f for Fake

F is for FAKE

The Webster’s New World College Dictionary defines “fake” as follows: 1. to make something seem real, satisfactory, etc. by any sort of deception or tampering; to practice deception by pretending or simulating something  2. fraud; counterfeit.  It is also noted it can be used both as a verb or noun.

The word “fake” is being thrown around a lot currently.  Maybe I should get the most up to date dictionary to see if the definition has been altered or is different now?

I remember as a kid, ice milk was marketed at a cheaper price than ice cream.  My dad had a fit, saying it was “fake” ice cream, and he was enraged that the market would try to dupe him into buying ice milk when he wanted the real thing!  Likewise, my mother had to make cakes and cookies from “scratch” because my dad wasn’t going to eat a cake made from a cake mix that came in a box where the only real ingredients were oil and eggs added, mixed, and thrown in a pan.  (He was not into easy—rather the real thing.)

I also remember learning how to “fake” it in the verb sense of the word by being asked a question in a third grade classroom about geography.  I quickly scanned the stuff all over each wall, saw a world map hanging, and knowing the continents but not the specific countries on each continent, could tell the teacher Tanganyika was in Africa.  (I also had super great eyesight and the map was only one wall away.)  She beamed an approving smile on me, I smiled back, and as soon as she looked away, breathed a huge sigh of relief.  “Faked” my way through another near disaster.

We all fake it from time to time.  Take that report due to your supervisor tomorrow afternoon, for example.  She/he calls you into the office.  Reminds you it is due tomorrow.  Your heart pounds, your palms sweat and you thank your lucky stars you are able to present her/him with a confident smile and a steady voice that says, “Oh, yes!  You will have it!  I’m almost through right now!”  The little voice that speaks inside and can knot your stomach up and make your knees feel like they no longer exist says,”Oh damn!  Forgot all about it!  No sleep tonight!  Oh man, oh man, oh man!”  But the boss sees the smile, hears the confidence in your voice, and says, “Great!  I knew I could count on you!”  You grin, exit, and go straight to the bathroom to hurl from the anxiety attack you just experienced.  That is called faking it.  We all do it.  It can also be labeled a survival skill.  Pull off a good fake job, you survive.  Friends never know, supervisors never know, significant others never know and you come off looking good.  But you know.  THEY don’t live in your heart and your head—you do.  Still, you can console yourself with the cliche/adage—“Fake it till you make it.”

Then one day, when you are more comfortable and feeling pretty secure, you are faking your way through the job, the situation, the questions, and you are challenged, right then, right there on something you claim to know, have done, etc.  Now the cliche “Dead in the water” comes to mind.  You know you have deceived someone on something, been a fraud, counterfeit, tried to make what you said, your actions REAL when they are not.  A colleague, a peer, or even a child, may challenge your knowledge, your actions.  What do you do?

You have been faking it so long, you are beginning to believe your own deceptions.  But the confrontation now forces you to respond.  Well, you can acknowledge that you aren’t sure of what you said or did and honestly say so.  The advantages to this response are the burden is off of you to have to continue the charade and pretense, which can be a wonderful feeling of being unburdened.  Some may deride you for your past actions, but generally, people make allowances when honesty follows their challenge to your behavior.  OR, confrontation can be responded to with anger.

If your choice is to become embarrassed and angry at being caught off guard by a challenge to your deceptions, you go on the offense and attack the person you see as the one who is going to expose you.  You’re human.  No one likes to have to admit they’ve been caught-red-handed.  Now, your self-esteem and ego are on the line.  So you take the offense, return challenge for challenge and friends, supervisors, and significant others may back off, but now a feeling of mistrust has wedged its way into the relationship.  The immediate  question, whether voiced or not, is what else have you pretended, deceived, “faked” in your dealings with me and others?  

My dad liked hot cake on Sunday nights while he was watching television and before he went to bed.  My mother would make a loaf cake, ice half with her frosting, and butter the other half for my dad to enjoy.  The kitchen would smell like German chocolate cake, it would come out of the oven, and before anything else, she would cut a huge piece and slip it on a plate, smear butter on the top, pour a tall glass of cold milk, grab a fork, and serve it to my dad, sitting in his recliner.  He would take the plate, hold it close to his face, breathing in the warmth and aroma of the hot cake, and then take that first bite.  Sometimes, I remember my mother waiting until he put it in his mouth and was savoring it, to tell him she hadn’t had time to get all the ingredients together and so she had to use a boxed cake mix this time.  His jaw would stop the slow motion of eating and tighten as his teeth clenched.  Then she would smile and say, “Not too bad for a mix, is it?”  And I would wait on these rare occasions when she didn’t bake from scratch, to see if he would even finish the first bite and take a second one.  To her credit, she was smart enough to know he could rarely turn down hot cake with butter and she knew if he put it in his mouth, she had a decent chance of pulling it off.  Still, his taste buds could have detected what he deemed a fake cake, so she beat him to the punch with confession and honesty.  Now that is diplomacy and brains.  Had he challenged her, had she become angry and retaliated trying to deny she deceived him, everyone in the house would have suffered.  Who would have won?  Sincerely, I don’t think there would have been a “winner.”  We all would have lost.

My truth insofar as the word “fake” is that it shouldn’t be thrown around easily and in anger.  I have personally found it is much less burdensome to be honest and forthright and not try to carry the weight of faking it on my shoulders as well.  Maybe it is because I respect people that don’t try to deceive me or pretend to be something they are not or know something they do not.  If I believe them, and count on them to know what they are doing, when in fact they have just been faking it, I might wind up in a real mess when I call on their expertise and they have none.  However, if they honestly tell me they don’t know something and have been faking it, I can live with that.  Hey, no one knows everything!  We can work together to rise to the challenge honestly and with integrity in our venture.

My dad wanted the real thing—a cake made from scratch.  But he also wanted the truth.  No one likes to be conned or played for a fool.  My mom never went there.  I’ve had to fake it sometimes—you have, too.  But when it comes down to it,  when push comes to shove, my truth is fakers get caught, so why even go there to start with?  Respect.  Honesty.  And consequently trust in what is real—not fake.

My dad only once decided not to eat the “box cake” and to be honest here, it was a crappy tasting mix.  He never would eat “ice milk.”  And my mother only ate butter, not margarine.  We can pick and choose which fake things we accept.  But isn't the real thing worth more in the long run?  It’s so much simpler and so much more honest in all respects.  Just give me the real thing thank you.   I don’t have to work to figure it out.  That is my truth.

E for Education

E for Education

Okay—hold onto your reading glasses and get a drink of choice.  I have a LOT to say about “education.”  First, the definition.  Again, according to Webster’s New World College Dictionary (a reliable source as usual), “education” is defined as:Noun 1. the process of training and developing the knowledge, skills, mind character…by formal schooling; teaching; training  2. knowledge, ability, etc. thus developed.

I feel it would be safe to say that everyone reading this blog has received education as it is defined since you are, indeed, reading this blog.  Of course, some may be self taught and never had “formal education,” but if so, please let me know so I can correct my thinking in this matter.

We are educated formally in school to be able to read, do sums and figure numbers, write coherently (we hope), learn about geography, government of our nation and others’ nations, history that is hopefully all inclusive, the arts, etc.  Our teachers work with us from our childhood through young adulthood and beyond to develop our knowledge and skills.  And, as anyone knows who has had children, taught children, been around children—some kids learn, some don’t, and thus we have another type of education that abounds outside a formal classroom.

I would like to refer here to an educational session I had with Annis. (She gave me permission to write about it.)  I had asked her for help with learning how to do online submissions.  She agreed to help me and we met for my tutorial with her using one computer and I having one she was not used to operating.  Neither of us were too frustrated as we just kept plugging away between the two laptops, she giving valuable information I would need to submit my material, explaining, and me asking question after question.  I was afraid she would throw up her hands at some point, smile, and politely as possible exit my ignorance.  But she did not, we conquered the differences between laptops, and she gave me even more pointers.  Then, as often happens when a bond in overcoming a mutual obstacle occurs, we relaxed a little and talked.  Somehow, we started talking about education—hence, this blog.

In sharing, we agreed that as valuable as a formal education is, as well as advantageous in so many ways, it was often life experiences that gave us our most long lasting and enduring educations.  She and I, for instance, both knew what discrimination and racism meant.  We were neither naive nor uninformed in the subject.  But she came from one angle and I from another.  I am white.  She is not.  I had told her how I appreciated a piece she wrote about facing racism and how it made an impression on me.  Then I related my facing discrimination and racism as a child in southeast Texas.  

I was six or seven years old.  My father had been raised there, my mother was a native Californian, and they had met in California but moved to be close to his family of birth.  We were poor—though I didn’t fully know that at the time—and my father had taken me into town from our farm to buy a new pair of shoes at J.C. Penny’s.  I couldn’t remember ever having a brand new pair of shoes and was thrilled.  And being so excited, I desperately had to pee when we got out of the parked car to go to the store.  At that time, there were no strip malls, it was 1955, but they did have public restrooms between storefronts.  Since my father was not one to hold my hand when we went anywhere together, I yelled, “Gotta go!  Be right back!” and headed toward the signature sign of the woman in the skirt on the door close to our parking place.  Formal education did me no good.

On the door, along with the sign for “Women” was written in bold letters “COLORED ONLY.”  At my tender age, and also my inability to hold my water, I ran to the door, and burst into the ladies restroom.  I saw a stall door swinging  open and headed straight towards it.  A large soft hand stopped me as it firmly landed on my shoulder.  “Y’all can’t use this bathroom, chile,” I heard.  I looked up into the kindest eyes I had seen in a long while.  “But ma’am, I GOTTA GO!” I whined, dancing and holding my crotch.  “Not here, honey.  You go to the white bathroom.  Hurry.  You go there!”  My response was, “I’m gonna pee my pants!  Please!”  

I guess the woman believed me, but I could see she was afraid.  Still, my bladder was calling the shots so without even closing the stall door, I plopped my little self on the toilet and peed and peed.  With relief I finished up, but I could hear whispering.  When I finished, I looked around at about five or six women, all looking scared.  The same kind woman who had first stopped me spoke and said, “Honey, y’all git yourself outta here now.  We all in trouble if you don’t.  Scoot on outta  here honey.”  I sincerely asked her, “Why are we all in trouble?  I just went pee and I didn’t make no mess or…”  And then another woman said softly, “Chile, this heres the black bathroom.  You is white and we is all in trouble.  Please get outta here, honey!”  I remember feeling totally confused.  “But it was me come in here!  Not any of you doing anything but letting me pee!  And thank you cause I thought I was gonna die and my daddy would have killed…” and then it hit me like a two by four between my eyes.  Daddy.  Black folks bathroom.  Me.  White.  And I cried.

I turned to the women, crying, and said, “I’m so sorry.  I didn’t mean to get nobody in trouble!  Honest truth!  I just had to pee!  Please don’t hate me!  I didn’t read the sign!  What can I do?  Oh god I’m sorry!  I don’t want nobody to get in trouble!  It’s my fault!  I’m SORRY!”  The tears kept flowing and I began to get scared of what might happen because of me.  One of the women that looked like she was as old as my grandma leaned down and wiped my face with a handkerchief and whispered, “Shhhhhh.  It’s all right honey, it’s all right.  You don’t be crying over us.  We grown women.  You just a little girl what had to go.  We be all right.  So you just walk out like it ain’t nothin and go on.  Can you do that?”  I mumbled I would try.  The woman who had tried to stop me as I charged in, patted my back to reassure me and I turned and hugged her with all my strength and said again, “I’m so sorry Ma’am!”  She didn’t push me away, but stroked my hair and said, “Come on, baby,” and walked me to the door.  

Outside, my father was pacing and when he saw me coming out the door, he grabbed my arm, told me how I had shamed him, and if I ever pulled a stunt like that again I wouldn’t be able to sit for a month.  I told him I was sorry and asked if I could get a drink of water at the fountain.  He let go of my arm and curtly nodded.  But I looked before I approached the fountain so I drank out of the one that said “WHITES ONLY.”  

So far as I know, no one accosted the kind women in the restroom I invaded.  And I kept thanking God for that.  I got an education that day.  An intensive and very painful education.  As I related the incident to Annis to show how education covers many venues, I felt a knot come up in my stomach with remembering the incident.  She was not upset and agreed, life teaches one many, many things you don’t learn in a classroom.  And I felt like I had received yet another learning experience.  How wonderful it was to talk to someone who got it because there was the freedom to learn from each other.

Education, in my truth, is what you have learned in school.  And “school” can be k-12, college, working as an apprentice under a master, feeding the homeless, caring for an elderly person, sitting under a tree during a rainstorm, rescuing a baby animal or an abused and abandoned one, sharing with other souls.  Education cannot be forced.  It is not like taking an empty cup and forcing something into it.  Rather, it is the ability to keep taking what was put into the cup, welcoming it, sharing it, and replenishing the cup, over and over.  An open mind and heart can be educated over and over, repeatedly.  

What do I remember most from my “education” in the COLORED ONLY restroom?  Kind women who were concerned for me.  Soft hands, quiet voices that comforted me and yet were firm in telling me what I needed to do.  They did not condemn, judge, accuse.  They helped a kid who had not learned to hate or be racist yet, but they didn’t know that.  I could have been hateful and racist.  And yet, they showed kindness.  Did I see color that day.  Yes.  And I hated that.  Why?  Because I had seen their hearts and they had seen mine and color had nothing, absolutely NOTHING to do with the hearts involved.  My father saw only the color.  I pity him to this day.  He missed out on so many wonderful people.

I have learned many things, been educated in many ways.  Some are beautiful enlightenments, some are horrid and devastating experiences survived.  Now, I know that all these things made me a better teacher as I chose to teach students in a classroom.  I saw my “students” as willing and open minds, desiring to learn.  And I wanted to share what I had learned with them, be open to them, listen to them, give answers where I could and work to find the answers I did not have with them.  They learned—I learned from them.  Because of our mutual education of each other, because of being open with each other, I am richer, I am more open, I have more love and empathy for everything because I and they were  willing to be taught—to be educated.  With education—in so many classrooms of life—I can choose this for myself.  We all have that choice.

D--Death

D—Death

I know.  I know.  Don’t go there.  But I am plagued by an intense desire to address DEATH  in this blog.  

By definition, Death is: the act or fact of dying; permanent ending of all life in a person, animal, or plant; the state of being dead; total destruction.  This, according to Webster’s New World College Dictionary.  The Oxford Dictionary says: the destruction or end of something.  Wikipedia states: cessation of life.  And by the way, “death” is a noun.  Nice, neat, concise.  But when we use this noun, it gets downright sticky.

First, I have to admit, publicly, in writing, I have caused death. I am a murderer.  I can hear plants conspiring among themselves in whispers, “Don’t perk up around her!  If she buys you and takes you home, you’re DEAD!”  And they are right.  I don’t sadistically  buy plants to take them home and murder them—but they do die—every time.  I used to name them.  “I dub you Sir Henry!” and I would water, feed, expose them to sunlight or not, as directions instructed.  I would talk to them, play music for them, keep their little leaves free of dust.  Geez!  I tried!  But alas, they all died.  The grim reaper would sneak in despite my best efforts to keep the dear plants alive.  After many futile attempts, with both indoor and outdoor plants, I had to realize that I, myself, was the harbinger of death.  I don’t even visit nurseries to look around anymore.  I can see the beautiful plants and flowers huddle, shrink and cringe if I wander around.  I’m not a mean person, so I spare them my presence and hence their heightened anxiety over my being in their presence.  But other than the dear plants, I am proud I have not killed any other living entity (that I know of).

On a more sobering note, I feel I have seen enough death, experienced enough death, that I am sickened.  I have lost friends to cancer, to AIDs, to severe abuse, to Alzheimers, cystic fibrosis, car accidents, and suicide.  Each time, my heart bleeds and breaks.  I lost so many friends in the Vietnam war.  We graduated together from high school.  They were drafted into the military and left.  They came home in body bags and flags draped over makeshift coffins.  Those that physically came back often were like the walking dead.  A part of them had died in their experiences in war.  Yes, a part of them died.

So what is death truly?  It is something different to each of us.  If you believe in an afterlife, it is merely a transition from this world to another.  If you believe in reincarnation, it is a temporary leaving to come back later.  If you hold to neither of those beliefs, it makes you worm food.  Are any of them dire and repulsive?  No.  All three are legitimate beliefs and there are oh so many more takes on death that I, in my ignorance, have no knowledge of, but I know they exist.

With death, the western culture wants “closure.”  A service is held, the mortuary people try to make the deceased look like they are asleep—natural— so we can shield ourselves from the fact that this is it.  They won’t be walking through the door tomorrow, or call you up, or send you a birthday card.  Dead.  Gone.  Cessation of life functions.  We try to console ourselves with euphemisms like: “She/he is with Jesus now.”  “She/he is out of pain now.”  “She/he lived a good, long life.”    Ever hear or say those little bits of…I don’t even know how to classify them, what to call those words.  But they are said, acknowledged, and the living go on.

Death is a fact.  Not an alternative truth, not an avoidable event (though humanity tries endlessly to change that), and something we all have to face at one time or another.  All life ceases individually at some point.  Deal with it or don’t.  That won’t change it.  But some things DON’T DIE.  And this is my truth and what I would like to wrap up with.

Ideas don’t die.  Evil does not die.  Good does not die.  Right now, this current day, I see great quotes from revered and esteemed people who have died physically, but who are with all of us.  Martin Luther King, Jr. is being quoted.  John F. Kennedy is being quoted.  Abraham Lincoln is being quoted.  Mother Theresa is being quoted. And on and on the list goes. They all fostered love, respect, caring for each other.  George Orwell is being read as he wrote about what could happen in 1984.  Their words, their goodness have not died!  But to recognize goodness, we must recognize evil.  Hitler is remembered.  Stalin is remembered.  They are quoted.  Dictators are admired in some circles.  The KKK and Neo-Nazis and White Supremacy tout their hate and discrimination.  History has become very important as we see good vs evil battles occur over and over.  The ideologies, the words, the beliefs do not die.  You can bury Martin Luther King, Jr., but you cannot bury what he stood for.  You can bury Adolf Hitler, but you did not bury what he stood for.  Their ideas, words, are NOT DEAD.

People, animals, plants die.  Ideas, words, and most importantly, GOOD AND EVIL , DO NOT DIE.   They are self-perpetuating and will not die.  There is no DEATH in this realm.  We are watching it play out right now, where we are, with what we believe in.  The physical may cease to exist, but the words said, the ideas put forth, the idea of good vs evil will continue on after physical bodies die and go, or don’t go, wherever.  But there is yet one more component to all this—the idea of FREEDOM.  It is innate in every human soul.  It will not die.  It draws the lines of good and evil.  (This is another blog entirely.)

So enough already.  To recap, we are all going to die.  FACT.  My truth about this word DEATH is that as someone who aspires to use words constructively and with kindness and compassion, my body will surely die, but my words will never know death as long as someone reads or remembers them.  And I pray they ring true.  I aspire to share love, compassion, comfort.  That cannot be buried in death.

C is for Could

C is for Could

By definition, the word could is a verb, meaning: a shade of doubt or a smaller degree of ability or possibility; expressing permission; expressing or suggesting politely less certainty than CAN.  The definition comes from Webster’s New World College Dictionary.  Ahhh—the possibilities in the word could.

I remember as a child being actually offered an option or choice.  I could choose to do what I knew was expected by the parent, usually the mother since she feigned choices being given, or I could choose what I truly wanted to do.  Being naive and mistakenly thinking I was really and honestly being offered a choice, I would force myself to look as if I was sincerely pondering my choice and then announce that since I could choose her option or mine, I would go with mine.  My confidence in the offerings of what I could do quickly faded as I realized quickly, not without repercussions, that I not only could, but should, follow along with her ideas and subtle suggestions camouflaged by her soft voice and smile—and my own obviously poor and no way subtle desires.  What I could do was indeed true to the definition, i.e.”…smaller degree of… possibility…”

All of us have experienced this at some time or other, at least I hope so.  (I need some fellow sufferers here.)  I remember the first formal employment I had (not mowing lawns or babysitting) as a cashier/stocker/salesperson in a small store.  My first day went well and I impressed the boss with my energy and attention to each task I was assigned.  Nothing was left undone at the end of that first day and the boss was pleased and I knew I was “in.”  After about a week, I saw where some things could be done differently to save time and accomplish more.  I started with, “You know, we could alter the routine just a little and save time and your money.  I could show you my idea as I’ve made notes and…” And BOOM!  I was told this was the way it had ALWAYS BEEN DONE and my suggestions were not needed nor wanted.  Yes, I could have pushed, but you know how it is when you need money, hence, the job.

COULD and reality often clash.  What one COULD  do and what one actually does are not always workable, if you know what I mean.  Case in point, I COULD  choose to get across town in ten minutes, from Oildale to Bear Mountain Boulevard.  And I feasibly could pull it off.  However, the reality of it is that if I put my foot on the accelerator of my car and did what I could do, wanted to do, getting a ticket goes from “…a smaller degree of ability or possibility…” to a distinct and certain consequence.  So, though I COULD, I choose not to.

Definitions sort of clarify things, again, sort of.  As I write this blog, events going on outside are something I COULD try to  do something about.  The neighbor behind my apartment is screaming and threatening people.  She has already intentionally knocked over the six garbage cans, dumping all the trash around the cars parked here and spread it all over the alley beside our parking lot.  Myself and other neighbors have picked up the trash and righted the cans, and when we go back inside, she pushes them over again.  I heard banging that sounded like it was happening again, went out, and met a couple that live two doors down and we surveyed the trash and garbage spread all over once again.  I came in, they had to run to the store, and I hear breaking glass now.  I just received a call from the couple that left.  They were at the store and had had to call the police because she came at them with a baseball bat as they were getting into their car.  Now, I will watch for the police to arrive, which may or may not happen.  The last time we called when someone was literally trying to break into an apartment, they didn’t show up until an hour and forty-five minutes later, said they saw no one and left.  Duh!  I think you can understand my use of COULD  here as in—they COULD SHOW UP to take care of the threatening woman—or not.  It truly seems to be a slim to none possibility.  So this “begs the question” as to what I COULD  do and what I will in actuality do.

The police have been called.  I could try to talk to her, barring being beaten senseless with a baseball bat, to try to de-escalate the situation.  I could try to keep tabs on where she is to help the police should they come (doubtful as it is) to help them find and dissuade her from doing damage to persons and/or property.  I could stay where I am, door locked, and just listen to the chaos outside.  Of course that means if my little fur baby Sara needs to relieve herself, uh oh.  I could pick up Sara, we could get in our car and drive to a friend’s house and wait for things to hopefully “blow over” until later this evening.  But—since it has been going on since 8 am and it is now 3:30 pm, a “blow over” doesn't seem in the offing anytime soon.  The dilemma is what I COULD  do and what happens are not necessarily  going to work together towards an informed and realistic action on my part.  The element of surprise and an erratic human on the end of a baseball bat that is flailing through the air towards cars, trucks, and fellow humans seems to diminish the different choices of COULD  right now.

A lot of COULD actions, in my truth, have to do with moral choices.  I could do a lot of things that aren’t really illegal but in a moral sense are quite shady and iffy.  Taxes will be due soon.  I could alter a few numbers, move a few decimal points.  I COULD.  But morally, it is not an option.  Not for fear of being caught,  rather because morally, in my truth, it is wrong for me.  Similarly, I could walk out of the store, knowing I had seen the cashier made an error in my favor and pocket the extra money, considering myself lucky.  I COULD.  But, I know she/he could lose their job for a drawer that doesn’t balance out at the end of her/his shift.  Morals.  Right. Wrong.

I go back to her/him, tell them I wasn’t charged for the item, and pay up.  It never was an option for me in my truth.

See the difference in COULD and choices, both morally and according to one’s values/core truths?  I like to sleep at night, not go over where could and did and went against my morals and values.  Restful sleep is a luxury for me.  Why screw it up with what I could do and did?

**Recap on the situation mentioned earlier taking place as I wrote.  An officer finally showed up, said he could not see the woman in question anywhere and “…call me if she goes off again.”  My neighbors and I directed him to the apartment we saw her go into, and he left.  Nothing.  And so, he COULD have followed up with it, but rather chose not to be bothered, drove off, and now we wait pensively and anxiously to see if it recurs as it has off and on all day.  Here is where I wish he would have done what he COULD have.  His choice, I guess. (He probably has no trouble sleeping either.)

b for Beg

Beg

According to Webster’s New World College Dictionary, the word “beg” is a verb meaning: 1. to ask for as charity or as a gift  2. to ask for earnestly as a kindness or favor.  It also is: to ask humbly;entreat.  Another use of “beg” is to use an argument that assumes as proved the very thing one is trying to prove i.e. to evade the issue.

Now in my experience, I have begged, with humbleness, to not be punished—both as a child and as an adult.  I sought mercy  and literally begged for it.  Unfortunately, it seldom worked.  As a child, the response was usually, “Rules are rules.  You broke the rules, you will be punished.”  As an adult, when stopped by a police officer, there was really no discussion as I begged and then signed the ensuing ticket for speeding or parking illegally.  Mercy was not a term discussed in my begging in cases like those.  In fact, there was no discussion at all other than my violation.

I have also encountered others who beg.  At gas stations, on roadways, at convenience stores, people have literally begged for change, dollars.  If it is for food, I offer to buy it for them.  Sometimes seeing them smile and nod, it makes me happy to help them and they are happy to get food in their belly.  If they look at me like I am crazy, I shrug and say, “If you change your mind, let me know,” and that is the end of the begging.  

Now on a regular basis, I volunteer to help feed the homeless and their pets and those I work with and I hand out lunches.  Never once in the many months I have participated has anyone been unappreciative nor begged.  Our group receives thank yous, God bless yous, and smiles and tears.  The homeless will, however, point out another homeless person that needs to eat, and offer their lunch to them rather than see their friend hungry who is hungrier than they think they are.  But never have they begged.  There is a sense of solemn dignity in not begging.

I am sure everyone has had the experience of having to beg at some time or another, if not for her/him self, for others they love and care about.  I have begged for animals to be spared a cruel punishment for what is deemed misbehavior.  I have begged for someone to not strike a child in anger and frustration.  But at times, I will admit, it was not with humility that I begged for those things.  My bad.  I get angry at people who abuse those smaller and weaker and with no voice.  So I do beg, but then I am ready to stop what is going on if it does not stop with my begging.  Yes, begging occurs all the time and sometimes, when we realize we are begging, we stop.  We feel degraded by the very act.  It does not always get charity or kindness as a response.  In fact, it has been by experience that it rarely accomplishes anything.  Enough of that definition and my truth.

The definition of beg that I find most entertaining and enlightening is the one of “to use an argument that assumes as proved the very thing one is trying to prove i.e. to evade the issue”  I first learned about this in college when a particularly astute and hilarious professor would allow students to argue with him over a grade given on an extensive paper (at least 20 pages, if not more) and then simply state, “This really begs the question you realize.”  Duh!  From that point on, there was nothing to say.  Then he would let his mouth ever so slightly smile, while the student (I tried once and once only to argue with him) squirms and realizes she/he has just been knocked out of the ring in this particular fight.  If one was lucky, they were allowed to mumble, “Yessir,” and walk away, humbly.  Some of us were not so lucky.  He would ask for the graded paper, and page by page, we would have to respond to his question of how what was written applied in whatever way it was supposed to to the main thesis.  It was a wonderful lesson in honesty, integrity in writing, and knowing what you really knew and didn't know.  AND it was one of the most humbling experiences you could ever have as ignorance (we students) met knowledge (our wise and learned professor).

I loved that professor and feared him—above all the others I took classes from.  I never wanted to hear—this begs the question come out of his mouth in response to what I had submitted.  The one time he said it to me, I truly begged, pled, entreated humbly for mercy, pleading ignorance.  And he was merciful as he smiled, handed the paper back and said, “Rewrite, by next class session.”  I had tried to BS my way through and wound up doing the best paper I ever re-wrote because I begged sincerely and was shown mercy.  

Beg.  Ask humbly;entreat.  I would add the word—sincerely.  That is the definition and my truth.

Age

Age is defined in the dictionary as both a noun and a verb.  The noun version states that it is the time that a person or thing has existed since birth or beginning.  As a verb, age is defined as growing old, to ripen and become mature.  Of course there are a total 9 different definitions in Webster's New World College Dictionary, but these are the two that are relevant to myself.  First, let's think about the noun "age."

The noun form of "age" is important when you are buying something at a garage sale, an antique store, or from Target.  Depending on what you want to buy, you may judge the item by its age.  If looking for a dresser, for example, you may not like the newer ones and may want one like you remember in your grandmother's bedroom.  If you do find this sought for treasure, then you have to look at the "distress" factor.  Exactly how beat up is this dresser?  I remember trying to sell a plank wooden table to get a little extra money.  In actuality, it was only about 10 years old, solid wood.  But--it was definitely "distressed" from five kids, their numerous friends, relatives, and all who sat around it.  Burn marks, scratches, one child who wanted to be a woodcarver later in life--all distressed the table.  When prospective buyers saw it, their eyes would light up, and then the dreaded question--"Exactly how old is the table?"  Mutterings, ducked head, and finally the answer "About 10 years old."  Faces turned to stone, judgement as the "distressed" table became the victim of unruly kids and people in general and was no longer enticing.  It was just a beat up wood dining table and the final judgement was I'd be lucky to get ten bucks and someone with a truck to haul it away.  Yep.  They were right.

Likewise, those of us who have lived through the "terrible twos" with our own kids or others' wait for that "age" to pass and just bear with it.  We accept that for roughly a year at that age, children are generally demanding, screaming, defiant little entities.  After all, it is the "age."  So as they throw themselves on the floor in the grocery store or scream in the restaurant, we smile and say, "Two years old" and that excuses the little one.  (And lets the parent/caretaker off the hook.)  But I do not take the two year old into Target with me when I want to buy something NEW.  I don't want the little one to damage and make the brand new item look like it has been around half a century!  

So you can see age is relevant as a noun in many, many ways.

Now to take on age as a verb!  Nothing is better tasting than a fine, aged cheese, or an aged glass of wine!  Both have been lovingly nurtured and cared for as they matured so that you are in heaven when they hit your palate.  We pay and pay dearly for these items brought to maturity!  But the fuzzy thing growing in the back of the fridge?  UGH!  The milk with lumps in it that plop into your glass rather than flow smoothly?  Another DOUBLE UGH!  Some things are meant to age and grow better and sweeter and smoother.  Some items need to be disposed of within a few days or else.

So we see the process of aging, good or bad, everywhere.  The venerable old tree that you love that has just been there "forever."  That stock you bought on a whim that is now maturing, along with your loan.  The two year old that is now a senior in high school applying to colleges and no one killed her/him before they turned three years old.  That car you were going to trade in that is now a classic because you let it set so long in the driveway.  But the best example is your body.  Ahhh yes.

You go to the doctor for some minor and irritating reason or just an annual check up.  Generally, whatever the problem, some test or another needs to be run, causing you to return for the results.  And then the comment, "You're in good shape--for your age." SLAM!  The ultimate insult, compliment, ambiguous bullshit!  Pride in being in good shape--despair for your age.  Reminds me of when I made a touchdown in street football, and the oldest boy in the neighborhood came up and hit me so hard in congratulations for carrying the ball to the end of the block that I fell face first into the pavement.  Wow!  I impressed him!  Geez, that hurt!  Hence, my response to both the doctor and the big kid on the block--"Thanks, I think."

And so AGE becomes more important while also insignificant.  Paradox.  Use it to get that cheaper breakfast at a restaurant or those tacos at Del Taco on Taco Tuesday.  Deny it when the physician tells you to be careful and watch what you eat.  Steaks and chocolate and beer never hurt you before!  You hear, "you're only as old as you feel."  I remember being so disappointed that I didn't feel any different at all between 7 years of age and 8.  It was devastating!  And no, sorry-- inwardly I may feel 16, but when it comes to breaking into my house after I lock myself out, I'm going to find a kid, a spry kid, to climb through that tiny, unlocked shower window in my bathroom.  See, with age comes wisdom!  Why break my neck?  If the kid falls through, hits the tub and breaks an arm, she/he will have a cast to brag about and be proud of.  I would have to be in physical rehab/therapy for six months, never telling anyone why I was climbing through the bathroom window in the first place.  Wisdom.  Ingenuity.  SURVIVAL!

One thing for sure.  Age, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder and the body of the carrier.  I choose to use it where I can, deny and ignore it when I wish.  I know the definition.  But this is MY TRUTH when it comes to age!