Open Letter to Red States Revisited

Here we go again…

There is a letter going around. An updated version of the same letter that came out after Barack Obama was elected in 2008. It goes on and on about what is wrong with the red states, many of them southern, and what is right about the blue states, many of them northeastern. The only problem with its logic, or lack thereof, is that blue states are mostly blue cities surrounded by red countryside. Granted, this is coming from someone who now lives in Ohio, in a blue city, who was born in Florida, in a blue town, and who was raised in Louisiana, in the bluest city ever, which has as much to do with the surrounding water as with political preferences. 

The “open letter” is supposed to be funny, I know. And yet, I take it now just like I did in 2008: as divisive, troublesome, wrong-headed, and not really all that funny. Besides, if the blue states separated themselves from the red states, they’d miss out on Delta blues, Mardi Gras Indians, Dixieland jazz, hushpuppies, cornbread, soft-shell blue crab and some of that other gorgeous seafood that only comes from the Gulf of Mexico and the gorgeous meals that are only cooked up and served in the south, and a way of life that is based on a sense of place and a slower rhythm and neighbors that call to each other from their porches and stoops to come have an iced coffee, a slice of pecan pie.  

The south defines who a lot of us are, and despite what self-righteous, blue-minded folks might think, I would move back home in a minute, to the big bathtub of wrong-minded, red-tinted fools. Because no matter where we live, we surround ourselves with like-minded friends, and if you have to color your friends, mine are of many hues, none of which include blue or red. How about the black and gold of a football team?  How about the rose-gold of a sunset over the Mississippi River? How about the dark brown roux of a shrimp-and-okra gumbo? Those colors make a lot more sense to me.  

There’s no less appreciation for all that is northeastern. When we want to see Broadway shows, hear Harvard lectures, eat Maine lobster, we’ll go and visit our friends in the so-called blue states, which are perhaps known better for their wry humor, intellectual asides, and cerulean waterways. We don't have to live there to share the same views. But we also don’t have to be unkind to each other, based on where we live or come from or would rather be.

Just sayin’.

Brain, Hands, Breath – Reverie 2011 – Days 14-16

Brain.  Flying forward – the first draft.  Mindless wandering around in circles, going nowhere but around and around and around – the endless revisions.  Hitting the ground like glass falling from the sky – knowing the writing is almost there.  Searching the darkness for another planet – understanding that the story is never complete, but sending it out anyway, one final Apollo mission. 

Hands.  Clapping, crossed at the wrists, reaching for the sky, opening another door, fingers wrapped around the thin stem of a daisy-a wineglass-a pen leaking blue ink-Atticus’ leash-a pale pink ribbon, resting on this keyboard, pulling laces tight, playing against a washboard, stirring another roux, signing a birthday card, crossing knitting needles and T’s and hearts.

Breath.  Holding it.  Running out of it.  Catching it.  Forgetting it.  Waiting for a.  Breathless with expectation.  Deep – the ocean.  Shallow – the lake.  Hold your nose and jump!  Sinking to the turquoise bottom of the pool.  Drinking tea, finding a thin silver dime.  Weightless.  Bursting.  Nearly out of.  Remembering to come to the surface for another and then heading back under again. 

A Happy Goodbye – Reverie 2011 – Day 8

Saying farewell to my mother as she drove away from our strange September family reunion in Maine—sweet, happy, smiling, laughing.  Her cane was in the back seat, her bags in the trunk, and the day was looking cool and blue and nearly cloudless, perfect for a drive.  We waved and blew kisses as she headed out of the drive, after the lingering moments talking through the car window.  And I waved even after the car rounded the road’s bend, feeling good about goodbyes, and thinking how the next time we'd see each other would be for my son’s high school graduation, another milestone for this little family.  Funny how it takes more than fifty years of coming and going and bidding adieu to get it right, to know everything we’ve been through, good and bad, leads to a sense of calm and measure of expectation that the next time we meet will be even luckier and more amazing than all the times before.

David Gray’s song “Say Hello Wave Goodbye”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cXURq1sJlWI&feature=related

Occupy Your Heart – Reverie 2011 – Day 7

December 7th.  Pearl Harbor.  War.  Afghanistan, Iraq.  World Peace.  Whirled pieces of what?  Getting along? Getting by?  Certainly not getting, getting, getting?  To not have so much, but to have the heart NOT to have so much.  To consider who loses by having and getting.  Getting by without causing someone else in the world disruption, even violence.  Getting along by understanding who exactly is wearing the triple high heels or the head-to-toe burkha.  Sinking into someone else’s shoes.  Wouldn’t that be something?

Consider Burkha Barbie, designed in 2009 for the iconic doll's 50th anniversary, leagues away from the original 1959 model, first clad in zebra-striped swimsuit.  Burkha Barbie, beautiful, like the girls she represents, and auctioned at Sotheby’s for Save the Children.  Getting and having in this case are halfway to recognizing, understanding, and giving, for who can really understand Barbie and who can validate the cultural cause that brought about the burkha.  They are both complicated, thrown here into the mix for a reason.  Sexism in opposite extremes.  Fascination still stands, by little girls and grown women, though the creations seem by origin patriarchal.  The doll and wardrobe designers might be women, but these girls are working within a man’s world.  Which brings us back by way of a weird spiral to war, which girls really are not interested in. Peace is more our thing.

I’m aiming for just that this holiday season—that is, what is left of 2011.  These three weeks of December, when Christmas lights, tinsel, and silver-and-gold wrapping paper persuade us to gift like mad, I’m trying instead to think of others.  Of mosquito netting for malaria-plagued villages, flocks of chickens and brown-eyed heifers for hungry families, books for schoolgirls in head-to-toe blue-and-black fabric.  Of world peace.  Of whirls of color and credit and consideration for others.  Of thinking outside the display box that we sometimes seem to inhabit.