We took Ainsley to her very first Reds game Saturday. It was a gorgeous afternoon (except for the 10 minutes we got spit on by a small rain cloud), our home team won with an exciting come-from-behind 9th-inning homer, and the tickets were free. I won them in a drawing here at work. I never win anything, and to have won these tickets for the "Ohio Cup" series, on a perfect day, with a win by the Reds...I must have finally done something to make karma happy.
The one downside is that our seats were in an upper section (not quite the nosebleeds, but you pass this section on your way to the nosebleends) where the seats and steps are spectacularly steep. For someone suffering from vertigo, it was not ideal. When I first stood at the top of the steps in our section, needing to go down a few rows to our seats, I kept seeing myself losing my balance and pitching forward and tumbling all the way down my section to fall to my death in the rich people's section below. I looked at Jason and said, "I don't think I can do it."
With the handrail in a death grip, I made it to my seats. The very non-symmetrical layout of Great American kept throwing me; my eyes and my inner ears kept fighting each other as to where exactly my body fit into the weird shape. Which way was up? Which was down? The fluid in my ear kept telling lies.
But you know what helps vertigo at a ball park? Draft beer. Not so much helps, as masks the condition. After two Miller Lites (which only tastes good served ice cold at a baseball game, IMHO) it seemed natural and normal that I should feel a little dizzy. I didn't feel so much like I had vertigo, just like I had a beer buzz. Which I did. So it was all good for a while.
Dear hubby indulged me and served as my designated driver, and he and Ainsley enjoyed some peanuts and soft-serve (dished up in a plastic mini baseball cap, natch.) As the ninth inning neared, and I faced the prospect of having to get up and exit in a mass of people, I began to worry which was going to be worse: the way the whole ballpark felt like it was spinning around home plate, or the claustrophobia from being asses to elbows with 40,000 of my closest friends? Just then, they blasted U2's "Vertigo" throughout the park. I took it as a sign.
Thankfully, Adam Dunn hit the game-winning run and after a minute of cheering and screaming and showing Ainsley the little burst of celebratory fireworks, we got out of Dodge just before the rest of the crowd started to move.
So, thank you, Cincinnati Enquirer, for donating my tickets. And thank you, Reds, for helping to give me and my little family a nearly perfect day.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Thursday, May 15, 2008
On A May Night, Outside of Carrollton
Yesterday I saw many news stories remembering one of the worst tragedies to happen in our state.
Twenty years ago, a bus crashed on Interstate 71 outside of Carrollton, Kentucky. If you're from this area, you know the details; a drunk driver was driving north in the southbound lanes and hit a school bus carrying children and chaperones from a day at Kings Island back to Radcliff, south of Louisville. The gas tank ruptured, and few escaped uninjured from the inferno that followed. It was one of the deadliest bus accidents in our nation's history, and the deadliest drunk-driving accident.
Though the victims were from a different part of the state, the crash happened barely a half hour south of my hometown, and it was covered extensively by the Cincinnati news. I was 14 at the time; the same age as many of the victims. In the years following the disaster, I would occasionally meet someone from Hardin County at an academic event or competition; in getting-to-know-you icebreakers, another student would sometimes pick up on that person's hometown and ask if they knew anyone on that bus. The answer was usually, "Yes," and then it wouldn't be discussed further. The community's wounds would take a long time to heal.
If you know me, you know that from the time I was a small child until today I have a terrible fear of fire. I couldn't light my own Bunsen burner in chemistry class, and I have to look away or leave the room when someone starts a fire in a fireplace. My biggest fear is being in a fiery plane or car crash. The closeness of this accident, the ages of the victims, and the horrible circumstances surrounding their deaths hit me hard. To this day, when I chaperone a trip and find myself on a bus, I position myself as close as I can to an emergency exit and plan in my head how I would get out in the event of a crash or fire. I very nearly have panic attacks that I have to walk myself through. When I close my eyes and try to count to ten to calm down, I see the black and white picture from the paper the day after the Carrollton accident: a burnt-out bus that trapped its young victims inside.
When the driver of the truck that hit the bus was being sentenced, one of our stations somehow got a camera into the courtroom as the sentence was being read. It must have been summer, because I remember being alone in the house as the regularly scheduled programming was interrupted. The camera panned the courtroom to capture the reaction shots, and several of the survivors were in attendance. I remember one girl in particular, her entire face and one arm hidden by a beige compression bandage, with a tuft of hair showing beneath the burn garments. At one point she broke into sobs and her parents comforted her the best they could. I started crying, too, even though she was a stranger to me. I could only imagine her physical pain, her mental anguish, and the lifelong scars she would bear. And she was no older than I was. She had lost friends and nearly had the life burned out of her by a senseless mistake.
As a result of this crash, it is a lot safer to ride a bus. Gas tanks are protested by cages, more emergency exits have been installed, and the rubber and foam that make the seats must be flame-retardant and release less toxins when burned. In Kentucky, all buses must also run on diesel, which is less flammable. And yet just a couple of weeks ago, a Pendleton County (just to the south of us) teenager died when a dump truck struck his school bus one morning on a winding, dangerously narrow stretch of rural road. The bus did not catch fire, but the news of a young person's death in a school bus tragedy forced everyone to start thinking about Carrollton and the 20th anniversary and the many things we still need to do to make sure our children are safe when they ride the bus.
Every morning, I put the most precious thing I have on the bus and pray that the driver is alert, that the other cars they navigate past are driven by sober, careful men and women, and that, should the worst happen, someone will guide my daughter out and to safety. I calm myself with statistics that show she's safer on the bus than she would be riding with me. I know that someday, she will want to join a church or school group on a trip to Kings Island on a school bus, and I know that I will let her go. But it won't be easy.
When I go to Louisville for work or to visit friends, I pass the sign on I71 that marks the spot of the crash. I always say a little prayer.
For the parents, some of whom lost their only children, I pray that they have found the courage to keep living.
For the surviving victims, I pray that their wounds have healed and that they have found peace after the terror of that night.
For those that died, I pray that their suffering was short and that an angel guided them on their way.
For the driver, who served shockingly little time behind bars, I pray for forgiveness. If I were a parent of a victim or a survivors, I know I couldn't ever forget. But I hope that I would someday be able to forgive.
Twenty years ago, a bus crashed on Interstate 71 outside of Carrollton, Kentucky. If you're from this area, you know the details; a drunk driver was driving north in the southbound lanes and hit a school bus carrying children and chaperones from a day at Kings Island back to Radcliff, south of Louisville. The gas tank ruptured, and few escaped uninjured from the inferno that followed. It was one of the deadliest bus accidents in our nation's history, and the deadliest drunk-driving accident.
Though the victims were from a different part of the state, the crash happened barely a half hour south of my hometown, and it was covered extensively by the Cincinnati news. I was 14 at the time; the same age as many of the victims. In the years following the disaster, I would occasionally meet someone from Hardin County at an academic event or competition; in getting-to-know-you icebreakers, another student would sometimes pick up on that person's hometown and ask if they knew anyone on that bus. The answer was usually, "Yes," and then it wouldn't be discussed further. The community's wounds would take a long time to heal.
If you know me, you know that from the time I was a small child until today I have a terrible fear of fire. I couldn't light my own Bunsen burner in chemistry class, and I have to look away or leave the room when someone starts a fire in a fireplace. My biggest fear is being in a fiery plane or car crash. The closeness of this accident, the ages of the victims, and the horrible circumstances surrounding their deaths hit me hard. To this day, when I chaperone a trip and find myself on a bus, I position myself as close as I can to an emergency exit and plan in my head how I would get out in the event of a crash or fire. I very nearly have panic attacks that I have to walk myself through. When I close my eyes and try to count to ten to calm down, I see the black and white picture from the paper the day after the Carrollton accident: a burnt-out bus that trapped its young victims inside.
When the driver of the truck that hit the bus was being sentenced, one of our stations somehow got a camera into the courtroom as the sentence was being read. It must have been summer, because I remember being alone in the house as the regularly scheduled programming was interrupted. The camera panned the courtroom to capture the reaction shots, and several of the survivors were in attendance. I remember one girl in particular, her entire face and one arm hidden by a beige compression bandage, with a tuft of hair showing beneath the burn garments. At one point she broke into sobs and her parents comforted her the best they could. I started crying, too, even though she was a stranger to me. I could only imagine her physical pain, her mental anguish, and the lifelong scars she would bear. And she was no older than I was. She had lost friends and nearly had the life burned out of her by a senseless mistake.
As a result of this crash, it is a lot safer to ride a bus. Gas tanks are protested by cages, more emergency exits have been installed, and the rubber and foam that make the seats must be flame-retardant and release less toxins when burned. In Kentucky, all buses must also run on diesel, which is less flammable. And yet just a couple of weeks ago, a Pendleton County (just to the south of us) teenager died when a dump truck struck his school bus one morning on a winding, dangerously narrow stretch of rural road. The bus did not catch fire, but the news of a young person's death in a school bus tragedy forced everyone to start thinking about Carrollton and the 20th anniversary and the many things we still need to do to make sure our children are safe when they ride the bus.
Every morning, I put the most precious thing I have on the bus and pray that the driver is alert, that the other cars they navigate past are driven by sober, careful men and women, and that, should the worst happen, someone will guide my daughter out and to safety. I calm myself with statistics that show she's safer on the bus than she would be riding with me. I know that someday, she will want to join a church or school group on a trip to Kings Island on a school bus, and I know that I will let her go. But it won't be easy.
When I go to Louisville for work or to visit friends, I pass the sign on I71 that marks the spot of the crash. I always say a little prayer.
For the parents, some of whom lost their only children, I pray that they have found the courage to keep living.
For the surviving victims, I pray that their wounds have healed and that they have found peace after the terror of that night.
For those that died, I pray that their suffering was short and that an angel guided them on their way.
For the driver, who served shockingly little time behind bars, I pray for forgiveness. If I were a parent of a victim or a survivors, I know I couldn't ever forget. But I hope that I would someday be able to forgive.
Strokin'
Here's an update on the vertigo thing. Let me see if I can focus on the screen long enough to tap it out (things are still swimming and I still feel like I've had a bad night of Goldschlager.)
I did get in with the doctor, but not until late yesterday afternoon. The nurse I spoke with over the phone told me if I felt any worse by appointment time I was to go to the ER. That's always a troubling thing to hear. Because just hearing that makes you feel, you know, panicky, which in turn makes everything seem worse, which in turn makes you feel like you should go to the ER.
She saw fluid behind my right ear drum, probably a remnant from the bad cold I had, and that could be responsible for the vertigo. It makes sense, really.
So I have two different medicines to try to control the symptoms and dry up the fluid, and if the world starts turning by tomorrow morning, we're good.
If I am still having these symptoms tomorrow morning, I am supposed to call her and she will try to get me a CT scan immediately. As in, go to the hospital, go directly to the hospital. Do not pass go, do not pass out on the way.
To quote Grandpa Simpson:
I'm feeling feelings I've never felt before...I think I'm in love! No, wait...it's a stroke.
I jest. It's no lauging matter, really. But until things quit spinning, and until I feel "sober", I laugh to keep from going nuts.
I will keep you updated, kids.
I did get in with the doctor, but not until late yesterday afternoon. The nurse I spoke with over the phone told me if I felt any worse by appointment time I was to go to the ER. That's always a troubling thing to hear. Because just hearing that makes you feel, you know, panicky, which in turn makes everything seem worse, which in turn makes you feel like you should go to the ER.
She saw fluid behind my right ear drum, probably a remnant from the bad cold I had, and that could be responsible for the vertigo. It makes sense, really.
So I have two different medicines to try to control the symptoms and dry up the fluid, and if the world starts turning by tomorrow morning, we're good.
If I am still having these symptoms tomorrow morning, I am supposed to call her and she will try to get me a CT scan immediately. As in, go to the hospital, go directly to the hospital. Do not pass go, do not pass out on the way.
To quote Grandpa Simpson:
I'm feeling feelings I've never felt before...I think I'm in love! No, wait...it's a stroke.
I jest. It's no lauging matter, really. But until things quit spinning, and until I feel "sober", I laugh to keep from going nuts.
I will keep you updated, kids.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
I'm In A Place Called Vertigo
Well, this is a new one.
I have gotten migraines on a fairly regular basis since I was in my mid-20s. Luckily, they follow a predictable pattern. They usually hit around what Liz Lemon's crew on 30 Rock call "the woman times" and I am one of those good people who sees an aura before the attack. If you've never been a victim of this wild neurological wonder, an aura is when a migraneur sees flashing lights or other visual freakiness for a half hour or so before the pain hits. My aura starts tiny, right in the middle of my field of vision, and over the course of about 15 minutes spreads out to my peripheral vision. Look at a bottle cap some time--see the little scallopy pattern of its edges? That's the pattern my aura takes. Now, imagine that as a bright white light that flashes a couple of times a second. That's my warning to take medicine or else.
The pain itself is mild to moderate and pulses behind my right eye. Usually Excedrin takes the edge off; sometimes I have to take a prescription medicine in the Imitrex family and go to bed for a few hours. In a couple of days, I am generally back to normal with nothing more than a little lingering nausea to remind me of my vascular abnomalities. No harm, no foul.
But this week I am battling something new, and though what I've read online leads me to believe it's normal with some migraines, it's scaring the daylights out of me.
I feel...well, tipsy. Like I've knocked back a few. Which, unfortunately, I haven't.
When I move my head, it takes a little while for the room to catch up with my eyes. If I bend down, or look up, I have a moment where I feel for the first time I know what it means to "swoon." The scariest was when I was driving home from my mom's yesterday after going for a run (sounds nuts, but sometimes getting a good cardio workout knocks the migraine out) and I felt myself losing focus on the road, almost as if I was going to lose consciousness.
I almost went to the ER, and I don't take going to the ER lightly. I am very much a "wait and see" person; if waiting sees the swelling of an injury go down, or the pain to lessen, or the heart rate to calm, I can talk myself out of it. It may kill me someday, but so far it's kept me out of the ER as a patient since I was 15 years old and wrecked my bike and broke the fall with my face.
My wonderful prescription medication brought the world back into focus, though I feel it creeping out a little as I write early this morning. My doctor's office doesn't open until 9, so until then, I am just riding the wave and trying to walk a straight line in front of our students (thankfully we have some testing going on in here now, and it's quiet and I can hide at my desk.)
If you've ever experienced anything like this and can put my whirling mind at ease until I can get professional help, I'm all ears. But not all eyes, 'cause I can't get them to focus on anything long enough.
I have gotten migraines on a fairly regular basis since I was in my mid-20s. Luckily, they follow a predictable pattern. They usually hit around what Liz Lemon's crew on 30 Rock call "the woman times" and I am one of those good people who sees an aura before the attack. If you've never been a victim of this wild neurological wonder, an aura is when a migraneur sees flashing lights or other visual freakiness for a half hour or so before the pain hits. My aura starts tiny, right in the middle of my field of vision, and over the course of about 15 minutes spreads out to my peripheral vision. Look at a bottle cap some time--see the little scallopy pattern of its edges? That's the pattern my aura takes. Now, imagine that as a bright white light that flashes a couple of times a second. That's my warning to take medicine or else.
The pain itself is mild to moderate and pulses behind my right eye. Usually Excedrin takes the edge off; sometimes I have to take a prescription medicine in the Imitrex family and go to bed for a few hours. In a couple of days, I am generally back to normal with nothing more than a little lingering nausea to remind me of my vascular abnomalities. No harm, no foul.
But this week I am battling something new, and though what I've read online leads me to believe it's normal with some migraines, it's scaring the daylights out of me.
I feel...well, tipsy. Like I've knocked back a few. Which, unfortunately, I haven't.
When I move my head, it takes a little while for the room to catch up with my eyes. If I bend down, or look up, I have a moment where I feel for the first time I know what it means to "swoon." The scariest was when I was driving home from my mom's yesterday after going for a run (sounds nuts, but sometimes getting a good cardio workout knocks the migraine out) and I felt myself losing focus on the road, almost as if I was going to lose consciousness.
I almost went to the ER, and I don't take going to the ER lightly. I am very much a "wait and see" person; if waiting sees the swelling of an injury go down, or the pain to lessen, or the heart rate to calm, I can talk myself out of it. It may kill me someday, but so far it's kept me out of the ER as a patient since I was 15 years old and wrecked my bike and broke the fall with my face.
My wonderful prescription medication brought the world back into focus, though I feel it creeping out a little as I write early this morning. My doctor's office doesn't open until 9, so until then, I am just riding the wave and trying to walk a straight line in front of our students (thankfully we have some testing going on in here now, and it's quiet and I can hide at my desk.)
If you've ever experienced anything like this and can put my whirling mind at ease until I can get professional help, I'm all ears. But not all eyes, 'cause I can't get them to focus on anything long enough.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Ya'll Come Back Now, Ya Hear?
On Mondays, Ainsley goes to a little sports readiness program after school. That allows me to stay a little later at school with no little one running around needing me to help with homework and entertainment. Now, I could use this distraction-free time to get real actual library work done. But mostly I read CNN's political ticker and get my feathers ruffled by some remark made in the comments section of an article.
Do not worry; I will not use this forum to tell you which horse I've got in this steeplechase to the White House. I was raised to not discuss politics in mixed company. However, if you ever find yourself up in the 859, come over one night and I'll tell you whatever you want to know about my views while we sit on my deck and have a drink and smoke a cigar. That really is the only way to get me to be unabashedly honest (as a certain lurker from Lexington can attest.)
With the West Virginia primary today and my own state's next Tuesday, and with the Democratic race kinda sorta not decided yet, all political eyes are on us. I never thought in my lifetime that a vote in the presidential primary in Kentucky would actually matter. But people are talking about us, politically, and what they're saying ain't too nice.
More than one commenter in the stories about West Virginia and Kentucky has made an astute and witty observation somewhere along the lines of,
"What do you expect? Those are the two most inbred, ignorant states states in the union. Who cares what they think?"
Hold it right there, bubba.
I've heard a lot of crap about my home state in my lifetime. We're inbred. We're ignorant. We can't keep our teeth. All us women are barefoot and pregnant and living in a trailer in Butcher Holler. And I'm tired of it, y'all. 'Cuz only some of it's true.
As a proud Kentuckian (I was recently quoted in the paper as saying so when a reporter stopped to ask me some questions as I was placing a bet on derby day) I want to step onto my trusty soapbox and dispel some stereotypes. We Kentuckians are a more diverse and complicated bunch than the rest of the country gives us credit for. (And look at that, I just ended a sentence in a preposition, because that's how we roll in the bluegrass.) Someone else will have to speak up for West Virginia, however.
The Mad Kentuckian's Manifesto
1. Kentuckians are NOT inbred.
I did not marry my cousin (at least that we know; neither Jason nor I have a real firm grasp on our geneology, but we think we're safe.) And I have never, ever heard of anyone on either side of my family going back three generations who married anyone even distantly related. Now, on my mom's side, there was a scandal when her brother's wife had an affair with, and eventually married, another of my mom's brothers. While that might be Jerry-Springer worthy, it ain't inbreeding. And, kids, my family comes from the heart of hillbilly country, where inbreeding would take place if inbreeding did. My gene pool is deep, and I do not know of a single Kentuckian swimming at the shallow end.
2. We may not have all our teeth, but we've got plenty of brains.
I do wish I could dispel the whole toothless stereotype, but I personally cannot. When Idol Gives Back came on last month and they showed a run-down house in eastern Kentucky populated by a family that probably had a dozen teeth among all of them, I started to get all defensive. But then I looked at my husband, who has actually had to have a tooth pulled, and thought of my dad, who had to have every tooth in his head yanked when he joined the Army, and of my mom who wears a partial, and my mother-in-law who wears a bridge, and all my grandparents and aunts and uncles who were fitted with dentures before they were the age I am right now. I think my mother is as proud of the fact that I have the correct number of natural teeth as she is that I am a college graduate. Some of you northern Kentuckians probably resent this stereotype, but look it up some time: Kentucky ranks in the bottom of the nation in dental care. It's hard enough to get doctors into the mountains of southeast Kentucky; it's all but impossible to get enough dentists. And for people who can barely afford to feed themselves, getting regular checkups and paying for fillings can be tough. Even with my dental insurance, I find myself out a couple hundred a year getting my weak teeth shored up.
But, while you may look at a person with dental issues and assume that person is dumb, it simply isn't true...
3. Uneducated does NOT equal ignorant.
I know so many Kentuckians, from both ends of the state, who are my age and are the first in their families to go to college or even to finish high school. We don't rank so high in terms of percentages who seek a post-secondary education. However, we have just as many "smart", socially aware people as any other state.
My dad, on his pre-military IQ test, scored a 130. He barely squeaked by with a high school diploma because he wasn't pushed very hard. Not only was he smart, but he was clever; in an elementary school spelling bee, afraid to stand up in front of the class, he gave the spelling for the word "pound" as "l-b, period." He thought a lot about world and national issues and watched Meet the Press every Sunday morning and Jon Stewart every night and had asked to borrow my "America" book just before he died.
My mom's oldest sister, who left school in the eighth grade, had a house full of a wide variety of books and magazines (she's the one who forced a first edition of To Kill a Mockingbird into my mother's hands shortly after it was published and told her she absolutely had to read that book) and memorized large sections of the bible that she could quote book, chapter, and verse.
My mom's brother, a decorated Air Force veteran and Honor Guard member, didn't finish high school either but was so gifted at mechanics that he was heavily recruited to lead a maintenance team at Disney World when it opened; after having fought in Korea and being stationed all over the world, he declined the offer and instead lived in obscurity in his home county.
I come from a long line of literate, knowledgeable Kentuckians. I wouldn't call a single one of them "ignorant" seeing as how most of them have some set of experiences, know-how and expertise that I don't have with my 5 years of post-secondary work. Just because some of them live in run-down trailers does not mean they couldn't go toe-to-toe with some of the judgemental folks who post their enlightened opinions anonymously on political blogs.
4. Just because you live in a trailer doesn't mean you're trash.
In the part of Kentucky I am originally from, homes are rare. Not just that a mortgage loan is hard to get on the average Appalachian salary, but that they are literally hard to find. Unless you want to own a house in town, or build a home, you could wait years for a house to be for sale. But land is rather plentiful. If you get a couple of hillside acres given to you by a family member, you could do much worse than to put a double-wide on it. And if you can't own a plot, there are plently of landowners who rent spaces with full utility hook-ups. People from all careers and socioeconomic groups in that part of the world own some kind of manufactured home, from coal miners to professors at Union College.
My husband also lived for a while in a trailer park right here in northern Kentucky, and he is far from trash. Though it amuses me to watch, I'm afraid the crew from My Name is Earl have given trailer-park living a bit of a stigma. It's not all Joys and Darnells.
I've heard that every stereotype reflects a tiny grain of truth. And if you look at certain parts of Kentucky, there are some superficial truths to the stereotypes that surround us. But those truths are only superficial, and are not representative of all of us. It's so easy to classify us based on our statistics, by what you see in news stories and on TV sitcom exaggerations. I laugh at Cletus the slack-jawed-yokel, but recognize that's not really who my "hillbilly" relatives are. He's a two-dimensional parody. The real "yokels" in my family tree might look a little like him and talk like him, but they are real people who have lived rich lives and have a more complicated back-story than incest and skunk-eating. And show me any state in our union who doesn't have a Cletus or two stuck away somewhere (there's a reason why we never really know where Springfield is) and I'll eat my hat.
So, back off, bloggers.
Don't make me come after you with a pitchfork and a jug of moonshine.
Do not worry; I will not use this forum to tell you which horse I've got in this steeplechase to the White House. I was raised to not discuss politics in mixed company. However, if you ever find yourself up in the 859, come over one night and I'll tell you whatever you want to know about my views while we sit on my deck and have a drink and smoke a cigar. That really is the only way to get me to be unabashedly honest (as a certain lurker from Lexington can attest.)
With the West Virginia primary today and my own state's next Tuesday, and with the Democratic race kinda sorta not decided yet, all political eyes are on us. I never thought in my lifetime that a vote in the presidential primary in Kentucky would actually matter. But people are talking about us, politically, and what they're saying ain't too nice.
More than one commenter in the stories about West Virginia and Kentucky has made an astute and witty observation somewhere along the lines of,
"What do you expect? Those are the two most inbred, ignorant states states in the union. Who cares what they think?"
Hold it right there, bubba.
I've heard a lot of crap about my home state in my lifetime. We're inbred. We're ignorant. We can't keep our teeth. All us women are barefoot and pregnant and living in a trailer in Butcher Holler. And I'm tired of it, y'all. 'Cuz only some of it's true.
As a proud Kentuckian (I was recently quoted in the paper as saying so when a reporter stopped to ask me some questions as I was placing a bet on derby day) I want to step onto my trusty soapbox and dispel some stereotypes. We Kentuckians are a more diverse and complicated bunch than the rest of the country gives us credit for. (And look at that, I just ended a sentence in a preposition, because that's how we roll in the bluegrass.) Someone else will have to speak up for West Virginia, however.
The Mad Kentuckian's Manifesto
1. Kentuckians are NOT inbred.
I did not marry my cousin (at least that we know; neither Jason nor I have a real firm grasp on our geneology, but we think we're safe.) And I have never, ever heard of anyone on either side of my family going back three generations who married anyone even distantly related. Now, on my mom's side, there was a scandal when her brother's wife had an affair with, and eventually married, another of my mom's brothers. While that might be Jerry-Springer worthy, it ain't inbreeding. And, kids, my family comes from the heart of hillbilly country, where inbreeding would take place if inbreeding did. My gene pool is deep, and I do not know of a single Kentuckian swimming at the shallow end.
2. We may not have all our teeth, but we've got plenty of brains.
I do wish I could dispel the whole toothless stereotype, but I personally cannot. When Idol Gives Back came on last month and they showed a run-down house in eastern Kentucky populated by a family that probably had a dozen teeth among all of them, I started to get all defensive. But then I looked at my husband, who has actually had to have a tooth pulled, and thought of my dad, who had to have every tooth in his head yanked when he joined the Army, and of my mom who wears a partial, and my mother-in-law who wears a bridge, and all my grandparents and aunts and uncles who were fitted with dentures before they were the age I am right now. I think my mother is as proud of the fact that I have the correct number of natural teeth as she is that I am a college graduate. Some of you northern Kentuckians probably resent this stereotype, but look it up some time: Kentucky ranks in the bottom of the nation in dental care. It's hard enough to get doctors into the mountains of southeast Kentucky; it's all but impossible to get enough dentists. And for people who can barely afford to feed themselves, getting regular checkups and paying for fillings can be tough. Even with my dental insurance, I find myself out a couple hundred a year getting my weak teeth shored up.
But, while you may look at a person with dental issues and assume that person is dumb, it simply isn't true...
3. Uneducated does NOT equal ignorant.
I know so many Kentuckians, from both ends of the state, who are my age and are the first in their families to go to college or even to finish high school. We don't rank so high in terms of percentages who seek a post-secondary education. However, we have just as many "smart", socially aware people as any other state.
My dad, on his pre-military IQ test, scored a 130. He barely squeaked by with a high school diploma because he wasn't pushed very hard. Not only was he smart, but he was clever; in an elementary school spelling bee, afraid to stand up in front of the class, he gave the spelling for the word "pound" as "l-b, period." He thought a lot about world and national issues and watched Meet the Press every Sunday morning and Jon Stewart every night and had asked to borrow my "America" book just before he died.
My mom's oldest sister, who left school in the eighth grade, had a house full of a wide variety of books and magazines (she's the one who forced a first edition of To Kill a Mockingbird into my mother's hands shortly after it was published and told her she absolutely had to read that book) and memorized large sections of the bible that she could quote book, chapter, and verse.
My mom's brother, a decorated Air Force veteran and Honor Guard member, didn't finish high school either but was so gifted at mechanics that he was heavily recruited to lead a maintenance team at Disney World when it opened; after having fought in Korea and being stationed all over the world, he declined the offer and instead lived in obscurity in his home county.
I come from a long line of literate, knowledgeable Kentuckians. I wouldn't call a single one of them "ignorant" seeing as how most of them have some set of experiences, know-how and expertise that I don't have with my 5 years of post-secondary work. Just because some of them live in run-down trailers does not mean they couldn't go toe-to-toe with some of the judgemental folks who post their enlightened opinions anonymously on political blogs.
4. Just because you live in a trailer doesn't mean you're trash.
In the part of Kentucky I am originally from, homes are rare. Not just that a mortgage loan is hard to get on the average Appalachian salary, but that they are literally hard to find. Unless you want to own a house in town, or build a home, you could wait years for a house to be for sale. But land is rather plentiful. If you get a couple of hillside acres given to you by a family member, you could do much worse than to put a double-wide on it. And if you can't own a plot, there are plently of landowners who rent spaces with full utility hook-ups. People from all careers and socioeconomic groups in that part of the world own some kind of manufactured home, from coal miners to professors at Union College.
My husband also lived for a while in a trailer park right here in northern Kentucky, and he is far from trash. Though it amuses me to watch, I'm afraid the crew from My Name is Earl have given trailer-park living a bit of a stigma. It's not all Joys and Darnells.
I've heard that every stereotype reflects a tiny grain of truth. And if you look at certain parts of Kentucky, there are some superficial truths to the stereotypes that surround us. But those truths are only superficial, and are not representative of all of us. It's so easy to classify us based on our statistics, by what you see in news stories and on TV sitcom exaggerations. I laugh at Cletus the slack-jawed-yokel, but recognize that's not really who my "hillbilly" relatives are. He's a two-dimensional parody. The real "yokels" in my family tree might look a little like him and talk like him, but they are real people who have lived rich lives and have a more complicated back-story than incest and skunk-eating. And show me any state in our union who doesn't have a Cletus or two stuck away somewhere (there's a reason why we never really know where Springfield is) and I'll eat my hat.
So, back off, bloggers.
Don't make me come after you with a pitchfork and a jug of moonshine.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Make Me A Playlist
I am so tired of my music.
I feel like I've overplayed every CD I own. My iPod has nothing interesting on it. I've been just listening the the local Top 40 station in my car, but I swear to you, if I hear "No Air" and "Bleeding Love" back to back one more time like I have for three consecutive mornings now, I am going to puncture my ear drums with an ice pick.
So I turn to you, dear readers. Point me toward some good music and artists. Lead me toward the fountain of iTunes and tell me what to drink.
In case you're wondering what kind of music I like...I kinda like everything. Except newer country. I don't hate any music except for overplayed pop, Toby Keith, and Nickelback.
Currently on my iPod I have everything from Dixie Chicks and Garth Brooks to Nirvana and Disturbed. I have one playlist called "Sad Songs" that's nothing but weepy overwrought ballads one might hear on Delilah (if you're into that sort of thing.) I also have a playlist called "Alt" where I hide a lot of my favorite lesser-know artists like Regina Spektor. Then there's my "Running" playlist, which features a tune each by Kanye West and Eminem, because rap-lite gets my feet moving during a 5K. So you can see I'm pretty much open to anything.
If you can insert links to a You Tube video for said artist or song to better plea your case, awesome! Otherwise, just list some song titles or performers who are rocking your world and who might shake me out of my current musical rut.
I feel like I've overplayed every CD I own. My iPod has nothing interesting on it. I've been just listening the the local Top 40 station in my car, but I swear to you, if I hear "No Air" and "Bleeding Love" back to back one more time like I have for three consecutive mornings now, I am going to puncture my ear drums with an ice pick.
So I turn to you, dear readers. Point me toward some good music and artists. Lead me toward the fountain of iTunes and tell me what to drink.
In case you're wondering what kind of music I like...I kinda like everything. Except newer country. I don't hate any music except for overplayed pop, Toby Keith, and Nickelback.
Currently on my iPod I have everything from Dixie Chicks and Garth Brooks to Nirvana and Disturbed. I have one playlist called "Sad Songs" that's nothing but weepy overwrought ballads one might hear on Delilah (if you're into that sort of thing.) I also have a playlist called "Alt" where I hide a lot of my favorite lesser-know artists like Regina Spektor. Then there's my "Running" playlist, which features a tune each by Kanye West and Eminem, because rap-lite gets my feet moving during a 5K. So you can see I'm pretty much open to anything.
If you can insert links to a You Tube video for said artist or song to better plea your case, awesome! Otherwise, just list some song titles or performers who are rocking your world and who might shake me out of my current musical rut.
Out of the Mouth Of Ains: The Gifts That Keep On Giving
My child cannot keep a secret.
Any time she's in on making or getting a gift for me for any occasion, she ends up spilling. She can't help herself. She's not a great self-editor.
Yesterday we stopped in the grocery store and picked out some cards for the grandmas for Mother's Day. I immediately saw the one Ainsley should give my mom; it featured butterflies, which are Ainsley's favorite things to chase at my mom's house.
"Ooh, Ainsley, here's a pretty one with butterflies on it. I think you should pick this one for Mamaw".
"But Mommy!" she said, hands on hips. "I already made YOU something with butterflies on it for Mother's Day! We did it at school today in art class."
"Oh, that's nice. But were you supposed to tell me that?"
She turned red. "No," she mumbled. "The teacher said it was supposed to be a surprise."
So, of course, I will act surprised when I see her little craft with the butterflies on it.
Later last night, Jason came out into the living room chuckling.
"Ainsley whispered in my ear tonight what she wants to get you for Mother's Day."
"Let me guess. Something with butterflies on it."
"No, actually, she said she wanted to get you a Webkin. Or a huge bag of candy. I don't think she gets that she's supposed to get you something you would like, not something she would like."
Who's to say I wouldn't like a Webkin or a huge bag of candy (or both?) I love stuffed animals as much as the next freakishly childish 34-year-old (until Ainsley was born, I occasionally slept with a baby Simba stuffed animal Jason bought me in college; what can I say, it gives me a huge case of the cutesies.)
Needless to say, I am waiting with baited breath to see what Ainsley ends up giving me Sunday morning. I know there will be something about butterflies, and the rest is just up for grabs.
Any time she's in on making or getting a gift for me for any occasion, she ends up spilling. She can't help herself. She's not a great self-editor.
Yesterday we stopped in the grocery store and picked out some cards for the grandmas for Mother's Day. I immediately saw the one Ainsley should give my mom; it featured butterflies, which are Ainsley's favorite things to chase at my mom's house.
"Ooh, Ainsley, here's a pretty one with butterflies on it. I think you should pick this one for Mamaw".
"But Mommy!" she said, hands on hips. "I already made YOU something with butterflies on it for Mother's Day! We did it at school today in art class."
"Oh, that's nice. But were you supposed to tell me that?"
She turned red. "No," she mumbled. "The teacher said it was supposed to be a surprise."
So, of course, I will act surprised when I see her little craft with the butterflies on it.
Later last night, Jason came out into the living room chuckling.
"Ainsley whispered in my ear tonight what she wants to get you for Mother's Day."
"Let me guess. Something with butterflies on it."
"No, actually, she said she wanted to get you a Webkin. Or a huge bag of candy. I don't think she gets that she's supposed to get you something you would like, not something she would like."
Who's to say I wouldn't like a Webkin or a huge bag of candy (or both?) I love stuffed animals as much as the next freakishly childish 34-year-old (until Ainsley was born, I occasionally slept with a baby Simba stuffed animal Jason bought me in college; what can I say, it gives me a huge case of the cutesies.)
Needless to say, I am waiting with baited breath to see what Ainsley ends up giving me Sunday morning. I know there will be something about butterflies, and the rest is just up for grabs.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)