Tagged: women

Real Fears of a White Step-Dad

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me today. I want to talk to you about something that is generally taboo, but especially given the details (often in footnotes) of the recent Supreme Court case on affirmative action and university admittance, it is important that we chat.”

“Um-”

“I’d ask you to not interrupt and I request this indulgence because I am the one with something to lose here—not you. Thank you.

“I see the supposed excellence of your school. While I am fully persuaded home school is the best way to educate a child, a future citizen of America, I am also fully persuaded that a charter school like yours is far superior to public school.

“I struggle to believe that the way my step-son was admitted to your school was fair. You have exceedingly few black students as is, and while regular demographics of our city account for it, there is some sick love/hate relationship with educated—do not hear intelligent—educated whites and what they see as possible black success.

“If you enroll too many black kids, then no whites will find that school desirable. If no black kids, then whites will be painted as racist. So ya’ll are stuck in a pickle, the way I see it. Precisely just how many blacks can you afford your school to enroll and still keep the whites coming?

“Here’s the rub: A- is not black. I have already made it clear that I suspect we disagree on this matter. So let me repeat myself. A- is not black. You all let him in to your school. I believe it is because you saw him (especially as he is an immigrant, not the really difficult American black) as able to help keep the whites happy. Whether your gamble was well-informed or not, we will all find out together. But he is not black. Do you hear me?

“For the last four years I have watched and listened to educators get run over by, ignore, and turn a blind eye to A-, all because they see a little black boy they can use to fulfill some twisted quota. Everything has been graded on a curve and relative to other students. The calendar hasn’t existed. Endless ability to retake and correct assignments and tests has been proffered. In a word, he has been in “schools” which have absolutely zero accountability for A-. He has a grand total of no understanding of where he stands in relationship to his fellow man, and worse, he seems to think he hasn’t ever failed. This has to stop.

“Did I introduce myself? Apologies for that oversight. Here are the vital stats. I am A-’s step-dad, not you. Second to that fact, I have and will always perform better than any of you here on every mental subject and assessment you can develop. And I have used all my brain power to decide that it is worthwhile to give you the benefit of the doubt to start.

“But I am watching. And if I start to get even the slightest feeling that A- is receiving special treatment because you can’t shake the feeling that he is some little black boy available for use in atoning for your perverse understanding of life, then we will be done here. I will pull him from your school and you will know why.

“To be clear: I am not asking for fair treatment. This isn’t funnel cakes and ferris wheels. I am asking for you to teach him to know he has failed where he has failed and for him to know he has learned where he has learned. No more “stars” for effort, or on time work, or completed assignments.

“Maybe I am asking too much.

“To conclude then, I put the choice in your hands. What do you say? Can you do this for me? Will you agree, no matter how this relationship started, that A- is not black, that he is not some project?

“Will you agree that he will fail if he doesn’t perform appropriately? I can pull him right now if you won’t. There is no need to waste anyone’s time. So what do you say?”

I Present the Latest Sham Holiday: Mother’s Day

Christmas, especially in its commercial sense, is at least pure and focused. Mother’s Day, on the other hand, has become a sham entirely. Worse than Kwanza. Worse than Juneteenth. Worse than whatever the heck Easter is supposed to be.

At church today a very old “Dr.” lady gave the sermon. She talked about how hard the job of “mother” is. That is to say, she talked about how hard the job of “mother” used to be.

If you send your kids to daycare so you can go to work to pay for daycare, is that noble?

If you are so tired from this unnecessary job that you feed your kids processed food, junk food, and fast food on the regular, is that noble?

If you spend any leftover income from your job on TJ Maxx and Ross for yourself instead of, I don’t know, saving for future expenses, is that noble?

This poor old lady, dignified and noble as she was, was so out of touch that she described my mom, who finished up 20 years ago. But today’s “modern” moms? They look and sound nothing like my mom.

It’s disturbing. And it’s another example available for use when instructing children to not be slaves to the sound of words but to consider concrete context too.

Having a baby doesn’t making you a mother anymore than being female makes you a woman.

Funny thing is, I, one of the last men raised by a mother (and father), didn’t get my mom anything on this holiday. But I did buy some over-complimentary cards (from me and the kids) and pointless gifts for my wife. What a sham.

There is nothing outside the man which can defile him if it goes into him; but the things which proceed out of the man are what defile the man.
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The Dumbest Sentence You Will Read This Week

Keep in mind, taking a moment to review this sentence isn’t an exercise in futility. Instead, try to think of it like a crossword puzzle, word search, or Word Jumble. Better yet, think of it like one of those mensa questions, “How many words can you make out of the letters in the name, ‘Peter Piper’?” As in, “How many inconsistencies can you find with the reasoning inherent to this sentence’s claim(s)?” And then divide that number by the number value your highest completed grade (ie 3 for 3rd grade, 16 for an ungrad degree completed in 4 years etc). Whoever has the highest number wins.

Here’s the doozy:

Experts estimate that nearly half of pregnancies are unintended, so limits to abortion access could affect the number of births.

Happy Hunting!

Flattery for Women. Like in This Post I Am Complimenting a Woman. Seriously.

Women don’t get “a pass” in my book. People who know me truly, know this about me truly.

The “compliment” that I read in a book and inspired this post is great (still included at the end), but in truth, “Women don’t get ‘a pass’ in my book,” (my hook for the post) is actually about the best compliment I could ever pay y’all.

You’re not weak; you’re not “special” in some “need extra allowances” sort of way. Dishes are dirty after you do them, same as men. You can figure out how to pull into a garage correctly, same as men. Wooden utensils still get ruined when left to soak absentmindedly in the sink for long periods of time. Some ice cream scoops are not dishwasher safe, for me and for you too. Kids don’t learn obedience only from fathers. Neither do they learn strength and steely character only from fathers. You do not get a pass, women. Hear me?

The following comes from Jack London’s short story, “The Wisdom of the Trail.” Sitka Charley is an injun, back when there were those. As for nearly all London tales, the setting is the great white Northlands. The only two words I would add is, “…land…sea…and air!”

****

“Sitka Charley did not know this kind of woman. Five minutes before, he did not even dream of taking charge of the expedi-tion; but when she came to him with her wonderful smile and her straight clean English, and talked to the point, without pleading or persuading, he had incontinently yielded. Had there been a softness and appeal to mercy in the eyes, a tremble to the voice, a taking advantage of sex, he would have stiffened to steel; instead her clear-searching eyes and clear-ringing voice, her utter frankness and tacit assumption of equality, had robbed him of his reason. He felt, then, that this was a new breed of woman; and ere they had been trail mates for many days he knew why the sons of such women mastered the land and the sea, and why the sons of his own womankind could not prevail against them. Tender and soft! Day after day he watched her, muscle-weary, exhausted, indomitable, and the words beat in upon him in a perennial refrain. Tender and soft! He knew her feet had been born to easy paths and sunny lands, strangers to the moccasined pain of the North, unkissed by the chill lips of the frost, and he watched and marveled at them twinkling ever through the weary day.”

Some Days Are Dark

H- hasn’t spoken to me since boldly declaring to me on a random phone call (why don’t kids know how to use the phone?) that she wasn’t coming to Christmas and didn’t understand why I wasn’t “getting it”.

I don’t stop believing in Jesus on dark days. Yet I cannot deny that there is an appeal to giving up on god and all–that is part of the darkness.

But I will unashamedly confess that on dark days, days when I take inventory of my life only to realize more fully that there has been a general lack of support (social, financial, or emotional) from anyone ever remotely falling under the umbrella of “family”, I do conclude god is unknowable.

Why I Can’t Adopt MLK’s “Content of Character” Line

“Is that okay to say these days?”

“Probably not. To be sure, ‘No.’ But they’re my kids, and I like mulatto best. Haha.”

****

Mulatto has a certain clarity of meaning beyond just the fact that they are the product of me and their mom. Don’t you agree? Yes, it means white and black parents. But it also conveys, in 2024, “You’re kinda barking up the wrong tree already, stupid.”

Sure, I admit this is a bit harsh. And as such, I have not been using it exclusively. But my wife and I’s two kids garner enough attention, or I should say, my wife and I’s two kids’ hair garners enough attention that I needed something “full Pete” to say in response to all comers. In other words, I needed a line. But mulatto wasn’t cuttin’ it.

Naturally, MLK’s “not by the color of their skin” line is accurate, but as everyone has seen, it is also terribly ineffective. At the least, it is tired.

In having and using a “line”, I also am arming the two kids with their own “line”. Cuz, despite my general optimism in life and even my new line’s particular contribution to that hope, the problem ain’t going away. So I have been wanting to come up with something worthy of my progeny, for my progeny. And I have.

Again, they’re mulattos. Through and through. That is a fact. But while that word is funny to me and folks who know me well, it is unintelligible to Ethiopians and taboo to Yankees.

Here’s my solution. It starts with the fact that “mixed” is kinda en vogue. So, picture with me, say, a Home Depot parking lot. On a Sunday. Got it? Heavy foot and vehicle traffic. Sunny blue sky. Wind that negates low-talk.

I have J- in the cart, An- is at the car, and Ag- is about to help An- into her door when a dude, older, and a mix between homeless and Colorado Native, says to his partner—wife or fellow bum—and loud enough for all to hear, “Oh those are two beautiful babies.”

I smiled and thanked him politely.

Then he randomly re-appeared and continued as if never having left the area—but he and his companion had left—“I have some mixed grand-babies and they are just the most beautiful kids. You are lucky to have them grand-babies.”

I informed him, good-heartedly, that they were my own children, to his shock, and then he doted some more before leaving.

Mixed? Hmm. Mixed.

Eureka!

Next time, here’s my response.

“Mixed? Oh, look kids! A purebred! In the flesh! It is a pleasure to know you. Good day, Sir.”

****

That is my new Full Pete “line” and I believe it accomplishes everything I want it too and probably a teensy bit more at no additional charge. It has bite, but is not record-stopping like mulatto. It is at least as memorable as “content of character”, if not more so. And most importantly, it can carry the fire of truth forward into future generations.

Mixed?

We have to stop the nonsense, folks! Who’s with me?

“Mixed? Oh, look kids! A purebred! In the flesh! It is a pleasure to know you. Good day, Sir.”

Defense of My Understanding of AI

And I quote, “In a wide-ranging interview on X Spaces that suffered multiple technology glitches, Musk also told Norway wealth fund CEO Nicolai Tangen that AI was constrained by the availability of electricity and that the next version of Grok, the AI chatoot from his XAl startup, was expected to be trained by May.”

Once more, same article, “But he added that while a shortage of chips were a big constraint for the development of AI, electricity supply will be crucial in the next year or two.”

Recall my definition, “AI is mankind’s ability to sense electricity—and nothing more.”

You can bicker with me, and quibble, but it changes nothing. AI is mankind’s ability to sense electricity—and nothing more.

But be afraid!!! Be very afraid!!! The bogeyman is on his way! AI is coming for your job! It’s coming for your wife! It will fight us in the next war! In fact, the war is already being waged!! Muhaahaha!

On Baptist Preachers Continuing the Invitation

Not because I can’t or wouldn’t or won’t share the gospel—including asking the question, “Have you decided to follow Jesus?” with my kids, but I really want my family to join me in attending a small-ish Baptist church which still sees the preacher invite the congregation to salvation before concluding the service. “Why?” you ask. “Why, Pete? Why go backwards? Everyone knows that denominations are dying/dead, and never to return. They are a failed experiment. It’s non-denominational, one-church-multiple-campuses-small-groups-for-those-interested-and-no-invitation-messages from here on out.”

I’ll tell you why. And this is close to the heart, so please go easy on me. I want my family to join me at the Baptist church because the invitation is my answer to the infamous “how do you know you’re saved?” zinger of a question.

Many, many Sundays of my childhood and youth, and nearly every time I heard the invitation ever since, Sunday after Sunday after Sunday (if I was in a Baptist church), I knew it was directed specifically to me. I knew I was the sinner. I knew I needed salvation. I knew Jesus was the way, the truth, and the life. Moreover, I knew I couldn’t hide behind anyone, nor did I want to hide. I wanted salvation. Who wouldn’t?

For most of my life, I have not treated this response as anything noteworthy or indicative of eternal spiritual matters. I had accepted Jesus Christ as my lord and savior at a young age and was baptized later on and the rest of these times I chalked up the feeling to “powerful preaching.”

As I have gotten older, as fewer people come forward, I have to say that it seems like most people don’t take the invitation as a literal invitation.

But as a father, I take my young daughter (A- this time, H- in times past) and the two of us sit there, and I imagine what H- and my step-son, both 14 and not present—would think during the invitation. Would they think, “My parents are good (believers), so I am too.” Or, “He’s not talking to me. This is just the end of the service.” Or maybe, “My phone, my phone, my phone, my phone…”?

I honestly cannot imagine them saying, “Uh, I am a sinner. I need Jesus. Dad, what do I do?” in any capacity. Mostly, that just seems in line with the more rare emotions, like achieving a lifelong goal, that I can’t imagine what it might look like. But we all talk such nonsense, so much of the time, that it feels fair for a kid to say, “Oh. You were serious about that? I thought that was just part of the ritual.”

Anyhow, we’ll see what the family decides to do. As for me, I am redeemed by the blood of the lamb, no turning back. So I’ll see you at the Baptist church.

The Interesting News I Want to Read About Trump 2024

No news articles, op/eds, or even letters to the editors about Trump 2024 satisfy.

The cycle has been on repeat since before 2016. Nobody has anything new to say. In sum, …just kidding. I wouldn’t be so cruel as to repeat it once again.

Instead, I would like to offer and record my fantasy. Unbelievable as it is, despite all the coverage of Trump since before I was born, I want more. Isn’t that crazy? Crazy, but true.

This fantasy of mine isn’t knowing the outcome of the election ahead of time. It isn’t knowing some more details about Jan 6 that keep exonerating him of any wrongdoing or learning about more indictments which he uniformly evades unscathed or hearing more locker room talk that is fairly tame compared to any group of sporting men I have ever been among.

My fantasy is that some professional writer or journalist will research and write a long-form article about why and how Trump has consistently caused the news itself to resort to lying. Why do they lie?

Whether democracy can recover is boring. Whether Trump becomes worse than Hitler is boring. Whether Trump commits adultery is boring. But, for me, how one man caused every single journalist to lie is endlessly fascinating. Isn’t it?

From his political opponents who maliciously lie, to the mainstream journalists who lie to protect us, to his fan base who inflate every assertion into coming-of-Christ evangelism, the entire industry is unable to report the truth. Why?

I don’t know for sure. But I’m interested to learn.

Euphemism vs. Metaphor, A Joint Review of Collateral by Michael Mann and Parasite by Bong Joon-ho

Parasite is the more timely film, that’s certain. It also is the more biblical film of the two—so much so that it is fairly difficult to understand how it was ever mentioned by a wealthy person, let alone the winner of Best Picture. Albert Schweitzer’s “Men simply don’t think” is probably behind its uncommon success.

I have been putting off re-watching Collateral because with TGM and MI:42, and recent viewings of some easy to watch other TC fav’s, I had to do something in order to stop short of total devotion to the man. But last night I could feel the mood for a movie ebbing my way and I do love Michael Mann. Suddenly, however, a voice from outside myself sounded.

“Can I watch with you?”

It was my 14yo step-son. And it was at his bedtime, the very reason we stopped reading. In other words, I was taken aback at this development. Come to find out, tomorrow was no school.

“Uh. I wasn’t planning to watch a kid’s movie. But I guess we can take a look and see if there’s a compromise on Prime.”

There wasn’t.

“Sorry, man. I just don’t want to sit through a bad movie and I had already set my heart on a rated-R film. We’ll watch something this weekend. So that’ll have to do.”

I was racking my brain to determine just what made villainous TC a film for adults only. The violence was elite, but not gory. And there wasn’t even that much of it. As far as I could recall I wasn’t even sure what I liked about the movie so much. The problem that I have in these situations (deciding whether a movie is appropriate for uninitiated folks ), though, is I have been very wrong in the past. So I trusted my experience over my memory and did not think twice about my decision as I pressed play.

Elite is the word I would use again to describe Collateral. I like the “clean” aspect of that euphemism to “the best”. Then I remembered that’s what I like so much about it. It is no unstable hand at the teller. Whoever made the film had a story to tell and the power to demand it be told with precision. Every scene says as much.

But there is also a depth to the story that elite does not capture. And this is the rated-R part that I am glad I did not share with my step-son.

While Parasite puts wealthy people on blast, that film doesn’t dive below the surface, below macro-level societal questions. Collateral, on the other hand, has a cab driver and an attorney believably find reason to relate about whether they enjoy their work.

“Do you like what you do?”

What a simple question. And what a terrible question.

Terrible because of what you feel as you read this now. Terrible because if you confess that you do not like what you do, you next are forced to admit just what that implies. Maybe you are lying and do like what you do? Maybe you love misery? Maybe you are hiding an addiction that prevents you from doing something you like? Maybe you are lying to yourself about moving on to something you would enjoy someday? We could go on. And that’s the point.

Parasite is a metaphor. But Collateral is a euphemism. Parasite must be kept from the children because of the blood and gore and other adult scenes. Collateral must be kept from the children because Santa Claus is real, because Machiavelli cannot win.

Parasite must have that name to be great. Collateral must have that name to be attempted. But it really should be called, ‘Every Day You Prove You Are Meaningless’.” And since that issue is still up for debate, (unlike, Parasite’s, “Do wealthy people view the rest of us as parasites?” (answer: sure do)), then euphemism and Michael Mann win this battle.