Being Offensive (Conclusion, i think)

Offense #2 expressed itself earlier today.  We were cleaning and scrubbing living room walls of the apartment that the couchsurfing host is moving out of tomorrow.  The walls are being scrubbed because the apartment has served as a bit of a shrine for a small community of friends who have expressed and shared their love and experiences with life together all over these walls.  I will go further into what these walls look like in another piece and have discussed it briefly in the beginning of this one.

I do not even remember the subject matter we were discussing while listening to the hosts computer pound out music for 13 hours straight.  She, one of the folks who have slept in this shrine the last year, had said something that provided an opportunity for what I perceived as humor.  It was something about women that just left me smiling and I said with that smile on my face, “But that doesn’t really matter since women can’t read or write anyway.”  The two other men in the room, one the host and the other a young man who is a student at the school he teaches at, both clearly understood that I was playing.  She did not.  She stared at me as if I had killed a child.  I felt her stare go through me and stab me in the spine.  I let her know I was kidding, as did the host, but she did not change her facial expression- hard, cold and angry with tight lips, squished forehead and piercing eyes.  About twenty minutes later, we were conversing about some female musicians and I again playfully asked a similar question, “I wonder how they remember the lyrics since women can’t read or write?”    I received the same response as before.  This time the stare was even more forceful and I felt it in my veins and bones, her blue eyes were no longer the soft blue that greeted me for the first time the night before last.  They were now cutting me up in pieces and not even noticing the blood. 

I walked over to her, looked her in the eyes and casual asked her, “Do you want me to stop with these jokes?”

Firmly she answered, “YES!” without any affect in her face or voice. 

And that was Offense #2.

Later in the day we were driving in her car alone together, due to the fact that her car was towed while were scrubbing and she had left her wallet in the car.  I was the only one with cash.  I paid for her impounding and we were driving in her little red car to her bank to reimburse me for the $80. 

I asked her “Why were you so bothered earlier knowing I was kidding?”

She clarified her position carefully stating that, “Here in Virginia, women are still treated as something less than men.  We are expected to not think and many women still do not know how to read or write.  Also, at UVA there is a terrible lack of support for women raped on campus and often they are not even believed and blamed.  Jokes can be rude and hurtful.  They often speak of something the person telling the joke really feels.  And, they make awful situations and circumstances become regular and accepted.”  She said this all with a mix of a soft but firm voice that at times reached for a sense of power and dominance over me, or those I represent.

I repeated back to her what I thought she said in my words before expressing any of my own thoughts, experiences or feelings.  She acknowledged my version and then I responded slowly and respectfully, “I believe humor has an incredible power to heal and impact on teaching us how to deal with intense and sensitive issues.  I think we all have gotten to uptight here in the U.S. with of all our issues to the point that there is no room for healing or productive conversation with everyone afraid to say anything wrong.”

“I just don’t want it to ever be normal for women to be treated the way they are and sexually assaulted without proper support.”  She was quick to reiterate her position.

I shared that, “Neither do I!  My mother did not graduate high school.  I think she only went to school through sixth grade.  When my parents got divorced back in 1973 when divorce was still new, she had to take very low skills, low-income work to get by.  She only became somewhat successful because she refused to fail, not because she had the opportunities to do so.  I understand what you are speaking about first hand.”

Her gaze and posture softened somewhat but not completely.  “It is like there are things that Black people say to each other that white people cannot say to them.”

“Funny you should bring that up.” I said with my voice becoming more relaxed.  “It turns out that most of my male friends happen to be Black.  My two closest male friends are both Black and we worked together for the last four and half years.  And the thing they love the most about me is that I do make those jokes with them daily.  We have open conversation about race and every other issue in many ways that can be humor one day, frustration the next and intense conversation the day after that.  They know I respect them and will share when I do have prejudices and they will with me.  The difference is that we have a relationship with trust and you and I just met.  I am sorry I hurt you and disrespected you.  I was just having fun.  I just think we all need to lighten up about all these issues.  I know you disagree and I am totally Ok with that.  I am not trying to convince you I am right, just clarifying why I do what I do.”

She accepted my apology and dropped me off where I was going to play chess with a guy I met at the sweat lodge and campfire the night before.  Our goodbyes were mostly formal and without connection. He beat me the first game and we didn’t get to finish the one I was winning, just like the day before.

Regardless of the harm and situation, I do not like offending and hurting people, especially those that do not know me and the way I interact with the world.  This is my own doing.  I do appreciate stirring the pot.  I am learning that I need to be mindful of the people that are in the copper kettle that I am placing the wooden spoon in.  Some get burnt rather quickly and do not allow the seasoning to flavor and provide the desired texture to produce a new creation- unique and fresh, some do not.  An uncooked or overcooked meal rarely meets are expectations or satiated anyone. 

I am a pot stirrer. It is a challenging “occupation” but I believe necessary for us to move from eternal discourse to a true and sustainable shift.  We need commitment, focus and intention but I think we also need some playfulness to take the edge off, allowing opportunities for growth and development.  I am still working this out and need to be mindful which ingredients get thrown in the pot before stirring with my wooden spoon too fast or too hard.  Sometimes for a dish to come out perfect, we need it at a full boil, other times we need to turn the burners down real low and let it simmer long and slow to reach perfection.  To be a good cook is to know the ingredients, the heat source and the pot itself, and always try your best to use the right tool for the right job.