Monthly Archives: May 2015

What Would Happen If We Just Quit Asking?

An interesting thought…

The Accidental Missionary

AM Quit Asking

“Remember! Take your time! It’s not a race!”

I called out to my son as he headed off to school to take standardized tests last week. We had heard horror stories from other parents about how their kids were filled with anxiety over being assessed, curling up into crying balls on the floor. To prevent this problem, we didn’t talk about the exams at all, save for this one piece of advice.

Later that afternoon, Jake came bounding in, filled with energy.

“How was your test today, buddy?” I asked.

“Good,” he chirped.

I prodded, looking for more detail. “Just good?”

“Yeah. I’m white.”


“The test says I’m white.”

“What do you mean?” I was confused, wondering if this was a new category on his color-coded behavior chart. Or maybe they had already received their test results and he was in the “white” range.

“Someone filled out the top…

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Memorial Day

Today, I delivered a paper to everyone on my route.  Regardless of normal delivery schedule.  Then, I worked my other job for an extra hour.  Not where I wanted to be.

Did I want to be home?  To enjoy a cookout with friends and fam?  That’s a given any other day.

No.  I had somewhere else I wish I could’ve been.  I wanted to go to Alger.

Alger, Ohio.  The center that draws my family back again.  A small town you may never have heard of.

I wanted to go to Preston, to walk the stones.  Too many for a man my age.  I’d recall the military first, then the civilians.  My grandfathers, grandmother, great relations, my father, and uncles.  One in a grave far too small.  I never knew him, but would’ve liked to.

Onward into town, I’d pass my great aunt’s old place.  I’d hang a right and pass ‘tween the funeral home and the church.  I would not see the school you see.  I would see the school that was.  With a playground that never closed, full of swings and slides.  Of merry-go-rounds and teeter-totters.  Monkey bars and balance beams round out the set.  I’d see myself and my sisters, rolling in the grass, down the hill out front.

I’d turn left, onto the red brick main street, and pass the old Shadley place, Grandma’s former dwelling, the Waughs, and so on.  I’d soon reach the memorial of those from the town who had served.  I’d park at the general store next door and walk to the decommissioned cannon holding it’s eternal vigil over the village.  I’d sign the guest book and search for a grandfather’s name etched into the stone.

Soon, I’d come to the strange gravel path that leads beyond sight in either direction and remember the tracks that once lay here.  I’d turn around before I reached where my other grandmother lived.  She’s since moved, and will move again soon.  She will be close to mom.

Did I ever mention that as a child, my imagination was once so vivid, that it bordered on hallucination?  I remember dreaming of a circus, only to wake to the nightmare of a tiger in my room!  He wasn’t there, of course, but I saw him all the same.  I could point to him in the room.  These days my imagination pulls no such trick, but it would come close as I slowly cruise my way back.  Scenes of what was, memories of the past.  They would impose themselves over the scenery as I drive by places from my youngest days.

I would turn left down the alley, though the next street was only a house away down the empty streets.  Old habits, I guess.  As I pass grandma’s garage, I remember the Smurf face that was once painted on the faded and peeling orange paint.  Right at the next and last street.  I’d go until I saw the single-story place where my uncle lives.  I’d pull in the drive, and as I got out of my car, I’d not see what you would see.  For a briefest moment, I’d see the two-story green place that burned down.  I’d see the treehouse too.

In I would enter, welcome and unannounced.  I’d sit and I’d talk with my aunt and my uncle.  He never served in the military, but he is the last surviving member of the original local EMS.  He was the oldest of his siblings, and as such would remember grandpa better.  Grandpa was in WWII.

If you thought I’d have I dry eye, or if I would cry, the truth I will not deny.  I would choke up, I would tear, as I remembered yesteryear.

Review of the Cortex: The Firefly Online Companion

Outside the Box

In our first sample episode, Piper and I recieved digital loot for Firefly Online.  It was a code on a postcard-sized print of concept art from the game.  The concept art could vary from crate to crate, but the loot was the same.  An exclusive ship.

The ship in question is a variant of the Pilgrim known as the Overland or Overlander based on the LootCrate short The Verse.

scs20150515134643735Screenshot_2015-05-15-09-46-41[1]I’ve already named and painted mine, but more on that later.

The code is redeemed through the Firefly Online companion app, The Cortex.  The Cortex is free, with in-app purchasing.  It can be downloaded via Steam, Apple app store, or Google Play onto Mac, PC, Andriod, and iOS.

scs20150515213314670Screenshot_2015-05-15-17-33-11[1]To use the Cortex, create a free Firefly Online account and login.

scs20150515213400362Screenshot_2015-05-15-17-33-57[1]From the next screen, click REDEEM.  Enter code and get the ship!

Checking out different things in the…

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Privilege: The Double-Edged Sword

So, feminists and racially extreme groups have a concept called privilege.  Supposedly, it refers to a set of advantages one possesses by their circumstances, namely race and gender.  I could get behind that, if it were applied that way.  It isn’t.  It’s used as an automatic way to shut down any opinion originating from one who is straight, white, and/or male.  Try telling anyone else to “check their privilege” and you’ll get a tirade about how x group is “systematically oppressed”.

Yet there are privileges for being female, LGBTQ, and/or in the racial minority.  Just go looking at scholarships, gyms, etc.  And then there is the fact that women get lighter sentences than men.

There are some who don’t consider this a privilege.

Sorry, Steph.  It is.  It fits the definition.  Have women had it worse than men?  No one doubts that.  But do they now?  Now, right now, society is at a point where the line is blurred by the grass perpetually being greener on the other side.  If you only look for wrong doing, you will always find it.  And that goes both ways.

Tell me to check my privilege?  Fine.  But check yours too.

The Feminists That I Respect

There is a growing rebellion against the label “feminist”.  More and more people are refusing to identify as such, including women.  Why?

Do they wish to turn back the clock?  To take the hard-won rights away from women?

Absolutely not.

Many are simply fighting for equality under a new flag, Egalitarian is mine.  Many feel that the third wave is filled with too many extremists who fight for superiority instead of equality.  That too many of the issues are fabricated from half-truths.  Etc.

Yet many who still identify as feminist do fight for equality.  These are my allies.  These are my friends and family.  These are the feminists I respect.  And there’s something that I notice they all have in common:

Not one identifies with the third wave.  They either identify with an earlier wave, no wave at all, as an “original” feminist, or as a fourth wave feminist in an attempt to reclaim the movement from those who have tainted it.  They feel like calling everything rape trivializes the experiences of rape victims, that there are problems and privilege on all sides, and instead of treating a list of “men’s issues” as a bone to throw the opposition, they give those issues the same priority as the women’s issues.

May those that fight for equality take back your movement.