A Special Father's Day Letter

Dear Readers: In honor of Father's Day I am reposting this letter from last year. Happy Father's Day to all the Dads out there!"

Snuggles,
Tazi

Dear Tazi:

I know that you usually publish blog reviews on Sundays, but this Sunday is Father’s Day, an oft overlooked holiday. I was hoping you would print my letter that day as a tribute to my wonderful Father-in-Law, who raised an equally wonderful son!

Signed,
Cheryl

Dear Cheryl:

I was very touched by your letter and am printing it below, unedited and in its entirety! A Happy Father’s Day to all the wonderful Dads and Dads-in-Law out there!

Snuggles,
Tazi

Dear Dad:

I know you aren’t my father by birth, but you are my father through law and through love. When I first met your son, I was amazed by his politeness and charm. He was quiet and kind, not full of bravado like so many young men who are trying to impress a woman. As I fell in love with him, I could not wait to meet the man who raised him, knowing in my heart that he would be every bit as wonderful. I still remember the plane ride across the country to go and meet you – your son reassuring me the entire time about how much I was going to love his father, the man who raised him alone after his beloved wife passed away at a young age. I still remember feeling a little like Ben Stiller in Meet the Parents as you came to the door to greet us. Your gruff exterior belied the heart of gold that beat within your chest, as you hugged me hello; you told me to call you “Dad”, and welcomed me into your family.

I know I was not your first choice for a daughter-in-law – I could see that you thought me a little too much of a West coast woman for your East coast son – but you gave us your blessing to marry just the same. It has been many years since that day, and I cannot even begin to thank you for all that you have done for us – from flying to California to stay by our side after we were in a horrible car accident, helping us pack for our move to the East coast (after finally convincing us its where we belonged), surprising us with a down-payment on the house of our dreams that would have otherwise been out of reach, and teaching us all we need to know about household repairs. Your patient understanding as a caregiver, a mentor, a father, and a friend is more than any woman could ever dream of finding, especially a woman like me, who lost her father to divorce at a very young age. You have played so many roles in my life and I hope to have you with us for many years to come, as you pass on the lessons you have taught us to your first grandchild…who is due to make his appearance in December! Happy Father’s Day, Dad! You are FINALLY going to be a Grandpa!

Lots of Love,
C-Bee


Ask Tazi! is ghostwritten by a human with a Bachelors of Arts in Communications. Tazi-Kat is not really a talking feline.

RePost - Tazi's Corner #7: Searching For Atticus, By Guest Writer Tazi's Mommie

Hello Readers!

I am taking a vacation day, and instead of leaving Mommie in charge of this week's edition of Tazi's Corner (because she might mess it up on me!), I have decided to print a classic edition that I know was successful. Enjoy the "freepeat".

--T.K.


Snuggles from AC,
Tazi

Tazi's Corner
Life As Your Pet Sees It!

Searching For Atticus
by Guest Writer Tazi's Mommie

I consider myself to be a Writer, not only because it is what I have done professionally for so many years, but because once upon a time I made a living doing it. How many people are lucky enough to be able to say that? How many people are lucky enough to have a reason to induce a sugar-fueled madness through a Hershey bar and a large bottle of Mountain Dew, let alone induce this stupor at the office? My old boss used to tell me to do what I must to keep my creativity flowing. The sacrifices I would make!

Over time, even sugar is not enough to take a wrecking ball to writer's block; sometimes, a different kind of inspiration is needed. Who inspires me to write? The most influential man in my life - as a writer and as a person - is not a real person at all, but a literary character named Atticus Finch.

Ironically, Atticus came into my life the same summer my real father left it; the summer I was 12-years-old. I remember that summer well; it was the season that followed the spring that my dog got hit by a car. Rascal lived, minus her lower-left hindquarter, and her resilience taught me that it was true what people say: what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. She learned how to run like the wind on only three legs when it came time to chase after me on my bike, as well as how to play the part of the brave invalid when in view of neighbors with dog treats. The world may have shattered a bone or two in her body, but it did not break her spirit. I wish I could say I had the same emotional fortitude as my dog did that summer, but that would almost be a lie – almost; because at some point that summer I became acquainted with Atticus Finch. Who knew that a summer reading assignment would come to have such an influence on my life?

The school bell rang shortly after we had received our reading assignments, dismissing us to an awaiting ice cream truck and a world of summer freedoms; our summer homework assignments already forgotten, if just for the moment – our parents would see to it that we promptly remembered them. Although our choices for entertainment were endless; our reading selections were not. Accustomed to the usual Beverly Cleary and Judy Blume stories of our childhood past, we were a bit frightened by what the seventh grade had in store for us, as our assigned options appeared to reflect the démonté of our childhood.

I can still recall my friend Rachel repetitively droning on about how she planned to read To Kill a Mockingbird because she had heard it was a really good book. She could not tell me anything about the story and I, who was making my way through the anthologies of Stephen King and J.R.R. Tolkien, thought the title To Kill a Mockingbird sounded far too much like the children’s poem “Who Killed Cock Robin?” I bought the book anyway because compared to my other choices – The Grapes of Wrath, The Old Man and the Sea and Animal Farm – it seemed to be the least offensive to my pre-teen sensibilities. I considered myself to be far too mature to read about talking animals! Once in hand I promptly decided that To Kill a Mockingbird was not worth my time. This opinion was based on the book’s plain, un-illustrated, mustard-yellow cover. Yes, bibliophile that I was (and still am), I judged a book by its cover.

My copy of To Kill a Mockingbird – now creased and careworn – sat on my bedroom desk until the start of August which was when I realized that, like it or not, my mother was not going to allow me to buy the Cliff’s Notes version of it; the local librarian looked positively apoplectic when I had asked if she had a copy of the shelves. Already miserable because my father had decided to take Paul Simon’s advice and “slip out the back, Jack” I figured my summer could get no worse. I opened to the first page and read these words: “When he was nearly thirteen, my brother Jem got his arm badly broken at the elbow.”

“My brother Jem,” I thought. “Isn’t Jem a girl’s name?” At the time Jem and the Holograms was Hasbro’s answer to Mattel’s Barbie. I read a little further and discovered that the character of Scout was a girl and grew curious as to how people down South lived. Being a native New Englander, I had only heard stories of the Deep South; none of them all that kind to Confederates. As I got deeper and deeper into the tome that was my summer reading assignment, something inside me stirred. My child-like sense of justice – of right and wrong being either/or but never both – flared inside of me. Why did these people want to hurt Atticus? What was wrong with them? They were supposed to be his friends! Why were they siding against Tom Robinson, an innocent man “whose only true sin was pity for white woman”?

By the time I reached the end of the book I was so disgusted with Maycomb County that the enormity of what “Boo” Radley had done completely escaped me – which is why I read To Kill a Mockingbird again the very next summer; and the summer after that; and the summer after that; and every summer to this day. It was on or around my twelfth reading of the book that I caught on to the fact that Jem did not kill Bob Ewell. I cannot understand why I did not catch on sooner. Perhaps it was my outrage at the sense of injustice I felt; perhaps it was my anger over being told (by native Alabamans) that not much has changed in Alabama since the Civil War, and that Harper Lee’s story could be as true today as it was when she wrote it. I think the real reason it took so long for me to process the truth about who killed Bob Ewell was that Atticus could not process it. Over the years, I had learned to look at Atticus as the father-figure I needed in my life. To me, Atticus was a God among men; His only weakness his blind love for his children. He was a man who believed in his children; a man who raised them to become the pillars of justice he sought for the future of humankind. To a child who had been abandoned by her father, Atticus made a fine surrogate; a living example of all that was good in a world full of ugliness.

I have spent the better part of my life searching for Atticus, inside and outside of myself. I have never giving in to the pessimistic view that such a person can only exist in fiction; that the real world would have jaded him by now, worn his ideals down to a stub of their original grace or corrupted him in one of the many political trade-offs that occur in order to make the business of politics run, and keep the politics of business in check. I know he is out there, though, for I have caught glimpses of him. It is these glimpses that keep my hopes alive. I know that Atticus lives; he lives in the hearts and the minds of all who seek to emulate him.


It was the summer of my seventeenth reading of To Kill a Mockingbird that a young boy I watched over picked up a copy of it for himself. He was eleven years old, a year younger than I was when I first felt the magic of Harper Lee’s masterpiece, and like me he was too young to process all of the goings-on in the world that Atticus, Jem, and Scout inhabited. Small for his age, he curled in my lap and cried at the injustice of Tom Robinson’s conviction and death; at the blatant prejudice that engulfed the human psyche. As he dried his tears, he looked up at me with watery eyes and said, “When I grow up I want to be just like Atticus!” Holding back tears of pride, I kissed his forehead; rocked him gently; and told him I could think of no nobler calling. To this day, I still cannot.

--Tazi's Mommie


Ask Tazi! is ghostwritten by a human with a Bachelors of Arts in Communications. Tazi-Kat is not really a talking feline.

Tazi's Corner #44 - Tazi's Mommie Graduates! (And Says A Few Words About It).

Dear Readers,

My name is Kimberly, and I am the Editor behind Ask Tazi! I would like to thank Tazi for giving me this space to say a few words on this very special day! I realize you come here to hear the thoughts and musings of my smug little kitty, and I thank you for your loyalty. What started out as a two-week college Writing class project has bloomed into something I could never have imagined...and I suppose that is one of the amazing things about college; it brings you opportunities that you once never dreamed could occur.

Today I will graduate from the University of Rhode Island with a long-postponed degree in Gender and Women's Studies, and a minor in Writing and Rhetoric (I continue to work towards my Bachelors in Biology, a separate project altogether). This is actually my third college graduation - I hold a Bachelors in Communications from Rhode Island College and an Associates in General Science from the Community College of Rhode Island. A life-long hockey fan, I am excited to be completing this particular hat trick! It has taken me six years going to school both part and full time to complete this journey, and as I look ahead towards my future I look back to what brought me here.

Shortly before I returned to school I was advised to walk the Path of Humility, that only this would lead me to the Gates of Grandeur. At the time I thought the Gates of Grandeur were just that - the gates to a grandiose living style that would afford me fine jewelry, a luxury car, and expensive bottles of wine. After all, a college degree is the key to success, is it not? My first degree had treated me quite well, in spite of the career burnout, so I expected even greater things from subsequent degrees. Looking around me, I realize that I have received more than I ever would have without my degrees...but these gifts are gifts of the spirit, something no amount of money could ever buy.

I have spent the last several years working as a Tutor at my state's community college (we are small, so we only have one). There I have had the opportunity to work with students of all walks of life, of all intelligence and ability levels. Having fallen into the niche specialty of working with students with disabilities I have met brilliant people whose intelligence rivals that of the greatest scientists, but who are seen as disabled because they suffer from Autism or dyslexia or severe anxiety or any number of invisible handicaps that make their learning journey an uphill one. Working with them, I put my Communications degree to use in ways I never had - to actually communicate with people in order to achieve a greater good, not for a quick sale on overpriced merchandise. What a feeling!

Many of my former students have gone on or will go on to staggering educational heights - Nursing school, Medical school, Colleges of Engineering, and PhD programs in scientific research. I am immensely proud of every single one of them and grateful to them, as well, because they have helped me to walk my Path of Humility, whether they realize it or not. Seeing their successes fills my heart with joy...the grandest gift of all. I am not jealous of them, nor do I begrudge them their successes, for I know the hard work and commitment that goes into achieving such success...and I know that their path is not my path to walk, but my path to walk with them for just a short while, to help them through the potholes on the highway of life.

This was the most important lesson I learned in college: That not all paths are the right path, and not all paths are permanent. Embrace change.

Each of us has a path to walk. Sometimes we will think we have found it, only to discover it leads to a dead end. We must remember that such an outcome does not make the journey a wasted one; maybe it was our fate to assist someone we met along the way, to help them along their path until our roads diverged.

This past week, I turned 40, an age I have always seen as mystical...an age where I always thought I would have my life all figured out and completely together (a thought that now makes me laugh derisively). As I look around me, I see a large circle of dedicated friends, old and new; I see a large extended family of blood relatives and those who are simply related by the bonds of deep friendship; I see the man I love, who still makes my heart beat faster after all the years we have been together (which is six, for those who are counting!). My circle of support is mind-blowing, and if I tried to thank them all personally it would take a year and a day to type all of their names; they know who they are, but if you are reading this and wondering if you are among them then wonder no more: the answer is yes.

As I look towards the future, I see a lot that is still unknown and undecided. I see the need for a well-paying full-time job as well as success as a freelance writer to pay for a looming student loan debt and to assist my mother in her retirement, something she has put on hold in order to see me through my schooling. (Thanks, Mom!). These things do not scare me as they once did, because I have learned that the Gates of Grandeur do not lead to a mansion on a hill - not anymore, at least; not for me.

For me, the Gates of Grandeur open into a life secure in the knowledge that no matter how useless I sometimes feel, I am somebody's pillar of support. It is the security of knowing no matter how many times I fall, there will always be someone there to help lift me up and move forward; that no matter how impossible my dreams, there will always be people cheering me on as I tilt at windmills. I am such a lucky woman!

Dare to dream your impossible dream

KJM
05.19.13

Ask Tazi! is ghostwritten by a human with a Bachelors of Arts in Communications. Tazi-Kat is not really a talking feline.

Tazi's Corner #42 - The Therapeutic Value Of Cats (and Other Four-Legged Creatures)

Dear Readers:

This has been, as President Obama put it, a rough week in America. Between the Boston Marathon bombing and the ensuing manhunt to the West Texas fertilizer plant explosion, to the latest news that five snowboarders were killed in a Colorado avalanche Americans have been under a seige of bad news. In the spirit of healing, today I would like to share an essay by my cat friend (and co-conspirator of all things catly) Nemo Chairdude.

Being a Cat Bringing Lots of Love In This Busy,But Sometimes Stressful World

by Nemo Chairdude

As I heard about the awful events of the Boston Marathon bombing, I was in shocked.  I may be only an indoor cat, but I still know how cruel the world can be; I could not help but to hear the news report of the events that unfolded that day, as my family watches the 6 PM news every night. One may think, “What does a cat understand about the cruelty of this world?”, but I truly understand.

I remember watching the Today show with my family on September 11, 2001 and saw the horrors of the attacks on the [World] Trade Center. Just like my family, I too was in shock. A few days after the attacks, my Mommy had severe anxiety because my Nana decided to go to a casino in another state. See, my Mommy has Autism Spectrum Disorder, and hearing about news events sets off her anxiety about anything. The events of 9/11 caused her so much anxiety that it caused her to be afraid to go out in the house by herself (or for the rest of the family to go out, as well). Well, anyway, because of what happened days earlier, my Mommy was so upset she was crying hysterically. As she was crying, I came over and gave her tons of cuddles and even did some “meowing” and my other funny stuff to keep her mind off things. This helped her out so much that I realized how important I am to her. She even told me “Nemo, I love you so much. Thank you for keeping Mommy calm”. She also told me “This world can be so cruel, but it is kitties, like you that make this world such a calmer place to be in”.

May I offer you a therapeutic cuddle?

As the years went by, I witnessed many other horrors through television, but I have also watched Animal Planet, where they would have wonderful shows about “Therapy Dogs” and other amazing pets. I always wonder if I, too, am considered a “Therapy Pet”, as I do help my family keep calm during their most darkest and stressful moments. My Nana tells me that I am more than a therapy pet; she and my Mommy say I am the “Heart and soul” of the family, one who is loved and cherished. Many people out there have pets that are considered family; animals that make them feel good in such a stressful, cruel world. I know I may just be a cat, but I feel good knowing that my cuddles, love, and just plain “being around” makes my family feel much safer in this world. So the moral of the story is: if anyone feels that this world is scary and/or stressful, get yourself a pet to come home to; having an animal family member, can make your world feel like a much safer place.

Sending you all tons of cuddles, hugs, and lots of love from my cat bed to you and your families.

Love,

Nemo Chairdude 

Nemo Chairdude is an 18 year old cat who lives with his loving family. His favorite things to do are watch television (especially news and Animal Planet), eating people food from his Nana's plate, and of course, giving tons of cuddles while he spends time with his family. His human, writer Maya Lincoln, is an occasional contributor to the Cranston Patch. Her work has been featured here on AskTazi.com.

Ask Tazi! is ghostwritten by a human with a Bachelors of Arts in Communications. Tazi-Kat is not really a talking feline.

Tazi's Corner #30 - The Inherent Sexism of The "Blonde Joke"

Dear Readers:

Something happened a few weeks ago that has my Mommie seeing red! She needed to blog the anger out of her system, and since my blog gets tens of thousands of more hits than hers, I decided it was in my best interest to lend her this space (an angry Mommie means less kitty snax for me!). --T.K.

The Inherent Sexism Of the "Blonde Joke"

by Tazi's Mommie

I hold an Associates degree in General Science and a Bachelors degree in Communications. I am finishing the final requirements of two more Bachelors degrees, in Biology and in Gender and Women’s Studies at the prestigious University of Rhode Island. I am a member of four academic honor societies – Phi Theta Kappa; Phi Eta Sigma; the Golden Key Society and Omicron Delta Kappa, the last of which requires members to hold leadership positions in addition to having a ridiculously high grade point average. While on the subject, I’d like to mention that my cumulative GPA is a 3.72 (on 4.0 scale) and I will be graduating summa cum laude this spring. All of this means nothing, though, when people first meet me. It means nothing because I am blonde. I am natural blonde. I am also shapely, attractive, and have a bubbly personality which means when people first meet me they automatically want to deduct about 80 IQ points, deciding that because I fit the “blonde joke” stereotype I must have the intellectual capacity of Forrest Gump.

Blonde jokes are one of the last remaining vestiges of a time when it was socially acceptable to insult someone based upon an incorrect stereotype. We have all heard the jokes – the Truly Tasteless Jokes series of books has them cataloged by subject – and perhaps we even tell them, behind closed doors, among close friends and family who we believe will not judge us. How many of you who tell these jokes are willing to post a joke about the “cheap Jew” or the “ignorant Black man” to your Facebook page? Are the jokes you tell in private no longer funny when they result in the court of public opinion judging you unfavorably?

Blonde jokes have bothered me since I was a teenager. I considered fighting back by telling brunette jokes – they exist, and are very nasty – but, in the end, these jokes simply feed into the stereotypes that blonde jokes promote. “Who makes bras for brunettes?” (Answer: Fisher-Price) feeds the stereotype that only blondes have curves like Marilyn Monroe. Doesn't anyone remember her Gentlemen Prefer Blondes co-star Jane Russell? Yes, Marilyn Monroe played the role of the dumb blonde on several occasions, but that was sixty years ago! Haven’t we evolved as a society since that time? Girls, it is no longer cool to play dumb; it was never cool to be a slut.

Slut? Yes, slut. Another feature of the blonde joke is rampant sexual promiscuity. “How does a blonde turn on the lights after having sex?” (Answer: She opens the car door). This joke – and jokes like it – plays to the assumption that blondes are more likely than brunettes or redheads to have one-night stands in parking lots with men they have just met. I searched GoogleScholar.com, and found not one shred of evidence to support this idea – in fact, one study showed that participants judged brunettes with tattoos to be heavier drinkers and more sexually promiscuous than blondes without tattoos! Another study reveals that it is artificial blondes [i.e. brunettes and redheads posing as blondes] that men judge to be of looser moral character. Are those blonde jokes still amusing to you? Before you answer, let me take this argument one step further: Have you noticed that all blonde jokes are about women?

Think of a blonde joke – any one, it doesn't matter if the blonde portrayed is stupid, promiscuous, or acting like an entitled brat, so long as the subject of the joke is a blonde. Is the blonde in the joke a man or a woman? What did you picture in your head?  If the joke is written down, does it refer to the blonde with the pronoun “he” or “she”? Now, thinking of the same joke, I want you to change the hair color to your own (natural) color. Is the joke still funny? How about when you exchange the hair color for the generic term “woman” or “girl”? Are you still laughing? Or is the sexism now blatant enough for you to see?

Some would argue that former V.P. Dan Quayle is a male blonde joke
(he's more of a blonde, male joke)

 If you are still laughing at your own debasing humor, and you still have the urge to tell blonde jokes, please replace the woman’s description one of your mother, your sister, your wife or girlfriend or another woman you hold dear; maybe then this message will get through to you. Still laughing? Then make yourself the subject of the joke, and have a laugh at your own expense.

To those who want to stand up and make things right, I thank you, but please...don’t take a “Polish joke” and turn it into a “male blonde” joke. This misled attempt to even the playing field is like fighting fire with marshmallows. A marshmallow thrown into the fire does nothing to harm the fire; it only turns into something that brings smiles and laughter. So, too, does the person who attempts to fight sexism with a joke.

KJM
01.26.13

Ask Tazi! is ghostwritten by a human with a Bachelors of Arts in Communications. Tazi-Kat is not really a talking feline.

Guest Writer: A New Family For Foster Child; Some Advice For An Adoptive Mom

Dear Readers:

Yesterday, I received a wonderful letter in response from someone who had been hoping for a follow-up from the young boy in foster care who wrote to me last December. (Yesterday's letter was from the boy's overjoyed adoptive mother, whose adoption of the child is now official).

Today, I hand the reigns to "A Friend From the System" who shares her story, and some advice for the new mother. It is moments like this that make what I do so rewarding, and I thank all who make them happen!

--T.K.

Dear Jamal's Mom,

Congratulations to you, Jamal and the rest of your family. Thank you so much for giving Tazi, and me, an update; I was wondering how things went. I am very pleased to hear that my response to Jamal’s letter gave him the encouragement that he needed to speak to the judge and tell him what he truly wanted. I am sure that the judge listened to him intently. Now, it is time for me to add to Tazi’s advice to you as Jamal’s A-Mom.

The court system will (unless things have changed over the years) seal the adoption records and make it very hard for Jamal’s mother to come looking for him. As for telling Jamal what really happened to his B-Mom that is something only you can tell if Jamal is ready to hear. However, not knowing can have an effect on him. My B-Mom passed away when I was 6 years old. While I was in the foster home (no, I was not adopted by them, but by another family) I was always told that my B-Mother died in a car accident; I am sure Tazi’s mom remembers me talking about that. That was the story that was passed to my A-Mom as well. I, for years, remembered things a bit differently. I remembered trying to wake her up off the couch, and she would not wake up. That made me very curious as I grew up. My A-mother could not tell me anything differently, as that is what she was told too. So, I grew up believing that. As I got older, and became pregnant with my first child, I found I had a real need for medical information that I could not get. (THIS is what Jamal will truly need as he gets older.) I recommend that if you access to any of this, you save it for Jamal, it will be easier for him and his family (when he gets older) to fill out medical forms. Not knowing where I came from put me into a depression.

As I turned 18, I attempted to locate by B-father. I was unlucky for many years due to the fact that Rhode Island sealed my birth records and the state of Massachusetts altered my birth certificate [Ed. Note: The letter writer is from Southern New England]. For the last 12 years (I am now 42), I have been doing genealogy of my birth family, with the help of my A-mother, who does this professionally. Back when we first started the genealogical search, we contacted the state of Rhode Island for a copy of my B-Mom’s death certificate. As it turns out, I was correct and she did not die in a car accident, but rather a drug overdose. About 4 years ago, I found that my B-father died in 1992 in California, alone and in a nursing home.

I have also found a biological uncle through my search; we still talk to this day and have actually met. I found out that He had tried to come looking for me, but was not successful as the adoption had been sealed. I am telling you all of this, so that you can see how difficult it is to locate someone after an adoption. If Jamal so chooses, when he is old enough, there are registries he can sign up on, I know, I did when I was looking for my B-father. One of the many ones out there is http://registry.adoption.com/.

My B-Mom had a friend that adopted her granddaughter due to circumstances similar to Jamal’s. She was told that her B-Mom had died. As a teenager, her mother actually DID die, and her grandmother, now mother, told her this and she became very confused and unhappy. As you can see, it is important for Jamal to know “where he came from”, but you, as his mother, need to determine when it is best for him to hear the ugly details.

Sincerely,
A Friend From The System


Ask Tazi! is ghostwritten by a human with a Bachelors of Arts in Communications. Tazi-Kat is not really a talking feline.

A Message About Tolerance From A Regular Ask Tazi! Reader

Dear Readers:

I have decided to take the day off from giving advice, and hand the reins over to a guest writer - Maya Lincoln, writer for the Community College of RI's student-run newspaper, The Unfiltered Lens, and faithful reader of Ask Tazi!

To follow is a thought-provoking opinion piece that Miss Lincoln wrote for original publication in The Unfiltered Lens; one that I thought it worthy of a larger audience. I do hope you enjoy it!

Snuggles,
Tazi

My feelings of how "tolerance" is being misinterpreted
Written by: Maya Lincoln

As someone who has an interest in promoting tolerance and acceptance of all diverse backgrounds, I question this very issue about tolerance. Why do I have such questions (and confusion) about what tolerance is and what it is not? Well, here is my reason:

Just recently, I have heard the same stories as everyone else about the removal of the prayer Banner at Cranston West and the renaming of the Christmas tree at the Rhode Island State House to "Holiday Tree" by Rhode Island Governor Lincoln Chaffee. I have even gotten into serious discussions on my Facebook page with my friends and others who are on my "friends" list about these exact issues with the recent events and about what tolerance meant to all of us. Now I as a firm believer in tolerance, I am accepting of all the different diverse cultures, religions, and beliefs, in which the citizens of Rhode Island offer. However, when does having to rename a tree or even removing a banner at a school due to its religious significance have to do with tolerance? Well, this is a big confusion to me. As I was growing up in both the 1980's and the 1990's, there was a big emphasis on teaching tolerance of all diverse backgrounds and also the issue of political correctness. However, instead of teaching tolerance, my friends and I often see that we are inadvertently teaching intolerance. I was taught, by both my parents and my teachers, that tolerance is accepting everyone from all diverse backgrounds, no matter what they are. I was also taught that part of tolerance is being allowed to show pride for my background (a bi-racial woman with an Autism Spectrum disorder) without being harassed and/or judged by anyone else. That also includes anyone should be allowed to proudly display anything from their cultural background without being harassed and/or having to "hide" and not display it due to others who may not share the same background.

Now, I know about the laws dealing with the separation of church and state. This law allowed Governor Lincoln Chaffee to rename the tree displayed at the State House as the "Holiday Tree". But unfortunately, I have also witnessed such events occurring in situations, in which the "separation of church and state" law does not apply. Even in the apartment complex in which I live at, I witness others having to remove decorations from their own doors based on it "offending" someone else. My neighbors were quite upset and I happened to have "harped" in on their conversation, in which they had the same questions and concern that I had. How does displaying a Christmas wreath on one's door offend their non-Catholic neighbors? I know it may not be a part of their religious beliefs, but I would not get insulted if they were to display a Menorah or a decoration related to what their culture celebrates. How about when an openly gay student wears a Rainbow sticker with the words "Gay Pride" written on it and others say they are "offended" or "disgusted" by it? A person's sexual orientation should not offend anyone, nor should wearing a symbol that represents their community should either. I hear things where individuals feel uncomfortable and even offended by cultural or religious displays because those displays do not represent their own beliefs. I see that they may be uncomfortable, but to go as far as being offended, that is bit puzzling to me.

But just how is the displaying of cultural, religious, other diverse backgrounds offending? I could see if these displays had offensive words or signs such as ethnic slurs or even swastikas, in which it would be offensive. However, displaying a holiday decoration or wearing something that shows pride for one's culture is not offending, but actually beautiful. How about instead of complaining of being "offended" or even having someone remove a cultural or religious display, why not display something from all diverse cultures to that display. If anything, I would love such a diverse display because it shows the beauty that this world is: a world that has many diverse backgrounds, cultures, and religions all sharing this wonderful planet, living together in peace and harmony.

So my solution to all of this: Instead of hiding and removing our displays from our diverse background, we all should display something from all of our backgrounds. Whether it be a multi-cultural display of holiday scenes, or every student in the whole school wearing an article of clothing with a symbol or decoration of their heritage, it should be displayed and loved. No matter what your diverse backgrounds maybe, show it, be proud, and accept yourself and others, as well. Showing this pride will allow us to see all the wonderful diversity this world has to offer and that we all belong in this world. The world is meant to be a "colorful" place, one with all different backgrounds, cultures, religions, and other beautiful and wonderful diverse differences. Besides if we all looked the same and did the same things, this world would be a very boring place to live in.

Copyright Maya Lincoln and The Unfiltered Lens. Used With Author's Permission.

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