Walking a Mile in Someone Else's Shoes

This is a response to a tumblr post by UnWinona, entitled "I debated whether or not to share this story".

As she says in her closing remarks, UnWinona wants men “to be forced to feel, for even one minute, what it feels like to have so much verbal hatred and physical intimidation thrown at them for nothing more than being female and not wanting to share.“

Well UnWinona, in the spirit of putting oneself in someone else’s shoes:

I want you to appreciate that other people experience difficult, painful situations too, even men. 

I want you to know what it feels like to be expected to defend your country with your life, should it come to that, simply because you’re a man. 

I want you to recognize that a man who harasses you on the train might well be a veteran who was drafted and forced to murder, a duty from which you are exempt as a woman.  I want you to develop some appreciation for the men who suffer for the rest of their lives because of what they were required to do as men. 

You seem to think that men should walk a mile in your shoes.  I encourage you to take your own advice and put yourself in someone else’s shoes.  You might be surprised how your perspective changes.  You might find that being the attractive woman who gets harassed on the train isn’t so bad in the grand scheme of things.

Then again, you might not.  I have no idea.  And my point is not to say that your life isn’t really so hard, because I don’t know anything about you or what your life is like.  I am only trying to convey that everyone has their difficulties.  Everyone faces hardships and truly trying situations, and I genuinely believe that you might be happier in the end if you garnered more of an appreciation for that fact.

Fever Pitch

I never did measure up to my potential.
Adults always made sure to tell me so.
Why would I want to? I never understood.
Everything was always about the future.

Well the future is here and now,
And the adults were right to warn me.

But I can't help but think:

Learning how to be happy in the moment seems
Like a valuable skill for me to have learned,
More important than citing references properly,
And more relevant than calculus.

I'm still young, and yet it's already nearly over.
Fates are sealed so early.

There are people who follow their dreams.
I know, I've met some of them.
But dreams are impractical.
Once I accomplish lots of things, maybe I'll have time for dreams.

But without dreams, who gives a shit
About accomplishing anything?
It's another Catch-22.
Oh well, no time for that: it's time for work.

Those dreams will one day become another stack of drawings
Gathering dust in the closet.
Those dreams will be something to remind me about my limitless potential
That I'm still not measuring up to.

Sorry, “to which I'm still not measuring up”,
Not that anybody under thirty knows the difference.

A good job that was, taking AP English:
Learning how not to end a sentence with a preposition.
That's been tremendously useful knowledge.
Many people I know can barely read, much less identify a preposition.

But the people who can read are generally intolerable.
Don't get me wrong, I hang out with the illiterates for a reason.
I made my choice; I guess I shouldn't complain.
But to be fair, I think my options were a bit limited.

The fool asks:

What is my place in this world?
There must be something I have to offer,
Some balance I can achieve.
I've no more patience for this life.

I get up in the morning because
It's better than getting fired
From a job I hate.
This is not good enough.

Mindreader

PART ONE

I'm a young boy in a nice backyard with a soft, green lawn. There are dogs running around, and puppies. There must have been a new litter recently. It's a beautiful day. A man says “Look -” and shoots one of the puppies. It collapses and dies. He says, “Feel how soft the fur is, but now it's all bloody”. I rub the soft fur and my hand comes back red. It seems like the man is trying to teach me something, but I have no idea what it could be. I try to hide my horror because I figure I must be missing the point and I must not be smart enough to figure it out.

PART TWO

I'm driving north up 75 through Dallas late at night, after having some drinks. I'm feeling a little swervy, and I notice a cluster of police cars in front of me when I get up the ramp and merge onto the highway. I try to drive slowly to put some distance between us, but they keep going slower and slower. I feel very aware that I'm swerving a bit, and the swerving is only made worse by my anxiety.

This scene transforms into me walking down the hallway of a hospital, behind a group of nurses in training. They're wandering around aimlessly, stopping and starting in a swarming chaotic mess. I feel the need to get past them, like I'm in a hurry, though I don't know why. I keep trying to, only to get stuck behind a cluster of them that stops for no apparent reason and blocks my way. I still don't know why I need to get past them, but that need keeps feeling increasingly urgent. I break through and make my way through a labyrinth of hallways and finally find a nurse, who I ask “Where the hell is the reception desk?” and she points me in the right direction.

PART THREE

I'm out in the country in a beautiful, tranquil wooded area. There are soft padded benches under the trees. My mom, sister, and grandmom are sitting on one and I'm sitting on another, facing them. There's also another person I can't identify sitting with them. This place feels like some kind of rehab or psych hospital getaway. I become aware that the reason we're there is that there's something wrong with my mom, but I don't know what. She's sitting there with an empty, expressionless look on her face, and my grandmom is saying “Give her a Xanax. She'll feel better.” I say, “She's not anxious. She doesn't need Xanax”.

Suddenly my mom jumps up and gets in the driver side seat of my truck. I'm stricken with panic, and I jump into the passenger seat. She puts the truck in reverse and starts winding around the wooded field, not looking where she's going. She has a crazed look on her face and is mashing on the gas.  She's yanking on the wheel and swerving violently, going backwards but still looking forward. I alternate between trying to keep us from plowing into a tree and trying to figure out what's going on, and I yank up on the parking brake.

My truck suddenly transforms into a school bus, big and creaky, and we're still just flying. I don't know how we haven't hit a tree yet. I finally get the brake pulled hard enough that the bus stops. I reach over and grab for the keys, but my fingers won't cooperate. My mom doesn't really fight me, but it takes me awhile to get the keys out of the ignition. I finally do, but then have even more difficulty getting the keys into my pocket. I keep thinking, “just get the keys in your pocket and then you can go around to get her out and try to find out what the hell is going on”.

Then I wake up.

Holly wakes up too, and I tell her about the third part of my dream, because that's the only part I remember. I'm crying. When I get to the end, I remember the second part, and tell her that part of the story. It's not until the end of the second part that I remember the first part and finish the story in reverse.

The man in the third part who I can't identify, it's not that I don't recognize him. It's that I can't see him. I almost didn't notice he was there. He's a ghost. He's just the silhouette of a man, filled in solid gray. I realize he's the same man from the first part, who shoots the dog. He's my granddad. We were in his backyard on North Park. I should have known. The immaculate lawn was a dead giveaway.

The Source of a Warrior's Power

I like knives.  It's hard to feel complete without a good, sharp knife
in my pocket.

Though it's arguably a less practical matter for my generation than it
was for my father's or grandfather's, carrying a knife is a symbol.
It's a reminder that we're capable of reshaping the world with our
bare hands.  It's a reminder of the importance of keeping ready
certain skills and tools.  It's a reminder to remain vigilant.

The vigilant man is prepared for the unforeseen and keeps his affairs
in order.  He keeps his blade sharp and slices through obstacles
without effort.  He thinks before he acts and then acts with
confidence.  He is resilient because he is aware and self-reliant.  He
is slave to nothing and no one.

A knife is a weapon.  It is a sign of power, of strength, and
independence.  Sometimes a weapon may be turned on oneself, but the
warrior must learn to wield his weapon.  The blade is the source of
his power, and to strip him of it for his own safety is to sabotage
him.

Without a sword, the warrior is powerless.  He can't as easily hurt
himself, but neither is he equipped to protect himself.

The warrior must learn to trust himself.  Trust him and he will trust himself.