O for Obfuscate

Referring to Webster’s New World College Dictionary once again, the literal definition of Obfuscate is: 1. to  cloud over; obscure; make dark or unclear  2. to muddle; confuse; bewilder.

Isn’t this what we all go through in life?  Different phases of life we encounter?  If you haven’t experienced this, well, lucky you!

I remember the first time I signed a contract.  Ah, so long ago!  I was buying a car and had been warned to “read the fine print” before I signed.  I was so eager to sign and assert my independence as a young and “legal” adult!  Now, I am a good reader, adept at grasping what I read rather easily.  But…well, what could harm me in a contract with Jerry’s Used Car Dealership?  I quickly perused the contract, mentally went over my meager budget in my head, confirmed I was making the deal that would put me on the road with no pain and extreme freedom with my very own car!  And I signed.  (Been there—done that?)

Six or so months down the road, I got a better paying job and saved some money so I could just pay off the balance of the car and be done with monthly payments.  I had realized that the interest I was paying was almost as much as three or more payments so I wanted to be shed of the obligation.  I proudly walked into Jerry’s Used Car Dealership, money in hand, and announced I was going to pay off the balance.  “Jerry,” or whoever, sat behind the paper littered desk, smiled his salesman smile and rummaged around through papers, then turned to a file cabinet, rummaged through it, and after about 15 minutes let out a big “AHA!” and took my money. 

“Jerry” counted my money, played with his desktop 10-key adding machine, counted my money again, then looked up at me and said with no smile, “You’re short.”

I felt my mouth drop open as I, also without a smile, said,  “No.  It’s all there.  I figured it up.  That’s how much I owe you.”

His eyes never left mine as he said, “There’s the balloon payment for pay off.”  I was in a state of obfuscation.  My head felt like a balloon that was about to burst.  “What are you talking about?” I demanded, now totally bereft of the confidence I had worn upon entering the trailer that was his office on the car lot.

“Ballon Payment!  The contract you signed.  Here it is.  Written right here!”  And he shoved a mussed up, finger and grease stained contract at me.  His pudgy finger went right to the offending lines of writing without hesitating.

I choked out the words, “May I see that?” as I reached for the contract and he thrust it toward me.  I slowly read the paragraph he had so gleefully pointed out.  Yep.  I was short.  But in my embarrassment and humiliation at the situation I was in due to my own ignorance, I countered with, “Is this even LEGAL?”

His response?  “Sure is, missy.  And you signed the contract right here..” he pointed to my signature (also grease stained), “and then you drove off the lot in the car you agreed to pay for in full.”

What could I say?  I reached for the money I had given him but he held on tightly to the cash.  “You sure you don’t want to bring back the rest and I’ll just keep this for you until you get back, Little Lady?”

Looking at “Jerry”, donut crumbs in his mustache, smug smile on his face as he held my money in his tight little fist, I began to see colors, and red was predominant.  I said through tight lips, “I don’t think so mister.  Give me my money back.”

“Jerry” wasn’t going to let the money go that easily, however.  “Well, how about I write you a receipt for what you’ve given me and we can just put it on the balance?”  I looked at dirty “Jerry” in his creaking, equally greasy and dirty chair.  Heard the chair groan as he leaned back, still clutching my money.  Saw the coffee pot that was so filthy you couldn’t tell if it actually had coffee in it.  Saw “Jerry’s” tie that was loosened at the neck with stains on it.  Write me a receipt?  Would it have a little something extra thrown in if I agreed?  Like a carrying charge?  Or processing fee?

I shook my head no as I leaned across the desk and grabbed my money out of his little fist.  His face registered shock but he quickly put his phony smile back on and said, “Will you be back this afternoon to go ahead and pay off the car?”

Again I shook my head no and headed toward the door to exit.  “Always read the fine print, girlie,” he called after me, and then laughed.  I stopped and turned to face him as I said with a smile, “Oh, I will!  You can bet on that!  You're a great teacher, mister!  I will never forget you or the lesson I learned today!”  His smile was gone.  So was mine.

I had truly learned the meaning of the word obfuscate.  I have hated that word ever since I learned it through practical experience.  It brings back sharp feelings of embarrassment, humiliation, degrading anguish at my playing the fool.  It stings—even today.  I do not use the word and work to NOT obfuscate any issue or precept I bring up with others, even in casual conversation.  There is no “fine print” in my words.  My truth is obfuscate is a mean word denoting mean actions and undermining truth.  But I learned the word.  I understand it.  I felt the word.  Please do not attempt to obfuscate when you propose an action or decision—or contract!

Geez!  I do hate that word!

Side note:  An uncle took my laboriously saved money to “Jerry” the following day, read the contract, used “Jerry’s” adding machine, and pointed out “Jerry” had calculated the balloon payment incorrectly and saved me $30.00.  Three months following this, pink slip in hand, I watched the tow truck haul off my first car.  My uncle sold me his second car, with no balloon payment.  I drove it five years.  Thanks “Jerry.”  Lesson learned.

N = NO

The word NO is defined by Webster’s New World College Dictionary as follows: 1. it is not so; nay  2. it cannot be so: used to express surprise, disbelief, dismay, etc.  3. emphatically not: refusal or denial.

Two year olds are notoriously known for their discovery of the word “no.”  They are asked a question, any question, and the response is, “NO!”  Older siblings, parents, amused adults will ask question after question to receive the response of “no” and then ask the smug child, proud of its new word, “Would you like some ice cream?”  Now the power of the word no is gone.  Because yes, they do want some ice cream but…  and everyone has a good laugh at the trap the toddler placed themselves in through asserting “no” and now having to say yes to get the ice cream.  Ahhh, we are mean.  But we will justify this action on the unsuspecting child by saying we are teaching her/him that not every answer can be “no.”  Have we really taught the toddler anything?  Or are we mirroring our own acquiescence in a world where NO is more often than not an inappropriate and unacceptable response?

Classes are taught in assertiveness to instruct people in the value of saying NO to allow them to not be overburdened, to take care of themselves.  Isn’t it strange that when we first said no as a child, to assert ourselves, by the way, it was quickly squelched and ridiculed that we had found this new and powerful word?  That we were shown the futility of saying no?  And then years later had to be taught and trained to say it once more, but this time for self-preservation?  The human race is weird, folks.

We live in such monumental paradoxes daily.  A woman is raped, brutally and aggressively.   A trial takes place to convict the rapist.  The defense attorney asks the victim pointedly, “Did you say no to the alleged rapist?”  Hmmmmm… good question!  Because if you didn’t say “NO”, you were actually consenting to being raped.  Everyone knows that!  No matter there was a knife to your throat or a gun to your head.  You were duty bound to say NO!  Yep, that is clear as mud.  And of course, the assumption would have to be that had the victim said NO, the perpetrator would have stopped immediately upon hearing that word.  Just like if someone accosts someone else and tries to rob them, no should be said in order to immediately stop the crime.  You figure it out.

Try this one on.  Johnny comes home from school with a bloody nose.  You ask what happened as the concerned parent.  It turns out Jimmy  tried to steal his backpack and he fought for it and Jimmy offered to let him keep it if he could win a fist fight.  You, as the concerned and caring parent say, “Why didn’t you just say NO?”  duh  Johnny knows if he doesn’t fight for it, he will lose it and if he does fight for it, he may still lose it.  Why say NO?  What good would it have done?  Jimmy really doesn’t want an answer— yes or no.  Jimmy wants to be a bully and beat the crap out of Johnny.  The word no is immaterial and may even anger Jimmy further and the fight could escalate even more.  Come on parent!  Would you have said NO as you faced Jimmy’s irate parent who challenged you to a fight?

There are times, though, when NO can be a powerful word and when it should definitely be said and said forcefully.  You see someone abusing an animal or child or another human and are disregarded as a bystander.  THEN, you say, “NO!  Stop it!  You cannot do this!”  OR You are asked if it is all right to slander others because of race or religion.  Say NO!  OR You are asked to join in laughter at slanderous remarks about a person who is of different sexual orientation.  Refuse!  Say NO!  See how NO can be a true asset?

Again, we teach children not to say no until we realize we have done such a good job that they cannot tell a molester no, they cannot tell a bully no, they cannot tell anyone no because it has become “bad to say no.”  They grow up and the boss says for certain favors, a promotion, a raise can be had.  A teen is miserable at home and another teen offers an escape into whatever seems to feel good at the moment.  A college student is offered a copy of the upcoming exam that he/she really has to pass.  None of the above are capable of saying NO to the offers/demands being made because it is not right to say no.  And if asked why they did NOT say NO, they don’t even know.  They are hard-wired to acquiesce and nod, say yes, and move on.

Realistically, truthfully, people have died for saying NO.  We call them martyrs.  We call them heroes and heroines.  We call them people of greatness.  We admire those who will stand and say no to injustice, wrongs, cruelty, etc.  Sadly, it is usually after they have died because when they are alive, we are saying they are crazy lunatics to buck the status quo, to defy the bullies, to stand up to the boss.  Just go with the flow is what we tell the non-sheep.  They are dangerous.  They are radicals.  They upset the balance.  But when they die with “no” on their lips, we extol their greatness.  Yes, we are weird.

In summary, the next time a toddler answers every question with NO, think about it before you trick her/him.  Are you setting them up to be hurt, led by those stronger, give up to pressure and what they want to believe is moral and right?  If you don’t think so, then go ahead.  Show that child the futility of NO.  If you worry you are condemning them to quiet submission, then you can help them see where no needs to be used wisely, but still used.

That’s my truth.  And I own that I am weird. NO—not crazy—weird.

M for Moxie

Webster’s New World College Dictionary defines “moxie” as:[slang] courage, pluck, perseverance, etc.; guts.

I have a friend named Mary who is fighting stage 4 cancer.  It has been controlled in some areas, ravaged organs in other areas.  She, and I, read incessantly on new procedures, new “cures” and medicines.  We see each other when she is well enough and compare our findings.  Yes, Mary is just one of hundreds of thousands who face the big C.  She seems to console herself with this fact—she isn’t alone out there with an alien and unknown disease.  If this makes her feel better about her situation, I say go for it!

Mary and I met a long time ago.  I cannot tell you exactly how long ago—first because I am super bad at time.  Secondly, because both she and I in our friendship, refuse to acknowledge TIME.  We celebrate the here and now.  Because you see, Mary has MOXIE!

We talk on the phone, over a cup of coffee at Starbucks, in each other’s homes.  I always say, “How are you doing today, dear one?”  She always—ALWAYS— responds with “I’m okay.  How about you?”  Then we look at each other, reading each others’ faces, the eyes, the way we posture ourselves.  And it is usually myself who says, “COOL!  Now—how are you really doing?”  Her head will duck so I cannot see her face and her voice lowers and I hear, “I’m hanging in there.”  I know then that it has been rough—but her moxie has carried her through again.

We discuss doctors appointments, tests, results and speculations of test results by the learned doctors.  We pull them down from their pedestals as keepers of life and death and laugh because regardless of what they claim to know, they do not know my friend Mary.  They do not know the drive, the perseverance, the MOXIE Mary carries within her that will not die nor go away.

Mary is a slight woman physically, dark haired, pale complexion, unsteady gait.  She is modest in her use of make-up, and always well-groomed.  When she approaches, I know how she feels before she reaches me.  I see the tiredness, the pulling in of her arms to protect her body, the mouth forcing a smile as her eyes spot me, waiting.  And unbeknownst to her, I too, force my mouth into a smile as the tears and scream of pain at seeing her pain stick in my throat.

You see, Mary and I play this “game” repeatedly to bolster each other, to avoid what seems to be a relentless truth of being out of control of emotions and body with this thing called “stage 4 cancer.”  Truth?  I don’t have the moxie Mary has.  Were it not for her wonderful MOXIE, I would crumble and not be able to support her, make her laugh, love her with all my heart and more.  No.  I would run and selfishly hide to protect myself from her pain, the knowledge we share that there are days ahead when I will sit at Starbucks alone, missing her.  But not dear Mary—she has MOXIE!

We talk about kids, hers, ours.  We talk about issues around us.  We talk about a trip to the beach that she can no longer make without rearranging doctor appointments and lab tests.  We talk about grandkids.  We gripe about politics, how the homeless are criminalized, how so many are marginalized today.  We talk about the hypocrisy of the “church” and the Christians who avoid her and judge her illness as a result of her doing something “bad” that God is punishing her for.  We laugh.  We get angry.  We get loud!  And we hold hands and share love between our spirits and souls and none of the outside world matters anymore—only what we share heart to heart.

Mary also uses her moxie to discuss things with us that she says she worries about.  Her grandson that she wants to see grow and loves with all her heart.  Her brother who wants to know if she has made out a will to designate who gets what and always asks, “Is the funeral paid off yet?”  Her hubby who gets angry when the treatments and the cancer take over and she cannot do the bills or cook or do laundry because he refuses to acknowledge he is powerless against the cancer and losing her and he rages.  He rages not only against the illness but against her.  Ironically, when she is doing fairly well, he dotes on her like he is trying to milk every happy moment he can out of her feeling well to return to rage when her body becomes tired again and he walks away.  Mary cries when we talk about these things.  And I listen.  My heart breaks for her and I feel the urge to gather her loved ones around her and scream in their faces—“Stop protecting yourselves and protect and love HER!  I KNOW your pain, but she is the one dealing with it daily!  Nightly!  NOT YOU!  Ease her pain with your LOVE!”  But instead, I listen, nod, hold her hand literally, and then say something inane that makes her smile, then hopefully laugh.  The hour we had each set aside to meet and be with each other becomes, two hours, three, sometimes four as we share.

Today, this morning, I will meet with Mary again for coffee.  I make no plans for the rest of the day.  I cannot, truly cannot, tell her I have to leave and “get busy” or go somewhere else.  No.  We don’t lie to each other.  We play the game, yes, but we DO NOT LIE to each other.  As I have already stated, I will see her, evaluate her health status, and then we will discuss matters of the heart and soul.  And it will be good.  It will be rich and full.  I will take a tiny bit of Mary away with me, and her moxie, and I hope I will be able to give her something she can take away with her from our meeting until we come together again.

MOXIE: courage, guts, pluck.  Perseverance.

My friend Mary.  My Truth.