberal /
progressive left have their own effective means of treating women like second –
class citizens: by defending the
pornography industry, for instance, which as social propaganda for the subordination of women leaves Leviticus
and the letters of St. Paul in the dust.
I don’t agree with eroticized male supremacy in any guise, nor do I
agree with Promise Keeper’s scriptural or doctrinal justification for it.
Rather, I tried to point out that nowhere on the progressive / liberal left
have men taken it upon themselves to collectively pay attention to their everyday
ethics. In that respect (certainly
compared with the aspirations of Promise Keepers), progressive / liberal men don’t
really occupy the moral high ground they often like to think they do. And
women who have cast their political lot with them need to understand this.” Cast her lot with the socialist, peace – now
‘progressive’ men whom a girl cannot so easily hear or see as … monstrous. But who, nevertheless, soooo fuckingly are. Men who have, nowhere, paid attention
to their everyday ethics, collectively, individually or
otherwise… men such as Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr and Dr. Herod
Edinsmaier. The course will be called
“Dances With Monsters.”
There are many more courses to the minor, of course,
especially about the bad things for which Silence is used. Most cruelly, passive – aggressive oppression
in husbands and fathers comes to my mind.
And how to kick their addiction to the use of the icebox treatment on
wives so rampantly routine. The
addiction that, in addition to the mother – fucking, torments and tortures the
entire family. Like when the child, Zane
in the case I am thinking of with Herry in front of both his younger brothers,
is ordered to turn to and tell his mama, me of course, to hand over the
checkbook for Herry’s going to gas up.
And I’m sitting right there. That kind of torture to both mama and
children.
Another course studying Silence’s terrorism: “Men Who Conspiratorially Shut Up Too
Much.” This course covers the analysis
of and solution to the pogroms wrought by men who think of themselves, as I would wager, for example, Ralph Nader
thinks of himself as and as Scholar Stoltenberg calls them, “men of conscience.” Who, however, are simply acting. Acting, by
their Silence, like the ordinary men that they truly are, always have been
and will always want to continue
being. Acting, by their Silence, to cause such total and overwhelming
destruction. The men, their machismo
behaviors and the results of same studied about in this class include all of
the Ciudad Juárez and El Paso Border cops, all of the Secret Service men and
all of the other politically and corporately ‘protective’ men including vice –
presidents and congressmen in just about every United States president’s
tenure, some, of course, that spring to mind being JFK or Franklin D. or Tommy
Jefferson or WJC and the much, much – too – numerous – to – mention men of the
evangelistically orating, save – us – all – from – Satan’s – slavery business
which spans every race in the World. But
it would also include Anthony and Buck and Zhang and Hank and Osaka and Osage
and Mwumba and Igor and Nez and Marlon and Singh and Pierre and Llagiigñiq and
Carlos and Rex and Zuni and Boris and George and OJ and Diego and Yul and
Mohammed and McCain and Brataslav and Hawkeye and Mario and Farouk and those
two other neighbors next door, Al and Patrick.
How it is that these guys stay shut up, amazingly enough,
even after their buddies’ or
acquaintances’ wives and girlfriends and daughters and grandmothers and nieces
are, well … screwed! Or cut! And sewn shut! Or foot – rotted! Or purposefully left abandoned to the
hyenas! Or burned! By pyre fire or by acid! Or stoned! Or wire – hangered to death! Even after,
amazingly enough again!, these
females who are supposedly loved ones are dehumanized by linguistic rape, ya’
know that rape: “free speech.” ‘Free’ as in, “My ‘freedom’, certainly not hers,
to my words – and even though my
thinking them and my saying them or my writing them or my taking pictures is an
act, an action, I cannot be stopped from it … from uttering these words – cuz I
have my ‘freedom’ of speech
rights! Screw hers! Fuck her rights – hers to have ‘freedom from’
… woman – loathing and ‘freedom from’ … criminal men like me with my hate
speech!” The erotically violent
neighbors about whom these so – called men of conscience, really ordinary men
and, of course, erotically violent themselves as they visit the pornography
sites anywhere including the one between their own two earlobes, … withhold words. Who themselves, while outwardly Silent,
are secretly applauding or sometimes even openly clapping right out loud after
“not guilty” verdicts are returned!
In Grace’s graduate program, these courses could all be
offered at the master’s level, too. So
if the televangelist, the freedom fighter, the prime minister, the boss doesn’t
really ‘want’ to be a husband or go on for the PhD, he can still get a master’s
degree in Listening. By completing the
master’s program in Silence. Grace
teaches here. Maybe. Maybe not.
A quilter herself bringing warmth to the Heartland for some length of
time now, Grace may not be able to stand being out in the cold alone on this
one. She may simply not even allow it at
all for that matter. Since she is the
Chief Administrator of the Listening
College, she may not even get this master’s program up and running – – if it has to involve bringing to her
campus direct from his Raunch Ranch the Guest Bad Example teacher, Dr. Herod
Edinsmaier, the literal cows’, dogs’, pigs’ and chickens’ mother – fucker to
whom Legion True was once married and by whom mother – fucked herself – – which is what some on its Curriculum
Committee are recommending to Grace.
See, the livestock and I weren’t the only creatures Herry
hosed.
Grace loathes Herry and is one of less than a handful of
people who know of three other instances of crimes and criminal behavior of
Herry’s that have all gone … completely unpunished, let alone, undisciplined,
untethered and which are, as far as she and I are aware, today still
unchecked. She is pretty sure she
couldn’t be safe around Herry on her own terrain herself, let alone, able to
guarantee the safety of her DEhuman students around him. Even if Dr. Herod Edinsmaier were brought to
campus in manacles and shackles like the ball – and – chain subject matter
about which Herry’s lecturing will cover – even if he were brought to campus by
that most Expert of Safety Experts on family and relationships whom Herry
loathes as much as Grace does Herry, former Mennonite minister and current
psychologist and therapist, Keith Log.
Grace has very much yet to be convinced of the pluses of having this
particular sojourning teacher on board.
Even one time.
These criminal behaviors of Herry’s are ones that he still
unleashes on society today, not the least of which humans in that society are
his very own sons. As well as when they
were itty bitty. And Grace knows
this. The first crime was that leg –
brushing and thigh - stroking committed at the youth basketball game in the St.
Cecil’s gymnasium, the game between Grace’s middle son, Nathan, playing
opposite Jesse one Saturday morning. The
leg brushed and the thigh stroked at least three separate and distinct times
when she was looking the other way down court at the ball – shooter, that is,
the other way than in the direction of the guy sitting right next to her
belonged to Grace. The hand of the
brusher – and – stroker guy sitting right next to Grace belonged to Frotteurist
Edinsmaier. And you can also bet that
Herry did the sitting down next to Grace; it hadn’t been the other way
around. As, now, he would have it told.
Herry committing the crime known in legalese and by sexual
addiction experts like Patrick Carnes in
Out of the Shadows:
Understanding Sexual Addiction, as taking “indecent liberties?”
Taking crimes like Herry’s –
frottage and frotteurism – that is, sustaining the press of his pulsing penis
up against that strange woman’s buttocks in a packed elevator when she’s forced
briefly back into him or the catch – and – release of her breast in the crush
of the crowd at the baseball stadium concession or the ever so slight brush of
a thigh in the bleachers at the Saint Cecil’s youth ball court? The wonderful and good Doctor
Edinsmaier? Doctor Herod
Edinsmaier? Herry? Herry committing these? Well, gosh, golly good goddam, NO!
Grace remembers and Grace knows. And, still, I was stupefied when this fact was taught to me after its
occurrence: that Herry had gone and done
these crimes to my very best friend.
And, of course, gotten sooo clean, slick away with it! All I could say was, “Stupid me. Again.
Stupid me. With my frickin’
brilliant brain, just how much of a dullard do I continue to good and goddam be
anyhow?!” What is that that Stoltenberg
teaches? “… And women who cast their lots with these men need to understand this!”
JYeee – aahh. That’s
what Professor Stoltenberg teaches all right.
If that’s all I
could say about Herod’s assault upon Grace, imagine what Lionel had to say
about it when he was taught?! More
correctly, more accurately and most importantly, imagine what Grace herself, on
whom these crimes were committed, thinks?!
More on that laaaater …
The second behavior Grace abhors was a teaching Herry had
done at one of the schools his sons were attending not much later than when
they’d been playing basketball in St. Cecil’s gymnasium. Not exactly
a public school and very much a private school, too! the Home – Schooling school. Herry, always – a – teacher Herry, wrote what
he considers the book on
relationships with women in the family and presented much of it to that
School’s students, his sons, over the course of their own entire
adolescences. Part of one chapter in The
Textbook states therein, “Fannie and I had one of our fights again; but,
fortunately, she’s quieted down again.
Our shouting matches are way worse than your mom’s and mine ever
were. I hope my experience doesn’t
poison you three on women. Instead, I
hope it emphasizes the importance of knowing someone well before tying yourself
to her. Sometimes your self – respect
will not let you abandon a burden which you have accepted. I’ll probably have to wait quite a few years
to find out if that’s me being a fool or me with my usual brilliance and
genius.”
Genius? Herry’s not
been, if ever an Ancestor in Training, too mother - fucking concerned about his
genius and brilliance I am thinking. And
what a word “poison” is, huh? About like
“envenom” as an action verb. Hhmmm, a
real tasty choice of his when teaching on family, women, loveliness and loving,
huh? “Tying” as in ‘hobbling’ and
‘binding’? Yeah, ditto as in teaching on
family, yada, yada, love, huh?
“Burden”? “Abandon”? We are soooo not even going to go there.
Incensed, marching, demanding whose undoing for what racism? Racism?
O, no. So not racism this venom
is. Sexism.
The Textbook manual continues, “One of the reasons I
have enjoyed being a father so much is that the affection came naturally and
didn’t require any effort.”
Whoooooa! Like that we didn’t notice?
That, Dr.
Edinsmaier, everyone noticed. All the mother – fucking time, we all noticed
it. All the sons, all the girlfriends and all the
wives. All the work and college and
middle school student subordinates and allegedly equal – level colleagues. All the sisters, even the itty bitty two or
three of them that ya’ fucked and were indecently free with when they, at their
ages of five or six years, sat on your and your older brother’s 16 – and 18 –
year – old frotteurizing laps! Because
you and your Bro Atwater were such great teachers, Dr. Edinsmaier, everyone noticed and everyone learned. Because you and he and the Home – Schooling
Headmaster, Mr. Juggern Aut Misein Edinsmaier, were all such fine and thorough
teachers. Master teachers, really. The affection came ‘naturally’? As incest, by definition, does?
It came easily, I am thinking. Didn’t require any work. No, I’ll just bet it
did not require any at all. All it took
was what Juggern was perfect at and, you, Herry, gained from him, the teacher
who came before you, perfect mastery in yourself: conspiratorial and complicit Silence.
That chapter of Herry’s relationship textbook ends with his
describing Keith Log and the entire host of all of the relationship masters –
all of them other than narcissistic Herry,
that is. “I despise these so – called
family experts who say that to maintain a relationship you have to work at it. Both Fannie and your mom were envious because
they thought I should like them the best, but it was obvious that the real
objects of my affection were you three boys.
I told your mom once but it was fruitless. I never have found the kind of connection
with a woman I wanted and now, for a little while at least, I’m not out there
looking. No big deal. I like being around women and have met some
that are most pleasing. In the past I
think I knew some like that several times but didn’t appreciate them because
they weren’t exciting.”
Textbook this is?
Textbook case, you mean, on Sexism this is! And, what’s really funny is that even as this
male wrote what he considers is the treatise on it, he knew it for nothing more
than that: Herod’s wanting attention and
privilege and power and control some more.
The focus of attention off of her,
the majority, and onto him. Only and
Always. His idea on ‘handling women’, his
‘telling them explanations of how it is’, his ‘telling the experts off’, his
sorrow over not connecting. JYeah,
rrriiiggght, Edinsmaier. Ya’re makin’ me
cry here! I’m so tore up for ya’! And then, they’re just so good, goddam “not
exciting” enough for him. I am left thinking, “No wonder Dr. Edinsmaier
never did sheep.”
That third criminality which Grace loathes involves Herry’s
voice, ya’ know, that voice about which we discussed a lot earlier. Well, Grace is afraid he’d used it again in
her classrooms. As recently as just into
the newest millennium of those past 12 or so, that is, in January 2000, Dr.
Herod Edinsmaier used that voice of his to laugh at a rape and the subsequent
pregnancy with, now, a born child, who resulted from that rape. And Dr. Edinsmaier let rip that snide
guffawing of his not only to me but also at my very same encounter with it to
his own kin. To his own kin. Just like The Textbook on fathering
sons through narcissism seeps into his Boys – and all of them, the males then,
getting taught to treat any girls and women the sexist way they tell ‘em it’s
gonna be and when. That snide guffaw in
that syrupy slop of his, commenting as it was on the rape of a woman with all
of its life – altering consequences, seeped in to the ear and in to the brain and in to the
heart of Herry’s very own first daughter – in – law now married to his second
son. Not known, Herry is, for uttering
unguent. Not even with those soooo
smooth vocal cords o’ his. Ever. Not even after a rape perped on his own
daughter – in – law. The Good and
So, see, Grace may not be constructing this master’s program
whatsoever – if the likes of Dr.
Herod Edinsmaier or anyone of his parlance, demeanor, countenance, innards and
brain has to be invited to teach some of it.
Grace has the highest degree of empathy developed through her Listening
for nearly all other people I have ever seen her with or known her to
acknowledge. This I’d said earlier.
Well, Dr. Herod Edinsmaier isn’t one of those people. Nowhere near at all. And also because of the finished products of
Herry’s teaching. Grace has seen the
fruits of his teaching up close firsthand.
Two of those student sons of his, Mirzah and Jesse, are experts now at
double standardization when it comes to females and are quite out loud about it
most every day. The two of them, for
their entire lifetimes ahead now I am thinking, are most well untaught with
regard to that one universal commandment Herry abhors. Ya’ know the one: The Universal Value. You knew it well when you were five, six,
seven and eight years old no matter what ‘culture’ you were those ages in: The Golden Rule. That unteaching by Herry went into making the
two of them excellent, actually ‘constitutional’
– like, defenders of the Double Standard.
It is their right, they
state. They are fully and, in all
matters, entitled as are many, many
liberal and progressive men like Martin Luther King, Jr, and Thomas Jefferson
or regressive and conservative men like acid – throwing Taliban fathers and
clitoris – cutting African fathers unteaching sons before Herry, to oppress and
to do and to say unto any and all women whom they choose to that which they would not at all stand a
second still for if it were done or said or oppressed unto themselves. Furthermore, Grace gravely wonders if these
sons of Herry have put in to their lives, as Herry himself has with Ms. Fannie
Issicran McLive, wives who are two of those women Professor Stoltenberg
describes who cast their lots with this type of double standard – wielding, ACLU
bible – thumping, my rights / my rights / I’m – entitled – to – my – rights
kind of guy.
* *
* *
Takers Grace calls
all of these men. Not workers. Noooooo.
No workers they. Entitlement and
oppression rule so they take. They start
out as moochers, freeloaders taking from and off their young friends. Then they move into more adult manners of
taking and taking and taking all the while smooth talking and o – so righteous
and selfish talking and on into just outright mother – fucking talking – … – to their mothers on the telephone,
for example. The women who have taken up
with the men who are like this do the same and encourage it in themselves and
in their boyfriends. It’s funny, it’s
cutesy. They, those women, are so
cutesy, too, and fawning. Certainly
servile and how was it that Herry’d taught Mirzah? “Some that are,” he’d intoned in The
Textbook, “most pleasing to me.”
“It’s Legion,” she said as she handed the telephone receiver
to Mirzah. Not, “It’s your mama.”
Not, “O, Hi, Legion.
Say, I want to apologize about that picture thing last summer and repair
the awful damage I did to you and your acting aspirations when I so mother –
fucked with your heart and told you lies about me and my talents at
photographing head shots. I feel so
ashamed and have known since your explaining your feelings to Mirzah how unfair
I was to not only do that but also to then not say I’m sorry for such a long,
long time afterward. Please know … yada,
yada, yada.”
Not, “O, Hi, Legion.
Well, did I ever screw you up, huh?!
Mirzah also thinks that I did, and I truly owe you reparation for that
fuck – up of mine besides an apology.
What do you think I can do to … yada, yada, yada?” Instead, “It’s Legion.” And the telephone is handed away to Mirzah
as, in whispers, I hear the following discourse.
“Huh, yeah. It’s me, Mom.
I’m kinda busy.” Noise of video
games in the background. Along with
whispering noises. And, yes, he did have
‘company’ about which Herry could have taught him to say, “May I call you back
at 8 o’clock? Right now is not such a
good time to talk cuz I have company and need to complete this computer
thing.”
But Herry instead taught him, “Huh, yeah. It’s me, Mom.
I’m kinda busy.” Then nothing
more but the sort of Silent Treatment unto others that Mirzah wouldn’t stand a
second still for if done to him by me
or by anyone else and that Grace is so concerned would be what Dr.
Edinsmaier will model in the Silence graduate program for the master’s degree
in Listening. The Not – Quite – Whispers
Barbs and Quills I Want You to
Hear But I Haven’t Said Them Out Loud So They Don’t Count As Me Being Mean
Saying Them; I Just Whispered Them
treatment. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. What else?
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Nah, nah, nah.
A – huh, a – huh, a – huh.” Then. “I know but she won’t get off the phone,”
whispered aside to the woman in the room and with Mirzah’s hand not covering
the phone terribly carefully. And not
meant to either. Mirzah’s rights
here. To speak this way. Unimpeded.
With the casting – lots woman goading him from the background.
Not quite as Silent is she though as the woman, Dr. Mi
Sprision O’Revinnoco, who is Mirzah’s aunt and whom Daddy Herry made certain
Mirzah and his two brothers, over years, were well taught by in the ways of
women casting their kismet with progressive and liberal although actually
Stoltenberg’s ordinary men such as himself, her doctor bro. Dr. O’Revinnoco is Herry’s very, very quiet
and o – so fabulously famous MD pediatrician / PhD cancer researcher / blood
sister and daughter of ol’ Juggern Aut Misein E. himself. Somewhere around the fourth, fifth or sixth
child to Detanimod and Juggern. Born to
Juggern the Sire reproducing, at the
least, 11 breathing ones, one not – breathing one at term and two other
ones who miscarried out of Detanimod much earlier on. Born to Juggern whom I
have never, ever seen throw his arms around and embrace Mi Sprision one time,
let alone, give a peck to on her cheek, much less do the same to his wife,
Detanimod. Much less to any one of his
three younger daughters, Kay, Celeste or Murielle. Certainly not to the wife, Detanimod, whom
his own mother, another one of those lot – casters known as that just by her
own words alone to Juggern, said was just fine pregnant and most certainly
could work as the horse Juggern Edinsmaier wanted her to be – at any time and
in any place – and was not at all to be coddled, babied or handled in any way,
much less, gently. Including, Detanimod
could – Juggern was told by his own mom – get up in the mulberry tree and pick
those mother – fucking berries, right alongside the rest of the non – pregnant
population she could. No matter that she
slipped, no matter that she pulled, that she pulled badly, truly, truly badly,
so badly that … she miscarried. And this
was just her first pregnancy … with 13 more of them … by him, by his literal
mother – fucking … yet to follow. No matter that particular little thing there.
Now as we all recall, people who are pediatricians are of a
certain group of folks out there in society called ‘mandatory reporters’. When any one of these workers sees or hears or knows of abuse
and violence and crimes done to children, they are required by The Law of
Allah’s Land to report it to all of the ‘proper’ authorities charged with the
immediate ending of the child or children’s terror. Including Sister Doctor Mi Sprision O’Revinnoco and her quiet manner
and her lot – casting with Brother Doctor Herry. So Silent she didn’t quite, in all her brilliance
and genius, – she didn’t quite manage to report the violence that was the
invisibility of the Truemaier Boys’ own mother to them – to them, the ‘proper’
authorities. For years and years and
years. When she knew of it from its
start. Casting her lot she has. And still does.
The offense, the crime of hers actually? Concealing knowledge of treason – according
to Black’s Law Dictionary. Of treasonous
mother – fucking and treasonous child abuse by one who has not accomplished it
outright, outwardly or blatantly herself but by one who has done it,
nevertheless. Through her Silent
participation and assistance in it.
Through her complicity in the acts of her brother and ‘the courts’. Where have we all heard of this same
complicity before? Cowards all.
For shame.
I did. I did feel
shame. I felt shamed by Herry’s
freeloading. Herry’s taking. Great shame.
That’s the difference though – I felt it. Not Herry.
That certainly doesn’t ‘help’ Herry change, my feeling the shame for what he
does. Herry was such a moocher off
of his ‘friends’. Even after he married me and we had kids and
they had kids. I cannot begin to count
the number of times I left his friends, Abby and Devin, who had two little
girls and were so struggling to make their ends and themselves meet, with the
absolutely extreme abashed and mortified feeling that Herry and I, because I by
my Silence had allowed this, had just fucked these people. We would leave but we would return again another
time. To their apartment. Not to
ours. Not ever to ours. We would return all right … but not the
favors.
Favors for others, doing unto others? That involved work on Herry’s part. Or, in
reality here, only mine since Herry wasn’t going to lift a finger to prepare
for company or for taking a hot dish over for someone’s supper who’d just
walked away from a car crash or do the weekly grocery gathering or the
shoveling of someone’s drive while his hip or his mind healed. O.
Herry would grandly whip out the ol’ checkbook and donate gesturing and
posturing sympathy. Grandiose bucks,
too, the displays. But not the work.
Never the labor. Let alone,
sustained, day in / day out, get – on – with – the – work – of – breathing work when someone rather needed
that. Not Herry. And not the other men of the Edinsmaier
brotherhood either. Like ol’ Juggern
Aut Misein preached to that fraternal clan, “That might mean you loved someone,
and then you’d be wanting to have sex with ‘em, wouldn’t ya’, since that’s how
we’re all raised up to believe ‘love’ of someone means.” Cold, hard cash was so much more … well, cold
and hard. And certainly … detached. With a check there’s no getting up close and
personal – as by doing the actual work of
breathing.
Herry was ashamed, too, of course. But he, as was Mehitable, was ashamed of what
we weren’t! As in – we weren’t wealthy
enough to lavishly splash our materialism in front of his bookoo rich and
prestigious doctor friends. So they were
not invited to our humble abodes. We
went there. To theirs.
Except for the one time, and only the one time ever in 12½ years of mother – fucking marriage to
this freeloader, this taker. Dr. Freddie
Goldstein, one of Herry’s boss pathologists during his residency, came to our duplex apartment for a small August birthday
party which I gave for either Zane or Jesse, I don’t remember which. Dr. Goldstein stayed four, maybe all of five
minutes, not even long enough for, and refused, my offered piece of homemade
birthday cake. He never sat down. Nor did Herry invite him to either. He was out the door pronto. But, hey, next weekend we were there. Standing in Freddie’s expanse of a kitchen at
its massive food prep island snarfing down and gargling his and Ella’s
sandwiches and wine and sparkling juice after we’d, all five of us, dripped
water in on its floor from where we had just come by way of the living room,
then den and then hallway, Ella’s and Freddie’s hot tub.
No Golden Rule – practicing by Herry, Legion, Mirzah, Jesse
and Zane there. Not a stitch of it off
that well – worn sampler hanging on so many children’s bedroom walls. Well, Mirzah learned this well. He can take.
And not even utter a thanks. “The
man, he is especial,” they say in
* *
* *
To graduate out of any
of Grace’s programs at all levels
and with the ability to work in
Ancestoring, all students will need to successfully complete the Final
Course, Breathing. One thing and one thing only will be taught
in this course: The Relinquishing of
Male Supremacy. The nowhere that Professor
Stoltenberg alludes to in the Dances With Monsters course outlined
earlier.
And I am the professor of this, the Final Course.
All, absolutely all, of
the World’s problems, issues and situations requiring change or solution stem
from and, therefore, can only be
relieved and solved and their horrific impact much, much diminished by one
thing: the relinquishing of male
supremacy and dominance over Not Males in all matters. Whether the problem or the issue is family
and personal relationships, religion, poverty (hunger, warmth), war, energy,
media, environment, money and power, law, government and (in)justice, education, entertainment and sports, business, science
and technology, health care and research, population, ad infinitum. Why is
it that there is not absolute and constant outrage over honor killings and
cripplings and slavery in every area of Allah’s Lands? Why is there not, now, in all these places
zero tolerance for this behavior? Why is it that TIME Magazine, just one
of many, many examples of the Earth’s media, chose as its “person” of the
entire 20th Century Albert Einstein --- and did not choose as its
“person” of that Century Rosa Parks or Elizabeth Cady (Stanton) or Matilda
Joslyn Gage or 24 – year – old Harry Burn’s mama, Phoebe, from East Tennessee,
or Margaret Sanger? The courage Ms.
Parks managed to muster one ordinary day in the literal face of one very
specific male bus driver whom she personally individually knew and by whom she
had been terrorized for quite some number of years! Or the undaunted perseverance of Ms. Cady (Stanton), a married woman with seven babies of her
own over whom to mother but who still took over 50 years of her very own
breaths to bring literal liberty to 17,000,000 other humans when they finally –
some eight million of them – walked into United States voting booths for their
very first time ever 02 November 1920 – is mind – staggering. Then there’s my personal favorite – Ms.
Margaret Sanger. She spent a half a
century – and many, many … many nights of it in jail herself – to finally bring
to over 53 percent of the ENTIRE Earth freedom from the violence
that was their prison sentences wrought since TIME and sex ever began: freedom for her from the fifth and
the sixth and the seventh and the eighth and the ninth and the tenth and the
eleventh and so forth and so on … pregnancy.
When Sanger brought to you and to me …
the Greatest Invention Over All of Time Throughout All The World: The Pill. To be sure, what Einstein did was remarkable,
too. But.
True this is: What any one of these other three people,
Sanger, Cady (
Not until these three DEhumans, Parks and Cady (Stanton) and
Sanger and their Not Male might, moxie and minds, did so, so many others
benefit.
Still. TIME Magazine,
other media and male people, in general, on a regular, consistent, daily, usual basis do not even bother to recognize this. Much less, loudly and long celebrate
this. And to celebrate this over and over and over.
Instead, these male people announce how tired they are of even
just Hearing of these accomplishments and so tired, these men are, of even just
Hearing from us Not Males that we want appropriate recognition for our
heroism. Let alone, our accomplishments
and heroism consistently elaborated upon and heralded daily within every
textbook and throughout every elementary – through – graduate school course
Worldwide.
Itty bitty illustration:
New Year’s Day, Newest Millennium 2000,
ABC TV ‘programming’ consisted of three football games, noon, 4:30 pm and 8 pm Eastern. What is
that? In this course called
Breathing, that will be taught as nothing more than male privilege and
dominance in all of the areas that are everywhere every day! – – family and
relationships, technology, business and entertainment. At least.
Again.
Because what the majority of the Earth may want to be
entertained by instead on this, their day off from work too, simply … does not matter. And hasn’t – hasn’t mattered since the very
beginning of television – some 60 years now.
The IMPACT of androcentrism on breathing
everywhere: that is what my Breathing
course will cover: “Androcentrism = a perspective on society and social life that discounts and
ignores the separate social experiences and social situation of women and views
culture and social relationships exclusively through male
eyes.” from http://openet.ola.bc.ca/sociglossary/andro.html
of Thompson Rivers University, Kamloops, British
Columbia.
Women and girls, the gender and the majority, are simply not into warring, dominating, coveting,
consuming, lying to get whatever, Your Honor, ignoring the lives and plights of
children or other adults. Not when they
become enlightened about other people’s lives.
Breathing will cover then in its Willingness laboratory
practical Roles Reversed Right Now: The
Flip / Reverse. The lab’s essence will
focus on Not Males doing unto Males now
exactly what it is that males do and
have done unto females and females’ children.
Right now. Everywhere. As well as for all those 12,000 other
years. And … in the same proportionality.
In the laboratory, we will consider and explore how males
worldwide would handle it if they were
told, over and over and over and over, just … how tired all of us females are of Hearing of
their accomplishments or watching them given accolades and ‘honors’. Like the honors they have been awarded after
they’ve killed their sisters, scissored off the clitorises of their own
daughters, thrown acid into the faces of their own nieces, abandoned and
starved to death their own grandmas, stunk up breathing DEhuman bodies with
over 1,000 years’ worth of rotting, three – inch feet … and stolen away
their ex – wives’ children.
The trophies and prizes awarded, all of them along the same
line as these same male honors now given out worldwide, will be reversed. Right now.
And not just 53 percent of the New York Stock Exchange celebrants on the
lab theater’s stage at the pretend New Millennium’s Eve will be female but 100
percent of them will be. As was the real
case with the real males on the real platform there on the real 31 December
1999. Not just on the itty bitty boys of
any and all races will 53 percent of their penises be cut off but 100 percent of their penises will be cut
off wherever in the World this is now routinely and religiously perped on itty
bitty girls. Not just 53 percent of the
men will be fucked by ‘the court’ and ‘the appeals courts’ but 100 percent of
them will be father – fucked because of their absence of privilege, control,
wealth, power and the right stuff between their legs. Not just … Well, you get the idea again, I’m
sure.
The males in the role – reversal lab exercises will be told,
in soft, whispering tapes running at all times day and night in the classroom
and the laboratory and the library and out of all the computer terminal
speakers, that females are not only tired of Hearing of these shitfuck honors
but that we are also choosing to ignore the
males themselves. As they have chosen to
ignore women, children and all of these issues by their male Silence, male
complicity or outright male loathing and enmity in all its 12,000 years of
hating forms for things female and things child – like. One lab assignment will be for every student
to entitle their report, and then recount her or his grasp and understanding of
“Males’ Endurance: Living Day to Day
Like This.” All examples of Double
Standardization and The Golden Rule Untaught will be covered and included in
this laboratory report. It will take a
long, long time to complete. It will be
a long, long report.
The next to the last assignment will be a lab report on the
immediate, constant and daily reactions, uproar and outrage everywhere to males having to live day
to day like this — with roles reversed, with the females treating the males day
to day in all such manners as DEhumans are treated in reality – the likes of
which uproar and outrage has been seen unmatched
anywhere since, O, at least 10,000 years before some male called
christ. This particular lab report will
be very short. Probably consisting of
only one sentence – the likes of
which complete, turned sentence will go something like, “Fuck, NO!”
The last lab assignment will be the student proving their
sincerity about and their Willingness to Do The Work (that’s the lab report
title) to bring about the outcome of drawing one’s daily quota of BREATHS. Kind of a three – word mantra the Breathing
Prayer begins with, a beginning that just came to me the very next morning,
about 5 am over coffee whitened with no – fat milk and brewed, well, reheated
actually, in the Radarange monstrosity of a microwave in that rented, not – so
– mammoth Land of Allah’s that was the Havencourt Drive apartment with the
massive orange and brown chunks for an itty bitty kitchen instead. The beginning that just came to me at that
hour after da’ judge – like men ‘dealt with me’ in their one – sentence ruling for their very last time.
The Breathing Prayer does not begin with ‘Free At Last’, not
even close. Has nothing to do with ‘I
Love You’ or ‘Love Your Whatever’. Not
even that Shawshank Prison one of ‘Keep Hope Alive’ either because, ya’ know,
as a female, I’m just frankly tired of Hearing it, so, and literally now,
mother – fucking tired of Hearing about hope myself. Hope doesn’t do The Work of anything. Hope kills us.
Working does The Work.
Hope is like Herry’s talk, talk, talk --- and No Work. It certainly isn’t ‘Let It Go’. Letting It go without an accounting, without
accountability by the parties accountable means only that the It goes nowhere. The It really only continues, is allowed to
or that It is gotten clean, slick away with.
With no consequences. So where’s
the learning accomplished then? Nothing
is let go of when there hasn’t been accountability and remorse for the It. And The Breathing Prayer isn’t even ‘Deal
With It’ although that one is nearly my favorite mantra now.
But is, instead, way, way simpler and easier than
these. In fact, Grace pointed out to me
just recently, with her Listening mastery and all and I still learning
Listening from AmTaham and her myself, that AmTaham must’ve somehow Prayed it
long before. When an itty bitty three –
footer was looking Blue Skyward to the man and his Allah. She said My Prayer must’ve come from Hearing
it from My First Ancestor a half century ago and his Hearing it from the Allah
in his Ancestors given them from the Allah in ... and so forth and so on. Back.
Even though only some
male’s hand got to write it down, there it is in Ecclesiastes 1 : 3 –
5: What profit hath a being of all its
labour which it taketh under the sun?
One generation passeth away; and another generation cometh: but the Earth abideth forever. The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down
and hasteneth to its place where it arose.
Sun Comes Up. Sun Goes Down.
Sun Comes Up. Sun Goes Down.
Zero Tolerance Now. I Will Work.
I, The Ancestor. Zero Tolerance Now.
Sun Comes Up. Sun Goes Down.
First Surgeon Koop was wrong. Purposefully.
So he knew it – that he was
stating wrongly. The three diseases
– in order of their destructive power –
which will, in my lifetime,
annihilate the Globe – – if not, right now, immediately stemmed: i) sexism, ii) abrogation of personal
accountability and iii) greed.
Amazing Grace and her Listening College.
* *
* *
Curriculum – building is fatiguing. But. Nowhere
near as exhausting as being a mother fucked, we have learned.
Soccer ended. With
the parents in a scrimmage the last practice date. Mommies and daddies versus the
six – and seven – year – olds. It was no contest. Parents lost, of course, 4 to 1. In goals scored. But not in their itty bitty opponents’ eyes
and hearts. The end – of – the – season
kids – versus – the – parents scrimmage became something known among families
the Globe over as a … tradition. Not for
lack of truly, truly trying, we never got any better. We parents never won.
That’s what something small can do. Something itty bitty. She or he teaches. That last day Mona showed me a watercolor
inking done by someone named Brian Andreas that she had purchased in Des Moines
at an art fair, an abstract of two humans, one an Ancestor in the Making and
the other an itty bitty being inside her belly with these words next to her,
“In my dream, he told me to hold the secret of his birth safe and teach him
when … he forgot.”
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