I think advertising needs to bring back the jingle. Seriously, no matter what state I have lived in, there are mom and pop businesses that always use jingles. And no matter what it includes, their name or phone number, people ALWAYS remember them. Luna, Empire, Adriana Furs and The General are just a few you hear in the great state of Illinois. Whether you are in the market for a new bed or a car insurance doesn't even matter. When people hear the beginning of the Empire jingle, they can always fill in the phone number blank. ALWAYS.
So why is it, as a copywriter, I never decide that a jingle is the way to go. I don't think I have ever been in a meeting, since my advertising career started that a creative team has ever presented a jingle. Why is that? I mean everyone can sing the Oscar Mayer bologna song or the Band Aid jingle. Even people who have never seen the ads can sing them. Currently people can cherry pick parts of the long-winded FreeCreditReport.com jingle or recognize the tune of McDonald's 'I'm loving it.'
Maybe the solution to all advertising is bringing back the jingle. People don't just remember good ones, or even likable ones. They remember them no matter how obscure, awful or amazing they are. Sure in my 'ad' opinion I've been ingrained to believe that jingles are a cop out, but I am wondering more and more if I only think that because I was always told that they are. I mean I was also told to never show something and say something at the same time, but now we are forced to do it everywhere we can. I was also told that repetition was a 1950's Madison Avenue device and when used today it is embarrassingly outdated. Jingles are for those people who don't have anything more clever or creative to say. I have to say, I do believe that most of that is true.
However I also know this to be true... the majority of consumers can fill in the following blanks.
"Plop, Plop, ____, ____"
or
"Like a good neighbor, ________________."
Get ready world, I'm bringing back the jingle one client at a time. Hey, a girl can dream
p.s. I wonder what Mustafa would sing if Old Spice decided to add a jingle to their campaign. I'm sure it would be hilarious, and it would probably make those ads test better with recall. I'm telling you. Jingles are where it's at, just not here.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Lauren, you're too LOUD....
could be heard every other day coming from my sister's mouth when I was a kid. That is probably a conservative estimate in fact. I was a loud kid. I'll admit it. Between wanting to be a singer, which of course would have lead to fame and fortune the likes that even 1980's Whitney Houston hadn't seen, and "scweaming my bwains out" on my neighbors truck I was bound to annoy a few people. Rachy was definitely no exception.
Well to my dismay, and others celebration I am sure, I was recently informed that I need throat surgery to clear a polyp from my right vocal chord. I was diagnosed with singer's nodes in grad school, but the otolaryngologist and I agreed they would go away when I quit my job at the bar I worked at at the time. It was a late night joint that often entertained live music and I had to strain or scream for hours at a time to take and deliver hops and hamburgers. It seemed like a classic case of cause and effect. Once the cause of the nodes was gone, the effect would be a back to normal voice.
False.
At some point between then and now, a blood vessel burst in my right vocal chord and the node is now a polyp that can't be treated with voice therapy alone. It needs to be surgically removed or it will just get worse. Worse to the point where my voice will be permanently damaged. It is an out patient procedure. There's general anesthetic. It's no big deal. That is what I was told. Hakuna Matata, right?
In light of the situation, this post is for my big sister. This is for all the times you had to tell me to be quiet or put your hand over my mouth. This is for all the drowned out Grass Roots choruses and Defying Gravity exhibitions. You were right. I was too loud. I am going ahead and telling me so, for you.
YOU WERE RIGHT. The informational packet confirms it.
Assocation with "Extroverts"
Children with vocal fold polyps usually are extroverts and may have a loud voice, which can often be particularly percussive.
So there. Even medical experts agree with you. I wasn't just loud, I was too loud, just like you said. The thing is, I am loud. It is part of who I am. Even my personality is loud. But on November 22nd 2010, that part of me will be silenced forever. Okay dramatic. Not forever, just for seven days after the surgery. I won't be able to talk at all. After that I will have to ease back into talking, while training myself to communicate in a manner that will not cause the problem to return.
So Rach if you want relish in your rightness, come to Mom and Dad's for Thanksgiving dinner. For once in your life you can do all the talking you want. You can tell a story without my interjection. You can ask a question you have never actually wanted the answer to. I will not be able to interrupt, talk over you or sing Uptown Girl. This Christmas you will have to carry Sisters all by yourself. It's your turn to sing, just make sure it isn't too LOUD.
Well to my dismay, and others celebration I am sure, I was recently informed that I need throat surgery to clear a polyp from my right vocal chord. I was diagnosed with singer's nodes in grad school, but the otolaryngologist and I agreed they would go away when I quit my job at the bar I worked at at the time. It was a late night joint that often entertained live music and I had to strain or scream for hours at a time to take and deliver hops and hamburgers. It seemed like a classic case of cause and effect. Once the cause of the nodes was gone, the effect would be a back to normal voice.
False.
At some point between then and now, a blood vessel burst in my right vocal chord and the node is now a polyp that can't be treated with voice therapy alone. It needs to be surgically removed or it will just get worse. Worse to the point where my voice will be permanently damaged. It is an out patient procedure. There's general anesthetic. It's no big deal. That is what I was told. Hakuna Matata, right?
In light of the situation, this post is for my big sister. This is for all the times you had to tell me to be quiet or put your hand over my mouth. This is for all the drowned out Grass Roots choruses and Defying Gravity exhibitions. You were right. I was too loud. I am going ahead and telling me so, for you.
YOU WERE RIGHT. The informational packet confirms it.
Assocation with "Extroverts"
Children with vocal fold polyps usually are extroverts and may have a loud voice, which can often be particularly percussive.
So there. Even medical experts agree with you. I wasn't just loud, I was too loud, just like you said. The thing is, I am loud. It is part of who I am. Even my personality is loud. But on November 22nd 2010, that part of me will be silenced forever. Okay dramatic. Not forever, just for seven days after the surgery. I won't be able to talk at all. After that I will have to ease back into talking, while training myself to communicate in a manner that will not cause the problem to return.
So Rach if you want relish in your rightness, come to Mom and Dad's for Thanksgiving dinner. For once in your life you can do all the talking you want. You can tell a story without my interjection. You can ask a question you have never actually wanted the answer to. I will not be able to interrupt, talk over you or sing Uptown Girl. This Christmas you will have to carry Sisters all by yourself. It's your turn to sing, just make sure it isn't too LOUD.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Hiwela High....
I never thought I would go back to camp. I really didn't. For one thing I grew up. Then the camp I attended as a child closed it's doors, and with it closed that chapter in my life. Albeit a chapter revisited and remembered fondly but definitively in my past, or so I thought.
Just a few weeks ago I was given the opportunity to reopen that chapter and amend it, this time as a counselor. The force and fervor with which camp songs returned was astounding. The thrill of a schedule that included arts and crafts was palpable. I was going back to camp. A mixture of nostalgia and nerves filled up every inch of my body as I packed towels and tennis shoes. I worried the campers wouldn't like me. I wondered if I'd forgotten how to play. I dreaded the thought of a shower being an afterthought. I laughed at my own vulnerability.
Like I mentioned in a previous post, being the baby of the family for twenty five years has left me quite the novice when it comes to adolescent behavior. The disciplinarian, the teacher, the example, the friend. All things I haven't been to people more than a few years my junior for the majority of my life. This was now the task at hand. A task that to me was blinking like a hazard light off in the distance. Needless to say as the luggage filled up with jersey and repellents, my stomach filled with knots. This experience was going to be a first, and I could not have comprehended how a week later I could even imagine making that week at camp my last.
Upon arrival I was jolted back to flagpole, campfires, silly games and sloppy meals. The smell of burnt wood lingered among the living. The hugs of returning volunteers mixed with the timid handshakes of newcomers. The white washed cabins looked foreign against the backdrop of the forest. I remembered how great it felt to feel like part of a frontier. Since the campers hadn't arrived yet, my anxiety cut me loose. I just stood for a second to drink in an environment I hadn't visited in decades. It was beautiful. It only lasted for a moment because the kids would arrive in less than twenty four hours and there was a lot to do. Training commenced, lunch was eaten, people were introduced, camp was acquainted, songs were sung and beds were tossed in anticipation. Before I knew it there were nine girls standing in front of me. Some wide eyed. Some veteran. Some gorgeous. Some guarded. Some introverted. Some out loud. They were there, standing in front of me. It was amazing how immediate the feeling of ownership hit me. I felt like they were mine and that scared me even more. I was responsible for these girls until they left over 100 hours later. May seem like a short time to some. That was an eternity.
Now I have to caveat this story by saying, I wasn't alone. I had other counselors with me. I wasn't solely responsible. But unlike the rest of them, save one, I was the only virgin. They had done this before. So, I had a support system from the day I got to camp and they were with me the entire way. They were saviors, sidekicks and supports. The experience wouldn't have been the same without them. However, this post isn't about them. It is about me and the girls.
They ranged from the ages of 9 to 12. Most of them from the inner city. Their backgrounds were starkly different from my own. Everything from where they lived, to how they lived was a contrast. Their schools, their shoes and their attitudes all a bit unfamiliar. Some more callow than others. Many of them older than the years displayed on their faces. The differences from girl to girl were almost as obvious as the difference between them and me. This was a bit of a comfort, but still for me, uncomfortable. Not uncomfortable like being asked a question on your first day in your first graduate course, more like your skirt being caught in your underwear uncomfortable. Unknowingly exposed. Feeling powerful because of my authoritative position, but feeling unqualified at the same time. I felt like a walking contradiction and it was hour three.
Thank goodness time heals all things, because as the hours passed by the contradiction faded away and the connection became apparent. When it comes to growing female, there are baseline issues that no matter your background akin you to one another. The struggle for friendships. Feeling left out or forced in. Becoming a woman. Fighting for attention using whatever talents you have at your disposal. Establishing your role in a group. Struggling to keep it. Detaching all together. Diving in headfirst. Watching this group of young women acclimate to their new, temporary social circle was a trip. I would dare any woman my age to say they didn't recognize the interactions I witnessed from their own pubescent memory. These girls were astonishing to behold. Truly, the were enlivening with their ghettoric (that is what we called it). They were self-conscious -effacing and -indulgent. It was a pleasure to be around them, as well as a throbbing pain. It was fulfilling and frustrating. I was amazed to see how the personalities were already cemented. I mean, these girls were and are who they are going to be for the rest of their lives. I could tell you which girls were motivated by intelligence or attention. Those who would chase the boys and those that the boys would chase. The antagonists and the protagonists. The self-reliant. The needy. The ones I would have befriended. The ones I would have frenemied. I knew who was going to end up gyrating at the dance way beyond her single digits. I could tell who was going to spend the majority of her time in the company of adults instead of cabin mates. Well, that one will always be contemplative. Her? She will always thrive on positive reinforcement. This one will forever and always be non-compliant.
It was a slightly shocking revelation that we are who we are that young, and that got me to wondering. If I could interview counselors that had me as a camper, they would probably agree. Twenty years later they'd say, yep, that is the Lauren Buckley I remember. I actually found myself attaching bits of me to bits of them. They were me, but in smaller vessels. Their age was just a number that I had passed fifteen years earlier. It wasn't an obstacle I had to get over in order to relate to them or them to me. In fact, it was the reason I could.
By the third day I woke up and realized I was not just a part of this experience, I was entrenched in it. I found myself vying for some of the girl's attention. I thought about which activity I wanted to sign up for depending on what girls were going where. When breaking up a fight I found myself wondering what side I would've been on. I knew which table I wanted to sit at breakfast,lunch and dinner. I knew what boys I would have flirted with. I even started adopting some of their bad attitudes about things they didn't want to do.
Pathetic. Hilarious. Wrong. Go ahead, you can judge me. I know I am right now.
But the thing is, the good, the bad and the ugly come out at camp. It did when I was younger and it definitely did with my girls. I am glad it all surfaced. I couldn't be happier about it, all of it. I decided to go back to camp as a counselor, but I actually went back as me. Just me and it was almost out of my control. My inner child. My disciplinarian. My last picked for the team. My caregiver. My educator. My student. My gossiper. My nurturer. My discoverer. My loner. Every nuance of my character was brought forth, challenged, found adequate or found wanting by my girls. First they introduced themselves and then they reintroduced myself to me.
Life happens and you do live and learn beyond your foundation as a human being. I know I have in the time after my days as a camper. But at the end of the day it was the unconditional love and acceptance of nine young women that taught me more than I ever could have imagined. When the buses pulled away from camp on the final day echoes of laughter were lost in a haze of exhaustion. I felt incomplete and renewed. I loaded my luggage, a little lighter. I loaded myself, a little heavier. I was a walking contradiction, again. As our bus pulled away I knew my chapter would continue to amend itself the following year. Same cast of girls, but a very different counselor.
Just a few weeks ago I was given the opportunity to reopen that chapter and amend it, this time as a counselor. The force and fervor with which camp songs returned was astounding. The thrill of a schedule that included arts and crafts was palpable. I was going back to camp. A mixture of nostalgia and nerves filled up every inch of my body as I packed towels and tennis shoes. I worried the campers wouldn't like me. I wondered if I'd forgotten how to play. I dreaded the thought of a shower being an afterthought. I laughed at my own vulnerability.
Like I mentioned in a previous post, being the baby of the family for twenty five years has left me quite the novice when it comes to adolescent behavior. The disciplinarian, the teacher, the example, the friend. All things I haven't been to people more than a few years my junior for the majority of my life. This was now the task at hand. A task that to me was blinking like a hazard light off in the distance. Needless to say as the luggage filled up with jersey and repellents, my stomach filled with knots. This experience was going to be a first, and I could not have comprehended how a week later I could even imagine making that week at camp my last.
Upon arrival I was jolted back to flagpole, campfires, silly games and sloppy meals. The smell of burnt wood lingered among the living. The hugs of returning volunteers mixed with the timid handshakes of newcomers. The white washed cabins looked foreign against the backdrop of the forest. I remembered how great it felt to feel like part of a frontier. Since the campers hadn't arrived yet, my anxiety cut me loose. I just stood for a second to drink in an environment I hadn't visited in decades. It was beautiful. It only lasted for a moment because the kids would arrive in less than twenty four hours and there was a lot to do. Training commenced, lunch was eaten, people were introduced, camp was acquainted, songs were sung and beds were tossed in anticipation. Before I knew it there were nine girls standing in front of me. Some wide eyed. Some veteran. Some gorgeous. Some guarded. Some introverted. Some out loud. They were there, standing in front of me. It was amazing how immediate the feeling of ownership hit me. I felt like they were mine and that scared me even more. I was responsible for these girls until they left over 100 hours later. May seem like a short time to some. That was an eternity.
Now I have to caveat this story by saying, I wasn't alone. I had other counselors with me. I wasn't solely responsible. But unlike the rest of them, save one, I was the only virgin. They had done this before. So, I had a support system from the day I got to camp and they were with me the entire way. They were saviors, sidekicks and supports. The experience wouldn't have been the same without them. However, this post isn't about them. It is about me and the girls.
They ranged from the ages of 9 to 12. Most of them from the inner city. Their backgrounds were starkly different from my own. Everything from where they lived, to how they lived was a contrast. Their schools, their shoes and their attitudes all a bit unfamiliar. Some more callow than others. Many of them older than the years displayed on their faces. The differences from girl to girl were almost as obvious as the difference between them and me. This was a bit of a comfort, but still for me, uncomfortable. Not uncomfortable like being asked a question on your first day in your first graduate course, more like your skirt being caught in your underwear uncomfortable. Unknowingly exposed. Feeling powerful because of my authoritative position, but feeling unqualified at the same time. I felt like a walking contradiction and it was hour three.
Thank goodness time heals all things, because as the hours passed by the contradiction faded away and the connection became apparent. When it comes to growing female, there are baseline issues that no matter your background akin you to one another. The struggle for friendships. Feeling left out or forced in. Becoming a woman. Fighting for attention using whatever talents you have at your disposal. Establishing your role in a group. Struggling to keep it. Detaching all together. Diving in headfirst. Watching this group of young women acclimate to their new, temporary social circle was a trip. I would dare any woman my age to say they didn't recognize the interactions I witnessed from their own pubescent memory. These girls were astonishing to behold. Truly, the were enlivening with their ghettoric (that is what we called it). They were self-conscious -effacing and -indulgent. It was a pleasure to be around them, as well as a throbbing pain. It was fulfilling and frustrating. I was amazed to see how the personalities were already cemented. I mean, these girls were and are who they are going to be for the rest of their lives. I could tell you which girls were motivated by intelligence or attention. Those who would chase the boys and those that the boys would chase. The antagonists and the protagonists. The self-reliant. The needy. The ones I would have befriended. The ones I would have frenemied. I knew who was going to end up gyrating at the dance way beyond her single digits. I could tell who was going to spend the majority of her time in the company of adults instead of cabin mates. Well, that one will always be contemplative. Her? She will always thrive on positive reinforcement. This one will forever and always be non-compliant.
It was a slightly shocking revelation that we are who we are that young, and that got me to wondering. If I could interview counselors that had me as a camper, they would probably agree. Twenty years later they'd say, yep, that is the Lauren Buckley I remember. I actually found myself attaching bits of me to bits of them. They were me, but in smaller vessels. Their age was just a number that I had passed fifteen years earlier. It wasn't an obstacle I had to get over in order to relate to them or them to me. In fact, it was the reason I could.
By the third day I woke up and realized I was not just a part of this experience, I was entrenched in it. I found myself vying for some of the girl's attention. I thought about which activity I wanted to sign up for depending on what girls were going where. When breaking up a fight I found myself wondering what side I would've been on. I knew which table I wanted to sit at breakfast,lunch and dinner. I knew what boys I would have flirted with. I even started adopting some of their bad attitudes about things they didn't want to do.
Pathetic. Hilarious. Wrong. Go ahead, you can judge me. I know I am right now.
But the thing is, the good, the bad and the ugly come out at camp. It did when I was younger and it definitely did with my girls. I am glad it all surfaced. I couldn't be happier about it, all of it. I decided to go back to camp as a counselor, but I actually went back as me. Just me and it was almost out of my control. My inner child. My disciplinarian. My last picked for the team. My caregiver. My educator. My student. My gossiper. My nurturer. My discoverer. My loner. Every nuance of my character was brought forth, challenged, found adequate or found wanting by my girls. First they introduced themselves and then they reintroduced myself to me.
Life happens and you do live and learn beyond your foundation as a human being. I know I have in the time after my days as a camper. But at the end of the day it was the unconditional love and acceptance of nine young women that taught me more than I ever could have imagined. When the buses pulled away from camp on the final day echoes of laughter were lost in a haze of exhaustion. I felt incomplete and renewed. I loaded my luggage, a little lighter. I loaded myself, a little heavier. I was a walking contradiction, again. As our bus pulled away I knew my chapter would continue to amend itself the following year. Same cast of girls, but a very different counselor.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Nerd Alert...
So I got on the bus this morning and I sat down next to what I think most people would constitute as a male nerd. I know the distinction has gotten a bit muddled with the emergence of the hipster culture, but this guy wasn't trying to be a nerd. He just was a nerd.
He had a Napoleon Dynamite type shirt on tucked in to his pants of course. He was futzing at first with his iphone, which I caveat is not nerdy, but then started awkwardly bobbing his head to music I couldn't quite make out. Actually bobbing isn't the correct word. It was more a seizure like motion with his head and a weird Hitch like containment with the rest of his body. Then he took of his head phones, took his out his glasses case and put on his 'four eyes'. Again, nothing against glasses, I wear them in fact, but it added to his overall Urkelness. He proceeded to pull out his ipad, again not nerdy, and began playing some sort of Grand Theft Auto like game but with way more parochial graphics. Grand Theft Auto is probably not nerdy, but on this guy, this game more than even his weird gesticulations made me really uncomfortable. His appearance alone made me assume he was not exactly bursting at the seams with social skills. That mixed with the fact that he was playing an unbelievably violent video game made me really uncomfortable. Even after I got off the bus I couldn't stop thinking about it.
I am not sure if news stories of men like George Sodini, or names like Dylan Clybold are the reason I had such a negative reaction to this guy and his video game but it got me to thinking. Maybe something other than his appearance gave me an uneasy feeling. Or perhaps the nerd factor lead me to think about the loner factor, and that made me uneasy. I don't know what it was. I mean he left me alone, he didn't leer. He was just doing his thing. However, in that short amount of time he got me to thinking. Historically, there aren't a lot of infamous females that have blown up buildings, convinced people to drink kool-aid, shot up their high schools and college campuses or randomly open fired in a female dominated gym. I am sure there are a few, but movie Monster was such a big deal because it was a case of an out of the ordinary serial killer. The out of the ordinary part is the fact that the killer was female. I don't know if it society, socialization or Malcolm Galdwell's exploration of contagious and infectious behavior that kept my mind running in circles. I obviously haven't done any reading on the subject, this is just how my mind was working that day.
There really is no point to this post, other than the fact that for a morning I was completely preoccupied with a stranger on the bus and a trend that has spanned news coverage for decades.
He had a Napoleon Dynamite type shirt on tucked in to his pants of course. He was futzing at first with his iphone, which I caveat is not nerdy, but then started awkwardly bobbing his head to music I couldn't quite make out. Actually bobbing isn't the correct word. It was more a seizure like motion with his head and a weird Hitch like containment with the rest of his body. Then he took of his head phones, took his out his glasses case and put on his 'four eyes'. Again, nothing against glasses, I wear them in fact, but it added to his overall Urkelness. He proceeded to pull out his ipad, again not nerdy, and began playing some sort of Grand Theft Auto like game but with way more parochial graphics. Grand Theft Auto is probably not nerdy, but on this guy, this game more than even his weird gesticulations made me really uncomfortable. His appearance alone made me assume he was not exactly bursting at the seams with social skills. That mixed with the fact that he was playing an unbelievably violent video game made me really uncomfortable. Even after I got off the bus I couldn't stop thinking about it.
I am not sure if news stories of men like George Sodini, or names like Dylan Clybold are the reason I had such a negative reaction to this guy and his video game but it got me to thinking. Maybe something other than his appearance gave me an uneasy feeling. Or perhaps the nerd factor lead me to think about the loner factor, and that made me uneasy. I don't know what it was. I mean he left me alone, he didn't leer. He was just doing his thing. However, in that short amount of time he got me to thinking. Historically, there aren't a lot of infamous females that have blown up buildings, convinced people to drink kool-aid, shot up their high schools and college campuses or randomly open fired in a female dominated gym. I am sure there are a few, but movie Monster was such a big deal because it was a case of an out of the ordinary serial killer. The out of the ordinary part is the fact that the killer was female. I don't know if it society, socialization or Malcolm Galdwell's exploration of contagious and infectious behavior that kept my mind running in circles. I obviously haven't done any reading on the subject, this is just how my mind was working that day.
There really is no point to this post, other than the fact that for a morning I was completely preoccupied with a stranger on the bus and a trend that has spanned news coverage for decades.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Cafeteria Christian...
For those of you who may not know, Cafeteria Christianity is a derogatory term used by some to accuse other Christian individuals or denominations of selecting which doctrines they will follow, and which they wont. A recent conversation about this very idea got me to thinking about what cafeteria line I'm standing in.
My family is heterogeneous when it comes to religion. My father was brought up and educated in the catholic system. My mother was brought up in a Presbyterian household. So my sister was born and baptized Catholic. I however was baptized Presbyterian, in what has been described to me as the coolest ceremony ever preformed by a foreign minister visiting the church that month. Yeah, riddle me that.
Anyway, I have had multiple conversations with both my parents about their religious upbringings. My father has not attended church since, I don't even know when, but he used the hood of his jacket to hide his eyes multiple times during 'The Exorcist". Obviously something about his Catholic background lives within him. My mother will say she was brought up in home that had a strong Christian foundation. Don't lie, don't cheat, don't steal and always treat others the way you would like to be treated. However, in college she was told by a professor that after talking about religious philosophy, hers in particular, he believed she didn't belong anywhere. She was a malleable early twenty something at the time. She doesn't claim any affiliation to this day.
That was the household I was brought up in. Someone who stopped placing any effort in Catholicism married to a person who believed in the fundamental application of Christianity but didn't subscribe to anything specifically. Therefore, my sister and I were baptized two different sects, yet we attended the same Sunday school. The years following Sunday school, if my memory serves me correctly, was empty of religion unless I was in a place of worship for a wedding or a funeral. A white or a black dress is what my religious experience boiled down to as an adult. That is a very slight over dramatization, but for the most part it hasn't played a huge role in my life. I took a World Religions class in college to try and figure out if I did belong anywhere. It just confused me more, and that is partly due to the fact that it is more common than ever to change religious affiliation. To get more generic or more specific. To cast off the teachings of an upbringing to follow your own path. Religious freedom abounds, or so it seems.
When you take that idea and put in the context of a cafeteria line, religion is much more Central Park West than General hospital, if you know what I mean. It is like politics. Nowadays you can be the daughter of a right wing nut job and have a baby out of wedlock. You can be a staunch environmentalist but lobby for factory farming. In the case of religion, you can be Catholic and divorced multiple times. You can be Buddhist and a billionaire. You can be atheist and hate the song Imagine. It seems that anything goes, or at least is possible in a country that boasts of religious freedom. I know the indoctrinated children from 'Jesus Camp' would disagree, bless their hearts, but there are two sides to every conversation. When it comes to religion I would argue there are many more than two.
Here is mine. I once thought that religion was the opiate of the masses. That faith was something people followed blindly. It is part of the reason, as a young adult I rallied so hard against it. I used to think that I was special because I thought religious texts were just really amazing sagas, written to quell or swell the fears of mere mortals. I thought I was outward thinking if I only entertained the idea of six commandants and filled in the remaining slots with Siddhartha's four sights. That as a woman, religion was created to hold me down and therefore was something to be reckoned with. So young. So self-indulgent.
In my experience the majority of people I know are in a line at The Religion Cafeteria. In my expeirence, most people are just like me, but different. I have friends in the Catholic line, the Latter Day Saints line, the Juddiasm line, the Wiccan line and of course standing in front of the consistently empty chafers of the Atheist line. They are picking and choosing what to put on their plate and subsequently swallow, just like me.
Everyone has a different palate, and can only consume so much of any given doctrine. I'll have a serving of Halakha, with a side of The Principle and some Christian Fundamentalism for dessert. I know it isn't as simple as fusion cuisine, but I can tell someone I am agnostic and that is the end of the conversation. It is not even close to a derogatory term. A word was created in the mid 19th century for people like me, so I could confidently express a religious unaffiliation and not necessarily be judged (again the 'Jesus Camp' kids come to mind) for it.
I'm still not sure of what I believe entirely, and I am not sure that I ever will, but what I do know is that my taste changes depending on the subject and even that ebbs and flows. I am at the cafeteria but even then I would jump lines. I would mix creeds and wash it all down with a healthy glass of apprehension. Maybe that means I have no faith in faith, or perhaps I am still struggling with the idea that I have no faith at all.
I don't know. But I do know if there is a line for people like me, I sure hope Chris Farley is behind the glass with a hair net slinging dogma along with a huge helping of comedic relief because everyone needs a good sense of humor to have this conversation.
Goodness, now I'm hungry.
My family is heterogeneous when it comes to religion. My father was brought up and educated in the catholic system. My mother was brought up in a Presbyterian household. So my sister was born and baptized Catholic. I however was baptized Presbyterian, in what has been described to me as the coolest ceremony ever preformed by a foreign minister visiting the church that month. Yeah, riddle me that.
Anyway, I have had multiple conversations with both my parents about their religious upbringings. My father has not attended church since, I don't even know when, but he used the hood of his jacket to hide his eyes multiple times during 'The Exorcist". Obviously something about his Catholic background lives within him. My mother will say she was brought up in home that had a strong Christian foundation. Don't lie, don't cheat, don't steal and always treat others the way you would like to be treated. However, in college she was told by a professor that after talking about religious philosophy, hers in particular, he believed she didn't belong anywhere. She was a malleable early twenty something at the time. She doesn't claim any affiliation to this day.
That was the household I was brought up in. Someone who stopped placing any effort in Catholicism married to a person who believed in the fundamental application of Christianity but didn't subscribe to anything specifically. Therefore, my sister and I were baptized two different sects, yet we attended the same Sunday school. The years following Sunday school, if my memory serves me correctly, was empty of religion unless I was in a place of worship for a wedding or a funeral. A white or a black dress is what my religious experience boiled down to as an adult. That is a very slight over dramatization, but for the most part it hasn't played a huge role in my life. I took a World Religions class in college to try and figure out if I did belong anywhere. It just confused me more, and that is partly due to the fact that it is more common than ever to change religious affiliation. To get more generic or more specific. To cast off the teachings of an upbringing to follow your own path. Religious freedom abounds, or so it seems.
When you take that idea and put in the context of a cafeteria line, religion is much more Central Park West than General hospital, if you know what I mean. It is like politics. Nowadays you can be the daughter of a right wing nut job and have a baby out of wedlock. You can be a staunch environmentalist but lobby for factory farming. In the case of religion, you can be Catholic and divorced multiple times. You can be Buddhist and a billionaire. You can be atheist and hate the song Imagine. It seems that anything goes, or at least is possible in a country that boasts of religious freedom. I know the indoctrinated children from 'Jesus Camp' would disagree, bless their hearts, but there are two sides to every conversation. When it comes to religion I would argue there are many more than two.
Here is mine. I once thought that religion was the opiate of the masses. That faith was something people followed blindly. It is part of the reason, as a young adult I rallied so hard against it. I used to think that I was special because I thought religious texts were just really amazing sagas, written to quell or swell the fears of mere mortals. I thought I was outward thinking if I only entertained the idea of six commandants and filled in the remaining slots with Siddhartha's four sights. That as a woman, religion was created to hold me down and therefore was something to be reckoned with. So young. So self-indulgent.
In my experience the majority of people I know are in a line at The Religion Cafeteria. In my expeirence, most people are just like me, but different. I have friends in the Catholic line, the Latter Day Saints line, the Juddiasm line, the Wiccan line and of course standing in front of the consistently empty chafers of the Atheist line. They are picking and choosing what to put on their plate and subsequently swallow, just like me.
Everyone has a different palate, and can only consume so much of any given doctrine. I'll have a serving of Halakha, with a side of The Principle and some Christian Fundamentalism for dessert. I know it isn't as simple as fusion cuisine, but I can tell someone I am agnostic and that is the end of the conversation. It is not even close to a derogatory term. A word was created in the mid 19th century for people like me, so I could confidently express a religious unaffiliation and not necessarily be judged (again the 'Jesus Camp' kids come to mind) for it.
I'm still not sure of what I believe entirely, and I am not sure that I ever will, but what I do know is that my taste changes depending on the subject and even that ebbs and flows. I am at the cafeteria but even then I would jump lines. I would mix creeds and wash it all down with a healthy glass of apprehension. Maybe that means I have no faith in faith, or perhaps I am still struggling with the idea that I have no faith at all.
I don't know. But I do know if there is a line for people like me, I sure hope Chris Farley is behind the glass with a hair net slinging dogma along with a huge helping of comedic relief because everyone needs a good sense of humor to have this conversation.
Goodness, now I'm hungry.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Resigning my family title...
It is an odd sensation when at 25 you are experiencing tinges of jealousy, at having lost the title of 'baby of the family'.
Yes that is right, I said jealousy. I mean, come on, I was the baby in my family for 25 years of my life. Giving up the spotlight is difficult when you've held and ROCKED the title for that long. But alas, my cousin had a baby, and my reign came to a close.
Yes I realize how awful that sounds. However, my selfishness is not the point of this post.
I now, after a recent extended family vacation am happy to report that jubilation beats jealousy every time. This little boy invigorates the older generations in my family in a way that their own children haven't been able to in years. It is an interesting thing when the youngest generation reaches adulthood and how a family's dynamic can change. To see my cousin, only a few years older than me, take on the role of a father. To see my grandfather become a great grandfather. It is strange.
The vacation traditions change but they stay the same. We still golf, we still play card bingo, we still make dinner. The conversations however, have changed from high school basketball games to babies. Salaries instead of summer camp. Home renovations over relationship statuses. Somewhere along the way the 'kids' grew up. It was inevitable. But now, there is a little one running around, and the traditions that I can only pull up from other people's recollections are happening right in front of me. The 'when you were little stories' are now playing out in real time. The horse rides my grandfather gave me as a two year old are reenacted as if I am watching a moving picture. My mother on her hands and knees playing peek-a-boo. The inflections in my grandmother's voice when she asks him a question, rings eerily familiar in my own ears. The silly faces my father makes. The worry my aunt cannot hide when play gets a little rough. All these things have an once removed element of déjà vu.
It is peculiar to observe the grandparents and parents go through the motions of what I can only assume was mine, my sister and my cousins childhoods. It is nostalgic. It is energizing in a way. To see what they must have been like with us. To see what they are like with him. It is the circle of life through the lens of a family. It is pretty extraordinary to see.
I can say, in all honesty, that I am glad to be among the adults in the family. I will find my role in this new group soon enough. But before I do I have to say, because it would be uncharacteristic if I didn't, that every baby will be welcomed into the family knowing full well that they have very big shoes to fill. Size eight and half to be exact.
Yes that is right, I said jealousy. I mean, come on, I was the baby in my family for 25 years of my life. Giving up the spotlight is difficult when you've held and ROCKED the title for that long. But alas, my cousin had a baby, and my reign came to a close.
Yes I realize how awful that sounds. However, my selfishness is not the point of this post.
I now, after a recent extended family vacation am happy to report that jubilation beats jealousy every time. This little boy invigorates the older generations in my family in a way that their own children haven't been able to in years. It is an interesting thing when the youngest generation reaches adulthood and how a family's dynamic can change. To see my cousin, only a few years older than me, take on the role of a father. To see my grandfather become a great grandfather. It is strange.
The vacation traditions change but they stay the same. We still golf, we still play card bingo, we still make dinner. The conversations however, have changed from high school basketball games to babies. Salaries instead of summer camp. Home renovations over relationship statuses. Somewhere along the way the 'kids' grew up. It was inevitable. But now, there is a little one running around, and the traditions that I can only pull up from other people's recollections are happening right in front of me. The 'when you were little stories' are now playing out in real time. The horse rides my grandfather gave me as a two year old are reenacted as if I am watching a moving picture. My mother on her hands and knees playing peek-a-boo. The inflections in my grandmother's voice when she asks him a question, rings eerily familiar in my own ears. The silly faces my father makes. The worry my aunt cannot hide when play gets a little rough. All these things have an once removed element of déjà vu.
It is peculiar to observe the grandparents and parents go through the motions of what I can only assume was mine, my sister and my cousins childhoods. It is nostalgic. It is energizing in a way. To see what they must have been like with us. To see what they are like with him. It is the circle of life through the lens of a family. It is pretty extraordinary to see.
I can say, in all honesty, that I am glad to be among the adults in the family. I will find my role in this new group soon enough. But before I do I have to say, because it would be uncharacteristic if I didn't, that every baby will be welcomed into the family knowing full well that they have very big shoes to fill. Size eight and half to be exact.
Water from the sky...
And I am not talking about rain.
If you live in a city, you have undoubtedly experienced the mystery that is random water falling from the sky.
It isn't at all reminiscent of getting slimed on Double Dare. No, that is just the window washer on the 27th floor who has bad eye-hand coordination. Be careful, the bucket usually follows.
No, I am talking about the fine mist that conjures memories of the first moments of a cool summer shower. However, when examined further there seems to be no point of origin. It also comes and goes as it pleases. It is not consistent. It is almost like a mirage. It is over before you know it and it leaves you wondering if it was real.
Where does this mystery condensation come from? What is it? Is there meaning behind it? Is something from above trying to tell us something?
There is something oddly intriguing about, but when I let my mind wander it goes to a disturbing place.
If anyone has answers, please let me know.
If you live in a city, you have undoubtedly experienced the mystery that is random water falling from the sky.
It isn't at all reminiscent of getting slimed on Double Dare. No, that is just the window washer on the 27th floor who has bad eye-hand coordination. Be careful, the bucket usually follows.
No, I am talking about the fine mist that conjures memories of the first moments of a cool summer shower. However, when examined further there seems to be no point of origin. It also comes and goes as it pleases. It is not consistent. It is almost like a mirage. It is over before you know it and it leaves you wondering if it was real.
Where does this mystery condensation come from? What is it? Is there meaning behind it? Is something from above trying to tell us something?
There is something oddly intriguing about, but when I let my mind wander it goes to a disturbing place.
If anyone has answers, please let me know.
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