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| You gesture at me vaguely
Cigarette in hand
I think you just like to watch the smoke
undulate around your face
Whose expression is glazed,
Your eyes half-open and
completely closed to reality
You swig your can of Natty Lite
and I wonder why you buy that stuff
You could afford much better
But all you want is a quick fix for cheap
Your hair is shaggy
or shoved under a baseball cap
The sleeves of your Oxford shirt are pushed up
with one shirttail untucked
from your khaki shorts
or seersucker ones
Your breath reeks of warm alcohol
of so many drinks and nights and
drunken promises forgotten
Your face is too close to mine
I can see your strategic stubble
The music blares in the background
A flurry of sundresses and silver cans
half-glowing cigarette butts
abandoned on the stone porch of the fraternity house
The stars are out and from the light
emanating from the windows
I can barely see
the faces deep in stupor that
will not remember me
I cannot follow the train of your slurred conversation
And I do not know how to respond to your apologies
(Why do you say sorry to me?)
This Eliot-like disconnection is unnerving
I twist my half-empty water bottle nervously
and take another half-hearted sip
You take another drag, eyes still half-closed
And blow the smoke away from my face
Your drunken gaze still on me
Pretending you're listening
to this meaningless jabber about
my night and why I am sober
Now I walk home in the dark and alone
Stinking of cigarette smoke that is not my own
The streetlights' glow pool around me and a passing group
loud, clinging to one another,
as if their inebriation could offer support
Now I am home and once again
disillusioned
from trying to fit where I do not belong
from singing all the wrong words to this song
they call "weekend"
I reflect and find that tonight
I've found nothing at all
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| Tonight I decided to attempt to research where my clothing comes from. Not only do I have too much of it, but I have never paid any attention to the conditions under which it was manufactured until now. (Inspiration provided by Shane Claiborne's The Irresistible Revolution).
First I "Googled" the phrase "where is my clothing made" or something along those lines and to my delight a website popped up that gave yet another link to a website where I can look up my clothings' RN numbers to see where they are manufactured.
I grabbed an Aéropostale blouse from my closet and began my search. But the RN number was not registered under the same company. In fact, it was registered under a company I had never even heard of, let alone a company I could associate with Aéropostale. Thinking there was some glitch, I took the shirt off my back (a Columbia one) which did happen to at least pop up under Columbia clothing company, although it did not say anything about being made in Vietnam, unless there's a Vietnam in Oregon.
It may sound comical, but I proceeded to run the RN numbers of my jeans (GAP, apparently notorious for employing sweatshop labor) right down to my bra (Victoria's Secret). I apologize if that is more information than you needed or wanted to know. But facts are facts.
Anyway, I was getting sick of the RN numbers' company registration's not matching up with clothing's company, so I finally just looked up the company who apparently made my bra; not Victoria's Secret but MAST, Inc. Apparently this company is a big deal. They sell to stores like Abercrombie and Fitch among others like Victoria's Secret.
On MAST's website, they listed all the places that their clothing is made, almost as if they wanted to make it seem more exotic. All I kept wondering though was if my clothing was made in a sweatshop somewhere by some poor little girl who couldn't even go to school because she had to work overtime (like the little girls who made Kathy Lee Gifford's clothing line that was ironically created to end poverty or empower girls or something).
I was slightly discouraged, so I decided to research Forever 21, my favorite clothing store. I started reading about the company on Answers.com, which happened to mention the fact that Forever 21 prints the words "John 3:16" on the bottom of its shopping bag, apparently a reflection of the Korean-American owner's faith.
I was beginning to feel slightly more at ease about my choice of clothing until I read that back in 2001, the workers at Forever 21 had boycotted the company for withholding hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of wages and overtime pay.
The lawsuit was dropped after Forever 21 (finally) negotiated with its workers to provide practical pay and to "treat the workers with dignity". So I guess I do not feel so bad about shopping there now that I know the company is abiding by labor codes and all that good stuff, but does that apply to outsourcing manufacturing? Do the same laws apply to whoever is making their stuff in Asia or South America?
I think what disturbed me the most was the John 3:16 printed on the bottom of the bag.
Sure, the Scripture does not say anything more than "For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life,"and that is saying a lot, but it is not saying "Your beauty should not come from outer adornment, such as braided hair and the wearing of gold jewelry and fine clothes. Instead, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a
gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God's sight" (1 Peter 3:3-4).
I guess what I am trying to say is that it bothers me immensely that a Scripture verse would be printed on the bottom of a bag containing clothing that may not exactly inspire godly thoughts.
How much more hypocritical can something be? I would much rather the verse not be there at all than see it associated with not only revealing clothing (in some cases) but material items in general. Whatever happened to "Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But
store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not
destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal" (Matthew 6:18-20)?
For now, the only place I would feel comfortable shopping is American Apparel, which provides fairly-paid jobs for people living in inner-city Los Angeles.
But actually, I am out here in the middle of God's creation with two blouses, one skirt, one dress, three pairs of jeans, 2 pairs of capri pants, 3 pairs of shorts, 5 t-shirts, 3 long-sleeve shirts, 2 sweatshirts, 2 camis and varying outer layers like a rain jacket and a down vest and I am surviving just fine.
It's so strange to think that this time last year I was freaking out about not having enough nice clothes for Sewanee... and now I'm planning on getting rid of a lot of them when I get home. Pray for me... it will be a struggle.
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| I'm in the middle of studying for my last final, but as I prepare myself for the essay question that asks for an analysis of the newest trend in advertising*, I find myself questioning how I will ever escape this "affluenza"?
Mostly, I wonder and worry about the world my children will grow up in. Reading Affluenza has made me want to own one hybrid car to use when I'm not relying on public transportation, never buy a TV let alone cable or satellite, and work less than 40 hours a week. But in the consumer-driven society that we live in today, will they hate me for subtly withholding these so-called luxuries? How will I be able to convince them that spending time with their family is more fulfilling than wasting an afternoon in front of the television? How will I be able to teach them that there will always be someone with cooler clothes and more money and that it doesn't matter? And how will they understand my "uncoolness" in that I won't try to keep up with the latest fashion or trends in everything from vehicles to after-school snacks? Even if I do successfully instill these ideals, will they be made fun of by the children whose families resemble the Joneses 2.0?
Society is suddenly a frightening place.
*This new trend in advertising involves companies hiring advertising agencies to hire volunteers to secretly pitch a product to anyone they come in contact with. This includes calling grocery stores and asking, "Why don't you have this brand of sausage?" or suggesting a product to someone you meet on the subway, etc. If you have access, look for the article, "The Hidden (In Plain Sight) Persuaders" from December 5, 2004 of the Times. It is written by Rob Walker.
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| I dedicate my Friday afternoons to letting the world pass me by. I'm not even going to list the things I could be doing right now besides sitting here, propped up in bed with trail mix conveniently at stomach-level, contained in the fold of my shirt.
I should tell you something about this trail mix that I am enjoying right now
Yesterday, upon reading my daily dose of Dietrich Bonhoeffer's The Cost of Discipleship as part of my quiet time, I decided that everyday, I was going to fast from something. (Actually, I have not chosen anything to fast from anything today, although perhaps I should have.) Yesterday's item of choice was
c h o c o l a t e.
So about this trail mix. It is a wonderful blend of peanuts, cashews, almonds, raisins and (as its crowning glory) M&M's. I eat it pretty much all the time. I've gone through about a pound of it since saving it from Wal-Mart on Tuesday, and yesterday, as a small exercise in self-control, I did not eat the M&Ms, although I accidentally ate two because they must have been brown and thus blended in with the almonds and raisins.
Perhaps I am getting too philosophical over these M&Ms, but throughout the day whenever I felt the urge to reach for one of the little morsels of choclately goodness, I was reminded of Jesus' words: "Let your Yes be Yes and your No, No." I had said I was not going to eat them, so I did not.
And now the most wonderful thing has happened. Today, every handful I grab out of the bag is chockful of M&Ms. Moral of the story: good things come to those who wait. Or that I make way too much out of M&Ms. Take your pick.
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Thanks to my friend Worth, I have a new musical crush on Speechwriters LLC's "Beach Song". E n j o y. . . .
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| I am the stencil
Beneath your feet
I am your everything
Or at least I pretend
Every so often our paths meet
You come and go but I
I am part of this place
Down here, it is part of me
This place where I wait
We wait
We don't know for what
We wish, we wait, sometimes we discuss
Which is when you walk
You walk all over me
But I am just a stencil
Just a marking underfoot
Just a scar, your scar
And you walk and you wait
While I am beneath it all
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