The Scribble Pad
The mental meanderings of a slightly loose screw.
FEBRUARY 09
Carnival
Tuesday - My father's last Carnival
It's Mardi Gras and I'm spending it without my father, my first Trevor-less Carnival ever. I'd been dreading it, much as I had dreaded Christmas, but the reality was not as bad as I had feared.
Last night my family and I drove into Port of Spain, hitting all his favourite Carnival spots: St. James, where he used to buy a beer and a roti and watch people liming at Carnival or watch the moons dance for Hosay. Adam Smith Square, where he would listen to steelbands play classical and pop tunes on Canival Monday. We went to the old mas-man's favourite Carnival judging points: Victoria Square and Independence Square, and paid tribute to him in the best way we know how.
Let's just say that a part of him will always be part of the Mas. Enjoy your Carnival, Daddy.
Friday February 20 - Waste not...
I wrote a column a few weeks ago as a test run for a local paper, but wouldn't ya know, economy and all that, they couldn't afford me. So, never one to let a good thing go to waste, I present it here in all it's glory:
Women and children first?
No one who has ever flown can read about the emergency landing of the US Airways flight into the Hudson river, and the subsequent evacuation, without getting goosebumps. There are so many other ways that could have gone down—literally and figuratively—and so many horrible scenarios we could have witnessed second hand, rather than the image of the evacuees patiently standing—not pushing and shoving—waiting in the freezing water to be rescued.
What's interesting to me, however, is that apparently, women and children were let off the sinking plane first. My initial response to this was, "Oh, that's civilized. It's good to know that chivalry is not yet dead." But then I did a mental double-take.
Exactly why should the women and children be let off first? Okay, let's just say for argument’s sake that everyone agrees that children should always be saved first. Something buried deep in the human heart allows us to ignore the fact that, rather than the Hallmark card image of children as cute and angelic, they are more often grubby, snotty, annoying pains in the region south of your waistband. We respond instinctively to save a child in jeopardy. So let's take the kids as a given.
But what about us? In the 70s we burned our bras. In the 80s we wore uncomfortable, butt-ugly power suits with shoulder pads that extended 3 inches beyond our sleeves. In the 90s and beyond, we scrambled up the corporate ladder, stomping on the fingers of those clawing up behind us. And now here we are, with all the rights we ever wanted, the recognition we deserve and salaries that reflect our actual worth. So what makes us entitled to be let off a sinking ship or a crashed plane (or a sinking plane) first?
I'd be the first to admit that I'm mighty pleased when a man holds the door open for me. It gives me the warm fuzzies. I also don't mind admitting that in a plane-in-the-river scenario, I sure as heck wouldn’t say no if they allowed me off with my two sprouts. I’d be even happier if a man was kind enough to carry one child for me, since the little monkeys weigh quite a bit. After all, just as there are no atheists in foxholes, there are no feminists on downed craft.
I was curious about the "women and children first" principle, and why it hasn't gone the way of the much-beloved "women shall speak only when spoken to" maxim. I polled my girlfriends on this, so if you think what I’m about to say makes any sense, I can't take credit for it. If you think this is all absolute rubbish, blame them, not me.
First, it simply makes sense. It's more efficient to get the (supposedly) weaker individuals out of the way, and this includes not just women but the elderly and infirm. If said women are also burdened by one or more child, and assuming that the terrified children are clinging to them like tree frogs, then the aisles would be much safer without them standing there and wailing.
(A question buzzing in the back of my head, however, is this: what if there were children on that flight travelling with their fathers? Would it be men and children first, or would the hysterical child be handed over to the nearest willing female? The devil’s in the details.)
Then there's the evolutionary perspective. It behooves mankind to preserve womankind because of our reproductive importance. In other words, a tribe that values its women values the incubators of its future. The motivation, then, becomes the preservation of the species. To quote the ever-perceptive Mr. Spock, "the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few."
Ultimately, I suppose, it's a question of order. In times of crisis, we rely heavily on the norms and social rules that have been inculcated in us to give us some direction. Women and children first, perhaps, is just a means to an end: the ultimate survival of all. It's a social roadmap which, in times of extreme stress, allows us to operate in the most orderly and civilized manner.
All very nice, if you're a woman, but is it fair to the men? On the Titanic, the women had a 50% greater survival rate than the men, and children a 75% greater chance. Not very encouraging odds for the hairier sex.
Maybe in my analysis I’m being rude and ungrateful. Maybe rather than looking for the answer in norms, inculcated behaviour and a host of socio-psychological whatsits, I should just acknowledge the nobility, decency and generosity of self-sacrifice. Not just the men on the flight in question, in fact, but the men who put their lives on the line for others every day, such as policemen, firemen, and soldiers who stand in the path of danger and make themselves our shields. For this, I’m grateful. For this, gentlemen, I say thank you.
Friday February 13 - And now for something completely different...
Boredom. Not a pretty sight. Got tired of watching the cat play with the hamster, not in the mood to slog through book #5 (although dragging my feet ain't doing my 50-book challenge any good), so I thought I'd try this Internet meme I read about a few years ago.
Yeah. Years. Ain't no moss growing on me! All you got to do is write down in one sentence, something you've always been dying to say to 10 different people, but leave no clues to identifying the recipients of your rant. It's very liberating: like shouting into a hole in the ground or screaming from a mountaintop. Here's mine:
- Oh, grow up; aren’t you a little old to be a Mean Girl?
- I love you dearly, but I think you’re dangerously insane; get help.
- You are the best thing that ever happened to me, and the greatest reason I have for living.
- Hurry up, hurry up!
- Still The One.
- You are arguably the most self-absorbed, emotionally retarded person on Earth; sell that thing and buy yourself a clue.
- Thank you for this chance; I couldn’t have done it without you.
- Why???
- I’m very, very worried about you!
- Better now?
Oh, that feels better. Any guesses as to who is who?
Tuesday February 3 - Older
Awright, awright, so I turned a year older this weekend. Hold the applause.
No, I don't mean that. Go ahead and holler. Funny, though, that for the first time in a while, I don't feel that it was all that significant. You know, birthdays usually find me all introspective, mulling over the year past, and the one to come, and trying to decide how to change, how to improve. And asking myself if I feel older.
But this year, nope, uh-uh. I feel no different. No older. Just glad to be alive, I guess. And I've had so much introspection last year, I figure I just can't handle another minute of it.
So what the hell. Here we go again, one more time. Drinks on me!
