People who know me would never describe me as being interested in style or fashion --- not in clothes or anything else. I don't know why that is. Once upon a time I cared a little bit, but I never quite caught on to how you do it, so I gave up. (See post entitled "The Old Lady with Purple Socks")
This morning I was mopping the kitchen floor and the thought popped into my head that we need to replace this floor. That was followed immediately by "This is looking out of style" and "It's a perfectly usable floor". And there you have it. That's how conversation goes inside my head these days.
Style? In kitchen floor tiles? That is so off the wall I laughed at myself. I'm the gal who would just as soon live in a 150 year old house. Our house was built in 2002 and we're the only people who have ever lived here. So where in the world did that idea come from? I couldn't tell you what anybody else's kitchen floor looks like, so why would I think we need to "update" ours? Consumerism, pure and simple.
That's where the interrupting, reproving voice of Aunty Ann comes in. "What? That's a perfectly good floor and it's only ten years old. It's got a few nicks, but that's nothing. Get down there and scrub it properly and it will be good as new."
I read an article in the paper today about the Tesla electric luxury car. What an amazing vehicle it sounds like. But who pays 100 grand for a car? Is there ever any reason to do something like that? Couldn't you spend $6,000 on a used car and get around just as well? Sure there are a couple of nicks in it, but that's nothing. And just think what good that other $94,000 could do for people who are hungry or hurting.
I joined several hundred other people in front of our state government building two nights ago, to participate in a Moral Monday protest. I think of myself as a kind of lackadasical activist. I have the will. I write to my state and federal reps, publish letters to the editor, pass along informative articles on social media, talk to friends. And several times a year I go to the streets for collective action. Whether or not it does any measurable good, it is good for me to use my voice in person rather than behind the cover of a computer.
When I was a student in the late 60s-early 70s, I was in the streets against the war and speaking out for abortion and women's rights. When I was at the protest on Monday, I looked around and it seemed like the same people, only 40 years later. There were young people there, thank goodness, but a huge number of the placard carrying, slogan chanting, gospel singing protesters were elders. And many of the people who chose civil disobedience and arrest are older, as well.
I don't know if this is because it's in our social DNA --- we just can't help ourselves. I think there are many of us, people born in the 40s and 50s, who remember a time when "liberty and justice for all" meant only if you were white, middle or upper class, and male. We remember when Jim Crow was not just the law, but seemed the natural order of things to many people. We remember when male privilege meant virtually all positions of power were in the hands of white men, when many occupations were closed to women and people of color, when the land of opportunity did not offer opportunity for millions of marginalized folks.
Those are the overtones, and in some cases the outright aims, of legislation being enacted here in North Carolina and all over this country. That is the reason that people who have tried contacting their legislators, writing opinion pieces, and talking to friends are now taking to the streets and risking arrest to be heard.
If you doubt that it could happen here, pay attention. Check out the PBS American Experience show called "Freedom Riders". Educate yourself about the recent history of civil and political rights. It not only can happen, it's already in motion.
We've been lulled by affluence, cheap credit and trinkets. When you're feeling blue, there's a ready cure --- go buy something. Wants become needs. Other people become invisible. What's mine is mine because I earned it and I deserve it, up to and including $100,000 automobiles. And where, in all that acquisitiveness, is community? Who are our brothers and sisters, our elders, our children? What is our responsibility to the bountiful world we inhabit?
Moral Mondays are well named. And my moral compass points to Jones Street in Raleigh, these days. I hope some of you will join me there.
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