Broken Pieces

I have been doing a lot of looking back lately.

For a number of reasons really.

1. I turned 40.

b. We are getting dangerously close to the end of our foster care saga.

III. Because I have the time.

And I have made some realizations.  Which, hopefully, is what you do when you take some time to think.

And the end result is that I have chosen the word that I will hope to define this year with. (thanks to Emily for that inspired idea)

Opulence

And I don’t think I am defining it properly, because it’s more like luxury or superflousness  (really spell check?).

But here is how I am defining it:

–  Top sheets and bottom sheets that match each other

–  Duvets WITH covers on them

–  Curtains, matching curtains

–  Throw pillows

Those little touches.  Those small things.

The stuff I have been letting slide for far too long.

Lora at Fever mentioned that she feels like she has her shit together if everyone has their nails trimmed.

I know that feeling  — the times when you felt like you covered every tiny detail.  Down to the nails.

I am striving to attain that feeling more often.

Basically, my house – my life – is about to grow up.

A little.

Opulence.

Stuff and Life

In the 30s, although it was very racially unequal, there was a general sense that when people were unemployed it wasn’t their fault that they were poor. There were systemic problems that needed to be fixed in the economy, and the only people who rejected that idea were the rich. Yeah they wanted poor people to work for whatever crappy wages they were offering, but every other average everyday person looked at the unemployed – at least the unemployed white man – as salt of the earth: hard-working, struggling against all odds.

 

I took that from an article that my father sent me a link to — this article.  It’s about the issues of poverty and racism and how the lines are blurring in today’s culture.  It’s good, you should click through.

I don’t write much about race.  The question of and issues around race were  a big part of my childhood.

As an adult, to most people,  I am white.  And I understand that.

But inside, I am still dealing with some of the issues.

All of the issues.
We are in interesting times.  And I am dealing with interesting things.

And my African American father has mentioned on more than one occasion that if we get to adopt our kiddos than his darkest grandchild will be puerto rican.

The lines are blurry in my family.

It offers a certain freedom.

A certain sense, that there is no “them”.

But I understand that others don’t have it.  And even we don’t have it when it comes to class.

I have some classist in my family.

Just as bad as racist in my opinion.

And I think the number is growing.

Somehow, as a species, we feel like there must be a “them”.

Oh, and Happy Easter!