Fighting Clothes

I was once placed in a long-term substitute teaching position where I taught four English classes and one sociology class for a few months. With this position also came an advisement class.

Advisement is like an extended homeroom class. It is to be used as an opportunity to help the students that are placed in your care with anything that they might need, be it academic, or personal. The students that were placed in my advisement class were between the ages of fifteen and sixteen.

One morning when I was grading papers, I overheard a conversation between a group of girls in my class, as they waited for the bell to ring. These girls were talking loudly, and making no effort to keep me from hearing what they were saying.

Conversations between girls this age would normally hold no interest for me, but this particular one caught my attention, when it became focused on violence. They began to talk about the fights they had been in, and they stated that to get into a fight they had to be wearing their "fighting clothes" . They discussed this as well as how to use your high heeled shoe to beat someone in the face.

The final straw came when one of them said "one time when I had put a razor blade in my mouth to fight, I forgot and talked, and my mother had to take me to the emergency room for stitches."

That did it! I could no longer keep my mouth shut. I looked up at the girls and said "you have got to be kidding me! If I had exhibited that type of behavior when I was your age, my mother would have been beating me while I bled to death." "Let me also add that if I were to open my closet door, and look inside, I would have no idea what would constitute a fighting outfit."

They responded by saying, "you know, some Dickies", as if they were simply informing me, in case I should ever need to know.

I doubt very seriously that I did any good when I lectured those girls that morning, but I did, at least, let them know that I was devastated by the things that they were saying.

I told them that I felt sorry for the young gentlemen of their generation. I said that I felt this way because, I was sure that they would be hard pressed to find a lady to marry.

I assured the girls that I doubted very seriously that the young men would want razor blade toting, dickie wearing, thugs to take home to meet their mothers, not to mention, to later become the mothers of their children.

The girls just looked at me as though they were shocked that I found their behavior so troubling, and that I also believed decent young men would as well. They did, however, change the topic of their discussion, and the bell rang shortly thereafter to dismiss them from my classroom.

I have, in the past, because of behavior such as this, stuck my head in the counseling office door to suggest a new elective entitled "Being a lady 101" and I have also kindly suggested that it be mandatory.

I did lecture this particular group of girls with everyone in the rest of the class listening, hoping they might learn something as well. (It was after all, advisement.)

I did what I could that morning to get these girls to take a good look at their attitudes and their behavior. Do I think they listened to me? No, probably not, but I do find comfort in the fact that I tried.

The filthy language and violent behavior of some of the young women today upsets me to the very core of my being.

I know that all young girls are not like this particular group. Some are still being taught to behave like ladies. One great example is that a good friend of mine and his wife sent their daughter to a class at the YMCA entitled "Perfectly Polished" not all that long ago. God bless the two of them for that. It gives me hope.

As for the other girls, I'm just going to pray for them. I'll pray for their safety, and I'll pray that God will give them enlightenment. I'm sure he knows, like I do, that they desperately need it.

Judge Not

I am a Christian, and I try very hard to be a good one. I admit that I fail miserably on some days, but I do what I can. I know that no one is perfect and we all sin, and I also know that some people are better christians than others.

There is one thing, however, that I can't understand, and that is why so many Christians worry about not doing things like; stealing, killing, drinking, smoking, and using the Lords name in vain, but that whole "judge not lest ye be judged" thing never enters their minds.

It must be that they don't think about it, or I suppose it could be that they don't think it counts all that much. At any rate, I have met plenty of these judgmental people in my life. I have personally heard some of them declaring other people passengers on the Hell train.

I have been the target of one of these type Christians on more than one occasion, but there is one incidence that sticks out in my mind. I won't reveal the name of the person I'm talking about, but I will say that it was a co-worker.

There were three or four of us standing around one morning talking about religion and beliefs and those sorts of things. I wasn't all that involved in the conversation, to tell you the truth, because I am one of those individuals who believes that discussing religion or politics at work is dangerous.

I became more involved, however, when one of the individuals doing most of the talking decided to look at me and make it personal. I made a simple comment about how I had done my share of wrong in my life, and that I was sure God had some things to discuss with me.

This woman actually looked at me and said "I know I wouldn't want to be behind you in line on judgment day".

When I recovered from my initial shock, I am ashamed to admit that I momentarily "layed my religion down" as one of my other co-workers likes to say.

I looked at her and said "Honey, I don't blame you, because I'm sure when I get there God and I will be awhile, but maybe you'll get lucky and there will be an express lane for people like you...Unless, of course, that whole judging other people thing counts, at which point you're going to be screwed."

Needless to say, when I walked off, she was the one left wearing the shocked expression. Like I said, I really don't understand why some people feel so comfortable judging other people, and I probably never will.

I do know, however, that I felt badly about the way that I responded to her comment that day, because my response made me appear as bad as she did, and, because I was just raised better than that.

Next time, and I'm sure there will be one, I've decided on a new plan. I'm taking the high road and I'm just going to close my eyes and pray for myself some patience. If I can manage it...I think the Lord will be proud.

She's AWOL Lieutenant

My husband has a job that places him in charge of a few people that not only listen to what he's saying most of the time, but also choose to comply. They call him Lieutenant. Understandably, this has led him to develop a certain sense of confidence in knowing, that when he gives an order it will be followed.

What he failed to understand one night, when giving a directive to our sixteen year old daughter, was, 1. She doesn't work under him, and 2. When you are a teenager some things just seem worth the risk. (like disobeying an order from your father for instance.)

On the particular night that I am referring to, he and I were sitting in our living room when our daughter, who hadn't gone to school that day, came strolling through. She had her hair rolled and had her make-up perfectly applied, lip gloss included.

My husband glanced up and saw her and casually asked , what are you doing? She responded ever so sweetly by saying "I'm getting ready to go to a party at Robby's house." My husband then informed her that she knew the rule. No school, no anything else.

She looked at him and said "You can't be serious! You have to let me go!" She then preceded to list all of the reasons that she would be socially ruined if she was unable to attend the party. He looked at her and said simply, "I'm sorry Lauren, but you're not going."

Needless to say, the water works began. She spouted off a few disgruntled comments, and stormed into her room. I heard her slam and lock her door, and then she turned her radio on loud enough for the neighbors to enjoy it with her.

After about fifteen minutes had passed, I told my husband that I thought he should go and check on her. He said "she's just mad. She'll cry herself to sleep and be over it in the morning." I told him that I just had a feeling, but he assured me that he had it under control.

Several minutes went by and the something's not right feeling kept gnawing at me. Finally I stood up and said "do what you want Lieutenant, I'm going to pick the lock." I grabbed a hair pin and popped the lock open on her door.

When I stepped into the room the first thing I saw was the curtain blowing in the breeze. I shouted into the other room saying "you might want to get up Lieutenant, you've got one AWOL."

The look on his face when he reached her room was one of total shock and disbelief . He couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that she actually had the audacity to not only go out the window, but to blatantly disregard what he had told her. I couldn't help but look at him and say "no problem, you've got this, right Lieutenant?"

While he was standing there trying to process it all, I went out to try and find her. My search was futile, so I had no choice, but to return to the house and wait for her. She came home right on curfew and through the front door acting as though there wasn't a problem.

She was placed on a few weeks restriction by her father, and just as a precautionary measure, her uncle and I nailed her screen onto her window. I did, however, being the good mother that I am, place a post-it note on the screen that read "in case of fire press hard!

Lauren must have learned her lesson, because it never happened again, but the real lesson that night may have been for the Lieutenant. The lesson being that a mother's intuition is a wonderful thing, and that if you aren't careful and you get over confident about your ability to handle your teenager, they can put stupid on you real quick...

Old Time Religion

I was thinking today about the church that I was raised in . It was a small church in Symrna, Georgia. The name of it was Spring Street Baptist Church.

The church was so small that every member knew each and every one of the other members. This was a church not at all like the large ones that are built today. I had a friend who attended one of those large churches that are around these days. He went to that church each and every time the doors were open for three years, and when he passed away, not a single soul knew it.

My brothers and sisters and I all went to Sunday school, Sunday church services (morning and night), Wednesday night services, and in the summer, Vacation Bible School there. We were in all of the Christmas plays, and my twin sister and I sang in front of the congregation for the first time when we were only four years old. The song was Victory In Jesus, and I remember being a nervous wreck.

I remember that the congregation was made up of people that all seemed more like family than just simply members of the church. Looking back, I think it was just as it should have been.

We had an older couple there, I'll call them the Stones, that always controlled the thermostat in the church. I think Mr. Stone must have been the caretaker, but I'm not sure. I do know one thing, however, and that is that if Mrs. Stone was cold the heat came on, and If Mrs. Stone was hot, then and only then, the air conditioner was turned on.

We had the same deacons and Sunday school teachers for as long as I can remember, and everything there on most days always seemed to flow along in a gracious manner, and with a christian spirit.

Don't get me wrong, once in a while something would happen that would cause controversy, and people would talk.

There was one elderly widow lady there who would always sit on the front pew. She would , when the spirit moved her, as my grandmother would say, "go to shoutin'". I'll call her Mrs. Smith. She was without a doubt the most enthusiastic member of our church.

There was another elderly couple who also sat on the same pew with Mrs. Smith, and I'll call them the Deans. The Deans always sat quietly and just listened to the service.

The controversy began when Mrs. Dean passed away. Mrs. Smith and Mr. Dean continued to sit on the same pew, the only difference being the space that was left between them by the absence of Mrs. Dean. I'm not sure how long the time frame was before the vacant spot between the two was no longer left empty, because the two had closed the gap. I do know that it couldn't have been very long, because I heard some of the older women in the church talking about how it was "just a shame" that Mr. Dean didn't have more respect for his late wife.

Shortly after the controversy began Mr. Dean married Mrs. Smith, and the older members of the church began calling her Smith/Dean. (No Mrs. included, and I am pretty sure it was always said when Mrs. Smith wasn't there to hear it). This was probably the most scandalous event that ever happened while I was there.

In my church, just like in all places where large groups of people have gathered, people talked. The preacher was a good one, and like all good southern Baptist preachers, was on occasion known to preach a fire and brimstone sermon where he told it like it was. The services were always meaningful and the old gospel hymns were wonderful to hear.

The majority of that congregation have "gone on to be with the Lord", as they would say, the preacher among them, and the last time I walked out of that church I was following the pall bearers who were carrying my grandmother. My grandfather had preceded her in death and my mother never felt as if she could go back there and see their pew completely empty, so we didn't.

I miss that church and most of the people who spent all those Sundays with me worshiping the Lord. I can still hear them singing the verses of Just As I Am, always followed by a prayer to close the service, and I know that I am a better person for having gone to church there.

I am blessed to have found a new church. It's small and feels like family as well.  I do I seldom hear the old hymns that I love,  mixed with some of the newer music .  I am still partial to the old hymns and when I hear Just As I Am, The Old Rugged Cross, or Victory In Jesus I am taken back to a place where the preacher is dabbing his brow with his white handkerchief after putting the fear of God into a few people who just might need it, and the memories flood my soul.  I love my new pastor and his wife and I feel sure they have some old church memories just like I do. I think my parents for all of those childhood memories and for the Christian foundation they built in me....Yes, I am most definitely blessed.

Responsibility Gone Wild

I have not always been as responsible as I became after my marriage and the birth of my two children. I use to be completely free to do whatever I liked and I will say that I made good use of that time.

I have been on top of speakers dancing at the Limelight, an Atlanta nightclub. I have thrown my dress and pantyhose out of a moving car window while changing into jeans and a t-shirt on I-75 south. (I couldn't go home wearing a dress and heels and have my parents ask where I'd been. I suppose I could have gotten them from my friend the next day , but I can report that alcohol has been known to interfere with logic.)

There are other examples I could give since my children and husband aren't going to ever read this but those should give you enough of an idea.

There was no problem for me at first with the settling down and being the responsible caregiving worker bee that I became, until one night when I was at a family birthday dinner for my brother.

The first incident was when my father looked down at my opened toed shoes and saw my toe ring. He said "What's that hon? It looks like they've got you banded like a homing pigeon." This was, of course, in reference to my always having to be constantly on the ready for anything at all my children and husband might need, including things as minor as a glass of tea.

Later that evening I got a second dose of outside opinions on how I was viewed by others when my silbings, husband, and children, began discussing my personality. They were saying things like "you can always find Arlene because she's always where she's suppose to be." "She won't call in sick to work unless she's dying." "Mom is so by the book and takes care of everyone".

They were chuckling about all of the individual comments and having a great time. To their credit they did say that they were glad I was the way I am because they could always depend on me when there was a problem that needed to be taken care of.

They had no idea how disturbing this conversation was to me. All I could think was oh my God! I am in the worst rut anyone has ever been in. I am in danger of losing my mind. Suddenly I wanted to do something that would shock each and everyone of them just to prove that I could.

I was determined at that point to get out of the box. I just didn't know what I was going to do yet. Ideas began to race around in my mind, but compared to how earth shattering I wanted whatever I did to be, the ideas seemed weak, Then it happened.

I had just left a class I had been taking that summer, one Friday afternoon, and there it was, a tattoo shop. Suddenly every iota of sense that I had once retained left my body. I whipped in the parking lot like something wild. I parked and got out of the car and hurried inside. I knew on some level that I had to be quick because I only had a narrow time frame before Jiminy Cricket started talking in my ear.

I marched myself right up to the counter and announced to the man standing there that I wanted to get a tattoo. He looked at me and semi-smiled, okay smirked, and asked of what?, and where I'd like it. I hadn't thought that far ahead so I just glanced quickly at the wall and pointed to the smallest red rose that I could find. I said "I want that one." He took me behind the counter and after I made sure he was opening brand new needles (you can't be too careful) we were ready to get started.

I kicked my high heels off, pulled my skirt up a little bit, and put my foot up on the table. I pointed to my left ankle and said "I'd like it right there please." He applied the outline for it, and I began having an internal freak-out. I just shut my eyes and thought about all that my family had been saying, and it was done.

The next thing I knew I was walking out of the shop stunned at what I had done, wearing a gauze pad on my left ankle, and carrying a small round tin of ointment marked "Tattoo Goo".
I got into my car and began to tell myself that I had better get it together. It was done now, and if I wanted to be effective with shocking everyone with my behavior I had better be ready to own it.

Needless to say by the time that I got home I was beside myself, and Jiminy Cricket was running amuk in my mind. I was 35 years old and all I could think was what in the world are my mama and daddy going to say?, And my kids? Good Lord, what have I done? I went straight to my bedroom , shut the door, and called my mama.

I said "I lost my mind this afternoon, and I've gotten a tattoo. I need you to please call daddy for me and tell him what I've done before he sees it." My declaration was met with a deafening silence. When she finally spoke she said "Arlene, you are a grown woman, living out on your own with a family and decisions like that are yours to make." I told her that I knew all of that, and then begged her to call him for me anyway, and asked her to call me right back after she'd done it. That was the longest five minutes of my life. When she called back it was with the news that my Daddy had just declared me middle-aged crazy.

I got similar reactions from the rest of the family and my husband found it quite amusing. When I was going to the mailbox the next day one of our neighbors saw the bandage on my ankle and asked, what happened? My husband looked at her and said "she got a tattoo", then he said "I know, there goes the neighborhood". Oh yes, he's a real riot. Not to mention that shortly after I had gotten it there was a blood drive at work and I had to admit to my co-workers that my tattoo wasn't old enough yet for me to give blood. (Evidently there's a six month rule) I also had an experience where one of the football players at school shouted out at me, while I was in front of the classroom, "Mrs. Foster, repent while there's still time!" I almost died. The other students, of course, found this to be hilarious.

Was it worth it? No, it was not. I remember that it was not each time that I put on a dress or a skirt and I have to reach for my dark tights to cover it up. It's only about an inch and a half in size but it's there nevertheless. Every now and then when I'm taking a bubble bath, I lift my leg up out of the water and I still feel a little shocked by it being there. I am not saying that my tattoo is the biggest thing on my list of regrets, but it is out of character for me.

Since then, I 've learned that getting out of the box can mean doing lots of things, none of which have to be permanent. I have also learned that being responsible and dependable aren't the worst attributes that one can have either.

Everyone lives and learns. I just suppose that some lessons in life come with reminders that are physically evident. My children are grown now and I get out of the box on occasion and have fun. I drink now and then, I laugh, I go out with my friends, but..... I avoid tattoo shops.

Southern Accents

I have a very heavy southern accent. This is not suprising since I was born and raised in Atlanta, Georgia. I am not embarassed by the way I speak nor do I think that I should be. I find fewer and fewer people here that talk the way that I do. I know that this is true because I actually get asked the question "where are you from?" This question always shocks me considering I have lived here in Atlanta all my life, and the ones who do the asking are always new arrivals.

I have heard people talking about trying to lose their southern acccents and I don't understand this, but to each his own. I have to say that I love hearing other people speak with accents such as the British, and I also have to say that it would never occur to me to make any sort of assumptions or derogatory comments about people based on the way they speak. It would be ignorant of me to assume anything about a person based simply on the way they sound.

I am sorry to say that there are many people, however, who do not share my views regarding my southern accent. They never mind asking, with snarls on their faces , the "where are you from?" question or saying that I talk too slow. I have also been given the you are the most ignorant sounding person I've ever heard look (if they don't bother to just say so outloud).

This is all beyond frustrating for me. If people that consider the southern accent ignorant would bother with a little research they would soon learn that the southern dialect is actually the Queen's English from the era of Queen Elizabeth I and Shakespeare. I do, however, realize that it is unrealistic of me to think these people would ever bother to check with a linquist on the origin of my accent.

I suppose assumptions are just easier, and the people who make them aren't really all that concerned with their personal ignorance on the subject. After all, they can't be expected to educate themselves while they are so occupied with informing others of their presumed ignorance. Goodness gracious.......it'd be too hard.......it'd be multi-tasking y'all......

Atlanta

Atlanta is my home. I was born and raised here, and I love the city and it's southern charm.
When I think about Atlanta lots of things come to mind....Peachtree Street, The Varsity on game day...Go Dawgs, or for some the Jackets. Dogwood trees blooming in the springtime, the Fox Theater, Lenox Mall, and the Pink Pig. Mary Macs Tea Room, The Magnolia Room, and southern belles. The Atlanta Braves, the Falcons, and Gone With The Wind's Margaret Mitchell.
Historic places such as Oakland Cemetery and Grant Park. Hot humid summers, The Biltmore, and Underground. Coke, sweet tea and far to many more things to mention here.

The Atlanta that I love has changed over the years and the population has become much more diverse with the migration of people from other parts of the country as well as some from other parts of the world.

I was raised right, and I know my manners, so of course, I welcome them all.(Southern hospitality we call it here.). I just hope that they remember to adapt to our ways and culture and make them their own, without changes to our city that would be unwanted by the native Atlantans. I mean I would never go to their hometown and try to change it. It would simply be rude.

I am , however, sure that I have nothing to worry about, because some will love Atlanta and stay, and the ones who don't will simply leave and go home. I don't have a doubt in my mind that the ones who hate Atlanta, after they get here, have enough intellect to get directions to the airport, and to be aware of the fact that I-75 also runs north I have all the confidence in the world that those smart people would leave.......why in the world would they want to stay in a city that they felt the need to complain about everyday?

As I mentioned before, I was raised right, and with good manners, so maybe that's why I have so much trust in the intellect of the disgruntled new people that move to our city.....otherwise I'd rent a billboard and have it read something like:
"BE NICE OR LEAVE Y'ALL.