The Whole World Watches

My mother shared many of her favorite truisms with us girls. For instance, Fools’ names and fools’ faces always appear in public places. Hah. These days, when both fools and non-fools are vying for media attention, that little ditty’s no longer applicable.

Another of her sayings was Scratch where it itches, even if it’s in your britches. I guess she came from a rhyming family. No reason to include it here except that we’ve had fun with it over the years. 

The axiom she delivered in her most authoritative voice, and which has lately drawn my focus, is more crucial now than ever: Behave as though the whole world’s watching. 

Impossible to attain but worthy of aspiration. Admittedly, in keeping this philosophy always before me, I have failed. For the most part, I embarrass or shame myself on a daily basis. In fact, speaking of fitting phrases, the statement that most accurately defines me is I blush, therefore I am.

But seriously, consider it. How would you behave if the world were watching? What if cameras were following you through every minute of your days? Would you scratch in inappropriate places? Would you treat others with contempt? Would you lie or sneak or raise fists? Or would you go to some effort to act sanely and adhere to a compliant moral path? A small slice of society doesn’t care how they’re viewed or if their bad acts are immortalized. These people are called sociopaths and they’re out there. As to the rest of the populace, it’s disappointing that we’re not all pure of heart at all times; but as a fallback, when our scruples are diluted or eroded, being watched by others is the strong motivator that keeps us righteous. Like it or not, public opinion is the way in which we are accountable to one another. 

In the last weeks statues have come down—some rightfully, some needlessly; some violently, some sensibly so as to be preserved. And renaming forts is in the works—a demand that’s painless; definitely not worth getting riled about, though some aren’t prudent when it comes to picking their battles. And accurate statistics concerned with crime and justice are lifted up as evidence from both sides of the equality debate as powers ponder reassessing, possibly even defunding, police forces. 

Reasonable criticisms and suggestions have been voiced. One pertinent issue is that police officers aren’t mental health professionals. They aren’t equipped to deal with desperate druggies and confused schizophrenics. Well, there’s no arguing with that. Cops don’t step out to do their jobs armed with psychology degrees. 

A knowledgeable few have suggested revisiting what constitutes a criminal offence, which makes sense. There’s a soul-shattering number of men serving long prison terms for minor drug offenses and various other petty crimes. 

Also, the traditional bail program should be reevaluated because arrestees who can’t afford to buy their way out of their troubles end up getting sucked deeper and deeper into the system. This, in itself, stokes the imbalance between rich and poor. Not to mention that our overpopulated prisons are a drain that never ceases to suck.

The need to take a look at our justice system is obvious; yet no one seems to be discussing what to me has been the most shocking factor of all: the lack of intelligence and awareness shown by the officers who have lately become visible in the public arena. 

Folks in blue with badges have bodycams. Presumably they’re aware of this. They strap the things on. They maintain their upkeep. They’re expected to offer them up as evidence-on-demand. Those cameras are with them always. 

Also, surely a cop realizes that every time he interacts with a civilian, most especially an African American, spectators gather. Cameras are held aloft and pointed; and whatever the lenses capture is posted to bear witness on the feeds; and the footage is sold, sometimes given, to news stations to be analyzed again and again by commentators who are gifted in the art of persuasion and provocation.

With cameras so prevalent, why are we seeing these tragic atrocities on our televisions?

Is it possible that, during an officer’s training, no instructor tells recruits to Behave as though the whole world’s watching? Maybe this wisdom is so universal, so evident, that those who train police officers assume it doesn’t need to be taught.  

And yet, a Neanderthug in uniform choked and killed an unarmed man in front of the entire population of the planet. Who gave this officer his power? Who declared him suitable in the first place? That someone who is supposed to represent the best of us unleashed the darkest part of himself with such unwavering persistence, while knowing he had an audience, makes me wonder—was he truly that arrogant, that entitled? Or was he just that stupid? 

All this fury is justified. 

This shameful act is being held up everywhere as an example of what we stand for.

We blush, therefore we are. 

I had no picture to fit the blog, so I chose this sunflower, which planted itself in the middle of David’s tomato cages.

The Symbolic Mask

I don’t like to wear a mask, and I don’t like it when other people wear masks. I want to see faces. Also, masks are inconvenient and uncomfortable.

Yet, as we’re discovering, a mask is so much more than a mask. 

 To some, it symbolizes a loss of freedom. Do we live in a society with laws that can force a person to cover—cover in the same way as the Arab women must cover, which is a tradition that has been regarded by our society as an abhorrence for years? At this point in time, no, there are no such laws, only the pressure of public opinion, which is a considerable pressure indeed; and because of this pressure, it’s not surprising that some take the instruction to cover as an infringement, a cause for rebellion.

As with every push-back opinion, there are nuances. The mask also represents change to people who despise change—and I’m not blaming here, because if there’s one thing I hate, it’s change. Also, the mask embodies another truth that we’re smacked in the face with every day until we’re just sick, sick, sick of hearing it—we failed. Failure. Our country, the best country, isn’t the best. The mask is proof that we’ve been brought low by something so tiny that it’s not visible to the eye. This has led to the ceaseless analysis of the lack of preparedness, the denying, the overreacting, and, in contrast, the failure to act. 

More importantly, the mask has magnified our polarization. Those who refuse to mask take this stance because of their dedication to America and its freedoms. (This is America! You can’t tell people what to wear!) Conversely, those who support the mask value life over livelihood, implying that those who don’t support the mask would gladly see everybody die. 

And then there are the compliant mask-folk who speak in the most heartfelt way about protecting others. Wearing a mask when you’re in a public place isn’t that much to ask in view of what would happen if we all went around spitting on each other. To them the mask represents concern for their fellow humans. Typically, these people have fallen in love with their masks. For instance, this morning, on the broad tree-lined streets of Marble Falls, I saw a woman out walking by herself with a mask on. We have had no new cases of the virus since May the twelfth. In my completely baseless, yet not completely clueless, opinion, if she were to forego the mask during her morning constitutional, there’s zero chance that she’d be exposing herself to the virus; nor would she be spreading it to someone else. 

 On the other hand, considering the suspicion that always accompanies fear, I wouldn’t be surprised if that woman out walking in her mask was doing so, not because she was afraid of the virus, but because she was scared that if she didn’t wear it someone driving by would throw rocks at her. To me, what’s most disturbing about all of this is that the panic found in areas where the virus has penetrated has ended up as a horrifying presence in our sleepy little area of the country where the virus is no more significant than an ant bite on a pinky toe. 

 Here, in the grocery store, the workers are wisely taking care of themselves. Of the customers, some wear masks and some don’t. The people who do don’t glare with nasty judgment at the people who don’t because everybody understands that it seems stupid to wear a mask when you feel fine. I know, I know—it can be asymptomatic; but some people aren’t as quick to adjust as others, and our more stubborn ilk believes that if you don’t feel sick, you’re most likely not sick. Mainly, though, the virus simply isn’t here. But by golly when it does come, the masks are going to be ready. 

 Stylistically speaking, the coverings are an illuminating entity. The people who don them make choices, and these choices reveal as much about who they are as their bares face would, possibly even more so. Gas masks, painters’ masks, masks made from socks and bras—it’s fun. I saw one made of sweatbands fastened together with old-fashioned diaper pins. The most hilarious gear I’ve come across so far was a woman wearing a full plastic coverall that was snapped up the front all the way to her chin and tucked beneath a mouth-and-nose mask that hooked behind her ears, with a dive mask over that, and one of those plastic face shields extending down from her head—which of course got caught on the dive mask; and a rain hat perched on top of the whole shebang. And what, through this outfit, was she telling the world about herself? I’m pretty sure her thinking was that when her fellow humans are falling dead all around her, she’s going to be the last one standing. 

Overall, I’d say that the compliant folk are proving to be more adaptable, which is by all accounts a good thing to be. You may not be scared, but chances are your neighbor is. You may think all this is silly, but an empathetic person caters to another’s fears. Also, bluntly put, the choice is quickly morphing into one between complying and becoming a pariah. Honestly, I’ve got the masks but don’t feel the need to wear them at this time. In my world, sense rules the day.   

This is my face cover of choice—lightweight and comfortable. Not sure how much protection it provides for others or for myself.

Drinking in the Time of Corona

Some are private about their drinking. Years ago I mentioned to a friend that I noticed that she didn’t recycle, and her response was that it’s not her neighbors’ business how much she drinks. Huh. It never occurred to me to care. We put our gin, wine, and whiskey bottles right out by the curb. Were our neighbors counting our bottles while they were out walking their dogs? Did they judge? Probably not; because who does that? My friend who didn’t recycle, that’s who. 

About ten years ago I fell into a wine habit. A bottle a night. That’s either three glasses or four, depending on how big your glass, how high the wine level. I’d start at around five and tip the glass for the last time at about nine, so the bottle lasted me all evening. Because we were living in Singapore, and we walked or relied on public transportation, I was so active that I gained no weight from my regular imbibing. During this period, when people asked why I always turned down potatoes and bread, my standard response was, “I prefer to drink my carbs.”

When we returned from Singapore, moved out to Marble Falls, and began running our errands in a car rather than on foot, it was inevitable that my weight would start sneaking upward. I’m not a fanatic about weight, neither a whiner nor an obsessor; but if you come from short round people you get fat if you don’t keep a wise eye on it. So five years into the Marble Falls life, it occurred to me that the prudent thing to do would be to look up the number of calories in a bottle of wine. Oh my! In all honesty, this is about the thirtieth time in my life that I’ve come to realize that what goes into my mouth has something to do with the needle on the scale. A repetitive epiphany. 

So, realizing it was time to let the wine habit go, I stowed my electric corkscrew in the high cabinet; and I put the stylish silver wine rack on a shelf in the garage. Of course, because I’m a rational person and a rational person rationalizes, I came up with all sorts of exceptions and excuses. I would still drink socially—who wants to be the abstemious person in the group? And, as a reward for abstaining for a week, I would allow myself a martini on Saturday nights. Oh glorious Saturdays. The taste of the vodka brought delightful shivers; and I swear I felt each limb and muscle in my body relax as the alcohol traveled through my veins. Inevitably, soon it was two martinis, at which point Saturday became my night to drink. 

Nevertheless, in three months I lost fifteen pounds and was back to my Singapore weight. Felt good. Clothes fit more comfortably. 

And then came The Virus. The constant dissection of it. The miserable blame that came with it.  The numbers and the comparison of numbers. People wearing masks throwing suspicious looks at those who didn’t. Workers not working. Not even able to go to a movie or enjoy a meal in a restaurant. 

And I’ll also point out that during this time of closure, when dental offices, hair care and dog grooming services, and clothing stores were blocked from us, Specs and Twin Liquors remained open. We were stoic when it came to the inconveniences, but if they’d closed the liquor stores there would have been riots. 

Anyway, with doom everywhere, what can you do but drink? 

What used to be a wine habit has turned into a gin habit. What started out as one gin soon became three. 

This is too much drinking; and the needle is once again creeping. Also, having once been owned by wine, why would I now want to be owned by gin? Well, because of The Virus. If society is in ruins, if we’ve lost our money, pleasures, and freedoms, why not indulge?

No. Be strong, Jen. The world falling apart is no excuse for weakness. Self-control is what’s needed. 

So, in the name of discipline, I’ve come up with a new plan—and it’s a good one. A month off and a month on. Of course, the rule about social drinking will stand—during the non-drinking month if we’re asked to someone’s home, most likely for an outdoor event, to share a glass of wine, why then of course I’ll have the wine. To not do so would be rude. Also, during the off month, I’ll go back to my martini Saturday nights. As a reward. 

But on the non-drinking month if I have a bad day, or if things go awry in the world, then I’ll give myself permission to have a drink, because drinking is a good way to handle sad times. Sometimes a person needs a drink. And that’s all there is to it.  

A drink with old friends.

Fabric History

My mother learned to sew from her mother, who made a living as a seamstress and was highly regarded by Amarillo’s wealthier families. I didn’t know my grandmother well, but one thing I did know was that she sewed for the Whittenburgs. She thought it was a big deal and when she mentioned it, which she often did, we were expected to act impressed. Namedroppers abound in Amarillo. 

And I learned to sew from my mother. When I was in the school play in eighth grade I wore a dress I made myself. There was a feeling among some that wearing homemade clothes was something only poor people did. Ordinarily I was concerned by what other people thought, but like I said, my mother sewed. And my sister sewed. And I sewed. We were a clutch of femininity joyously surrounded by bolts of cotton, spools of lace. Cloth World was our favorite store. Also, because we didn’t buy off the rack, there was no risk of running into someone who was wearing the same thing we were. And it wasn’t like we were going around in feedbags. 

 Once, when my mother was in her sewing room, the girl from around the corner was over. 

“I smell vinegar,” she said. 

“My mother is ironing pleats into the dress she’s making for me.”

“Really? I want to see.”

So I took her in to see my mother, and that’s exactly what she was doing—standing over the ironing board and spraying vinegar to sharpen the folds. Even though I explained that the smell of the vinegar evaporated with the steam, from then on, every time I wore that dress, that mean-spirited girl told everyone in the vicinity that I smelled like vinegar. I dislike her still. It was a lovely dress and the pleats in the skirt were perfect. 

For my fourteenth birthday my mom made me a black pin-striped suit. Very classy. 

“I love my birthday suit!” I declared happily—and then didn’t understand why my family was laughing at me. Imagine, fourteen, and not knowing that “birthday suit” meant naked. 

Some of my projects were disasters. One summer during my high school years I purchased a couple of yards of cheerful red fabric—considering the era, it was probably that awful double-knit. Jumpsuits were in style at the time and that’s what I had in mind, but in the end that no-nap red, thick and ungiving as neoprene, made me look like a giant tomato. It had a wide sash at the waist, big bow in front—way too busy for my stubby form. Eventually it went in the trash, never having been worn. See, being able to try something on is the advantage of buying ready-made—cutting into a piece of fabric is a commitment conceived in ignorance. It took me years to be able to look at a pattern and envision. I was seduced by thin models, fitted bodices, and inset panels. 

And now, during this period of quarantine, I have turned to sewing. I was brutal in cleaning out my closet this spring, and I need to replace the tops I got rid of. Because, on account of the virus, I can’t go to the stores in Austin, I ordered fabric from a couple of websites and I’m quite happy with the results. I’ll post pictures!

At this point, though, having used all the fabric I bought online, I dig through all my scraps and realize that I still have a meter-and-a-half of the silk I bought in Cambodia. I purchased the same amount in buttery yellow, dark green, black, and gray. I made a top out of the yellow, but it quickly thinned and fell apart. It was so delicate that, in order to have held it together I would’ve had to’ve zig-zagged the whole thing on to a backing. And I wasted the green and black on a ridiculously oversized vest that looked more like a costume than something I’d wear in the course of a day. 

But still left to me, a silvery gray. As I mentioned, the silk isn’t of the highest quality; in fact, it’s so stiff and papery that it barely qualifies as fabric. This remaining piece is already half frayed away; and woven into this, as with the others, are all sorts of nasty organic bits—black hairs, human or otherwise; bugs, grasses, scabs, and twigs. When I think of silk I think of pliable softness beneath my fingers, luxurious and costly; but this fabric was woven by filthy hands in a roadside shack with a dirt floor. I have no idea what to do with it. 

Another brief anecdote: While living in Kuwait I attended a lecture sponsored by The Kuwaiti Fabric Institute. The speaker for the evening was a Pakistani, a dignified scholar, there to give a history of Pakistani Carpets. A few minutes into her talk she was interrupted by another woman, also well-dressed and dark, who posited that Pakistani carpets couldn’t hold a candle to Turkish carpets. Instant fury! I’d gone expecting a boring lecture about dies and designs, but I ended up being treated to a nose-to-nose screaming match. What fun. A moderator had to step in. Carpet passion. Who knew?

I ordered this from Joanne’s. Rayon, very comfortable.

Here’s the top I made from it. A stylishly sloppy look.

Here’s another top I made recently. Lovely fabric. You can’t tell from this, but it’s got metallic threads running through it that are sometimes green, sometimes turquoise.

The Cambodian silk. This sure looks like hair to me. The zig-zagged edge it so keep it from fraying.

Here’s what I did with it. Every little rough spot represents a gnat or bit of grass that’s been woven in. Seriously, it’ll probably fall apart after only a couple of wearings.