Hanoi Me? Couldn’t Be!

I found myself in the Philadelphia Int’l airport last week, at the most ungodly hour of the morning – for a 6AM flight with my two little girlies in tow. In true busted mom form, we decided to go to the diner next door to the hotel at 11PM the night before. My justification? It’s only 9P in Denver…. Oh don’t worry, I gave them the option “girls, are you hungry now, or do you just want to sleep and then wake up really early and get breakfast?” – I was starving myself – I had just finished up the last of several shows while back East, and could really have used a bite, but would have been just as happy (and likely better off without that midnight cheese steak – but hey, it was my last night in Philly – who knew if I’d have another one all year?!?). The response first from my eldest, a Food Channel junkie “I’m fine to go mom, I’m not even tired”…and the younger, ever the over pleasing little sister, “I want to do whatever Sophie wants to do”…and so it was that we found ourselves, my 8 and 5 year olds and I, sitting in the 24 hour American Diner – complete with freedom fries at midnight. It was too perfect – too amazing – a transplanted southern fried waitress who called everyone “bay-bee” – the huge glass case filled with cakes, Italian cookies and the de rigueur cannolis. My younger remarked, “mommy, you didn’t tell us we were coming to cake world!”.

The joy of the night before was starkly contrasted with the tired, dragging ugliness of the next morning. It felt as though we hadn’t slept at all when the morning wake up call came at 4AM. Ugh. Mommy wants to call out. Mommy can’t wake up. Mommy is panicked, “wake up girls, we can’t miss our flight!!!” – we moved at a snail’s pace, got dressed and took the shuttle to the airport. I was cranky. The van had filled front to back with airline personnel, meaning that I had to climb around them with children in tow to the very back of the cramped van. I felt like saying in the most dripping-with-sarcasm voice I could conjure (it’s felled many strong minded victims before) “more than most, I would guess that you would understand the importance of back to front filling of the van, but I guess being a flying waitress doesn’t really mean you have to be smart or understanding, hope your hands don’t get messy collecting fully loaded barf bags, have fun on your flight”…but I held back. I’m flight phobic to begin with, and can’t put any negative Karma out there before I had to fly….I kept my mouth shut, and responded to the plaintive, “mommy, I’m squished” with a kind, “it’s only for a minute honey, the airport’s right there”.

Then, at precisely 5:13AM we were standing in line at the counter, waiting for our turn to check in…even though we’d printed our boarding passes in the hotel business center, we still had to wait in line with the other weary travelers all with the same early morning bewilderment, “why exactly did I think that a 6AM flight on a Monday morning was a good idea?!?” – the standard foreign Euro trash group of 20 somethings all piled together at the counter trying to communicate in somewhat British English, then breaking into their home language to explain to the rest of the group that they needed to get their passports out…come ON…idiots. Who travels to a foreign country and doesn’t know that. One by one started drudging through their messenger bags and finally got themselves sorted. Finally.

It was a long wait, and by happenstance I noticed the “firearm security area” to my left – about 20 yards away. It was loaded with classic camouflage duffel bags, seemed like hundreds of them. I dismissed that as weird, and then the commotion of at least 50 uniformed soldiers then caught my attention. They were talking unusually loud (or it was 5:30AM, and a whisper was loud to my ears); I watched them for minute. Here’s where it gets really odd. I realized that they were young, really young and the immediate thought that I had like a flash of lightning was this, “I wonder how many innocent civilians they’ll kill, or have killed, I wonder how many children have melted faces because of the bombs they dropped, I wonder how many orphans they created…how dare they look happy?” – I was enraged for a minute sitting on my political high horse – are they not paying attention? Of course they aren’t they just take orders from the idiot that is their “Chief” – but why? Why do they just blindly follow orders that have been factually proven to be unjust?

I saw their commanding officers, two of them together, one was obviously older, with graying temples, the other a lean tall dark-haired man. They stood close together, apart from the rest of the outfit, carefully watching the handling of their secure firearms. I hated them in that minute. I wasn’t sure what had come over me. I know the war is wrong. I didn’t vote for it. I don’t believe in the President at all. I would never in a million years follow his lead into battle. I wouldn’t even follow his lead at a Disneyland car ride with tracks that don’t allow any off course movement. My disgust boiled over. It wasn’t their fault, it was his. All his fault. The country is divided, and like the Viet Nam years, we have no where else to put this anger. I voted my conscience, it didn’t make a difference, I protested the sending of my fellow American citizens to an unjust war. It didn’t make a difference. Upon seeing the actual men and women who were on the front lines pulling triggers and killing people – I lost it for a minute.

In that moment, I realized something – the Viet Nam war lasted far longer, for years and years, and with thousands dead on both sides of the line, with soldiers trapped by their own limitations, some cracked and committed heinous acts against perceived enemies. How many times had I seen “Full Metal Jacket” (curse you SpikeTV)? I understood in that brief moment what my parents’ generation was collectively feeling when they spit on those war veterans returning from battle in a no win situation. The country was split, torn, our collective psyche told us that we had to hate the trigger-pullers, the politicians that we hated were untouchable – they wrote the policies, but the soldiers who had free will, they dropped the bombs, they committed the war crimes and they walked around as free men that the public could touch and see. There was no place else for the anger to go…it went to them.

While they were unassuming in their return – battle weary, hungry for a home-cooked meal, thoughts of sleeping in a real bed – they were greeted instead by that wall of rage that the public had built up over years of turmoil. The recoil of those hurtful shots – a spit in the face, boos that greeted them on the tarmac, the looks on the faces of parents, loved ones, even potential employers – those were the things that devastated the returning troops.

I looked down at my shoes for a minute, tears welled up in my eyes. I had to get it together; maybe I’m just really really tired right now. Then the tug at my pants, “mo-om, it’s our turn” – yes it is our turn. It’s our turn as a generation to do something, before this gets even more out of hand…I’m so frustrated, I am paralyzed, I can’t even think about what needs to be done…support the troops, not the war? Vote and vote and vote, for what? I’m sad for those boys and girls, without an education, without money or privilege who are forced by a social structure to enlist as the best option to an hourly wage at the local plant. All the while believing that this is a heroic thing that they are doing. 

I walked to the counter and checked in. One bag, 50.5 pounds. The counter gentleman took pity upon my weary face, “close enough” – thank goodness I didn’t need to stand there like a schmuck moving a pair of jeans from one bag to another, angering the people in line behind me who were losing their patience as much as I had. I gave him the best smile I could, “thank you. Thank you so much”. I felt better, and I knew that I needed to correct the bad Karma that I was brewing. I walked by a group of them, mixed genders, a little lopsided toward the boys. Without the bags, I was holding hands with each of my precious girls. I spoke as I approached them, “Are you guys coming or going?” and the chipper response from a short-haired light brunette female troop, “we’re going home” she said with a relieved looking smile. “Well, welcome back, we’re glad you made it home safely”.

The ever astute 8 year old on my right looked at me, puzzled and said, “why did you talk to that lady?” – “well, she’s coming back from the war, and I wanted her to know that I was happy she didn’t get hurt” “but, mommy, why do you care about her? You don’t even know her, and plus, mommy, you hate the war, right?” and in the most non-busted mommy way I knew how, I told her, “you’re right, I hate the war, but that girl had to go, she only went there because she had to, and because we live here in America, we are Americans. I told her I was happy not because I like the war or any of that, I just wanted her to feel happy that she was home. She probably didn’t get to see her mom yet, and I just wanted to be a happy person that she saw on her way home, in case she was still sad about being in the war”. “Oh, then you were being nice because she might be sad and misses her mommy?” “You got it, sweetheart”. “Then I will be nice too mommy”. And as we went up the escalator, she looked down and waved at those soldiers. They waved and smiled back. I cried some more. “Let’s go find our plane. I want to go home too”.

I've become obsessed with Hilary's FUPA (ghetto slang for "Fat Upper P**** Area -- I know there's gotta be a better substitute for the P word – Pubic? Private? Pouchy (pron.:Pu-chee)?) and her camel toe that she sports 80% of the time I've seen her on TV!! She wears LIGHT colored pants buttoned up OVER the FUPA and has a camel toe?!?! I swear if she turned around we'd see her GI-normous granny panties and VPLs!! (oh, visible panty lines - boys don't know what those are, but girls do).

 How can she rule a country when she can’t rule her pants? Does she dress in the dark? I'm baffled. I mean she has to have people who are responsible for her appearance.   Every time I see her, I lose more faith in her. Call me shallow, I don't care. I'm a patriot. She's representing me and my country. Oh and PS, what the hell is going on with her goofy hair? We're not Great Britain for Christ's sake!! We are the country that produced the hottest fat chick around - Anna Nicole.

Certainly if we are choosing a female representative, she's got to look good - it's imperative! Maybe she's sporting the camel toe in an effort to prove she's got balls. I don't know. Maybe it's like some warped intimidation thing, like if she goes out looking like that - she's really saying, "if I'm crazy enough to do this, you bet I'll be tough on crime" - that must be it - like Mel in the 1st Lethal Weapon - nobody wanted to mess with Riggs because they knew he was crazy enough to shoot. Hilary is the new Riggs...I have to believe that, else I'll have to be true to myself and vote Obama.

Have we not learned anything from the Kennedy era? I want Camelot. I want a hottie president, girl or guy. I miss Bill Clinton's rock star presidency. I consider myself a true American, and I just can't be represented by a dowdy frumpy, middle-aged+ lady. I am the masses. I am middle America. I buy the sandwich maker off the TV and let it sit in my cabinet. I hang my coat on that Gazelle walking machine that's collecting dust in my TV room while I eat fake out (yes fake out, it's like take out, but I didn't call it in, I defrosted it and microwaved it, it's still crap that I shouldn't be eating, but it's yummy and I'm not that fat).   I vote for the candidate that looks good and sounds good, regardless of what is actually being said (praise Jesus).

 Hilary - pay attention, listen up, get yourself together girl. Take two weeks off and get a tummy tuck. You'll thank me for it. Nobody likes a smart girl unless she's cute too. It's a lot easier to hear what you're saying if I stop looking at your pants like a traffic accident that I can't tear my eyes away from - I'd like to show people a ginormous blow up picture of Hilary and ask them what they think about her camel toe/FUPA situation and if that will influence their vote. If they are real Americans like me, it will.  

So Barack Obama is black. BFD I say. I’m a minority too and it makes me wonder if he’s just black, or really a minority. I think there’s a difference. I know there is. It’s not about percentage of melanin in the skin either. I know white kids that grew up as minorities, I know black kids that are growing up in a community where they are the majority. I was a minority growing up – my husband was a white minority….Allow me to elaborate…I grew up in a small town, with a small town mentality that was essentially labor class and 99% white. Later, I went to Villanova, which at the time was referred to mockingly by free thinkers and those with a miscegenetic bent alike as “VANILLA-Nova” calling out the total whiteness of the school. Later I lived in the great city of Philadelphia , where the black population outruns the white by 2:1…so while the city was full of black people, they were not in fact minorities.

I wonder if it’s the same in Chicago ? I wonder if Barack was taunted not for being black, but for being half-white? Philly was like that, de facto segregation abounded in this “city of neighborhoods” so a native Philadelphian would describe his residence not by his geographical location in the city (north, south, uptown, downtown), but by neighborhood, and everyone would know what that meant. I lived in Brewery Town , a sub-neighborhood of the larger neighborhood of Fairmount – technically the north central section of the city, by the park. In South Philly, people would go so far to describe their locale by Parish – and again that meant there was a majority and a minority. I remember someone from South Philly, in an Italian neighborhood, relating to me how he was teased mercilessly because his mother was Italian and his father Irish – so he had a McLastname – and this was not in the times of the Irish immigrant worker influx of the 1920s. This was in the 80s, friends.

So what does it mean to be a minority? How is it different? We tend to understand each other’s pain a little better. We know by default what it’s like to live in the margin. It’s even worse for those of us who weren’t accepted by either the majority or the minority communities to which they supposedly belonged. I have black friends that grew up “white” for example – and they are treated differently by both groups of people. My husband knows. He was half-Greek and half-Xeni (white, in Greek) – didn’t matter that the Xeni half converted to Orthodoxy and in fact was much more of a fundamentalist in the church than many of them…what mattered was that he didn’t fit. So in school, in rural upstate New York , he was an outsider. Like me.

In childhood, for both of us, it shook out like this…we were different, our church was different, our food, our home life, our clothing, our communities…our everything. Did it matter? Yes! It mattered so much to everyone – the kids on the playground teased and taunted. In my town, there was an influx of Paki families, whose children were much younger than my sisters and me and so this pocket of minorities at least had a modicum of strength in community. I did not. The new generation of children in fact had a sense of self, of identity, of belonging at least to one community. I grew up hearing words like “sand nigger” and “camel jockey” either hurled in anger or said in mocking tones – it was all the same – upon the influx of South Asians, and without any other slur, there was one invented one morning “Paka-Chink”; it did make sense, Pakistan bordered on China, and I myself do have both Chinese and Indian features…plus the weird name and background, all fodder for ridiculing the brown girl.

What was it like for Barack I wonder? He had the weird name, okay, I could see myself mocking in 3^rd grade…barracks, bo-rock, rockhead….I have this theory that people with odd names grow up tough. I did. At first I just fought. I mean really fought – fist fights in the play ground, and as the youngest, shortest, lightest kid in the class, I still held my own with boys older than me. I remember using every tool possible – biting, kicking, punching (one year, I punched my mother’s cousin in the face and knocked a tooth out – a family legend that lives to this day – I think I was 7). Eventually, I learned the tool that would serve me best, sarcasm. So today, I know why Muhammad Ali was so tough, someone like me sat behind him in 3^rd grade and was relentless I’m sure. Cassius, what kind of name is that? Cashews? No wonder you’re nuts! Get it, cashews are nuts, get it Cassius? Why wouldn’t he become the heavyweight champion? He must have carried a heavy weight burden. Same with Riddick Bowe (I can almost hear the playground chanting “Riddick-ulous, hey Riddick-ulous”).

All this to say what? This: I don’t think Barack Obama is a minority. He doesn’t come across as one. Why would he cow tow to societal pressure like that? Why isn’t he tough, instead of smarmy? Why is he a politician instead of a boxer, a fighter? Maybe he thinks he is, but nobody gets this far without a pretty clean closet. Mine has so many skeletons it looks like that’s where the Golden Hind eventually wrecked itself. That’s why he’s not a minority. He’s too sure of himself. He’s too glib…if he was a real minority, someone would find something out about how he got through that awful time of self-loathing – be it pills, booze, fighting or womanizing, he had to go through something to get to this place.

Someone will be smart enough to figure it out. Or maybe I just did. Barack Obama is not a minority. For those of you white people who think this is about black and white, it’s not. He’s more a part of you than you think. If you’ve never felt the sting of a racial slur, the insult of being mocked for not belonging based on superficial qualities like ethnicity or religion, then you are not in fact a minority. If you aren’t then Barack is one of you, so you should go ahead and vote for him. It’s okay. People love to tell me all the time “I don’t see you as a minority, maybe it’s because you talk so white. You’re like a regular girl to me.” It’s only because you see what you want to see, or I haven’t shown you my scars.

Being able to sense the pain in someone else, the secret look in their eyes that says “yup, I’ve been there. I am broken on the inside” – that’s a secret skill that I have. Some people have gay-dar, I have gray-dar…I look for people who live in a world of gray, neither black nor white, falling through the cracks and existing somewhere in between. I look into the eyes of people in limbo and I instinctively know, we are one. I understand you and you understand me – in an instant it becomes clear. I don’t see it Barack. Sure, he’s not black or white, but he’s not gray either. Maybe he’s a recovering minority. Maybe he’s in a 12-Step program liked “Mixed Race Anonymous” only it wouldn’t be that anonymous, because people can see you. It’d be like a “secret” club with a bright red door on it – not that big a secret, right?

So what is the secret then Barack, how did you “struggle” with your identity? You gloss over it an awful lot. You tell tales of your childhood woes. They couldn’t have been that bad, dude. Trust me, if I told you my tales, we'd both cry, and I don’t cry. Ever. It’s made me that tough. You don’t seem that tough to me, B. I think I could take you. Not just because you’re skinny either (that’s advantage me for sure) but because you’re mentally skinny. You couldn’t go 10 rounds with me verbally – not even 3 rounds physically, you’d pray for that bell. I don’t trust you B, I gotta say – I’m just not feeling it today. My gray-dar tells me that you aren’t who you say you are. Instead of showing up swinging, ready to do battle, you played the other card, the “I’ll beat them at their own game” card…way to go Mr. Brady…the rest of us live in the real world, where beating them means beating them, plain and simple. Why do you even care what the majority thinks? I know why…because you’re one of them. You eat, sleep and breathe “MAJORITY” and guess what? You’re a sad politician like the rest of them. You’re a breath of fresh air like a Twinkie is a delicious wholesome treat the whole family can enjoy while choking down the preservatives and artificial coloring that comes inside the neat little package. You sir, are just that. Artificial color. Artificial flavor. You are not a minority.