Can't We All Just Not Care Anymore?

As I do on most Mondays, I drove the kids to school. It was closed for Martin Luther King Day. Yes, I should have realized this. While it's one of those marginal holidays, schools are big on celebrating this one. Even though they celebrate it for the wrong reasons.

The United States is about to inaugurate its first black president. He also happens to be half-Irish, but the black part is the big deal, simply because it's new. Record breakers are by definition newsworthy, so I get that. But I'm weary of it. I'm impatient for the next step. Which should be, as far as genetics go, a yawn.

The other day my son's classmate had to choose a teammate for a class project. He chose between two people. "I didn't pick her because she's Mexican," he said. As he grows, he will learn not to give voice to his thoughts. But unless we do something, his thoughts will still be there.

This all irks me. I'm tired of it being such a big deal. King's speech was nearly 45 years ago. When do we become colorblind?

Celebrating one group to make up for past transgressions does not necessarily lead to equality. Do it incorrectly, and it leads to jealousy, retaliation, and deluded entitlement. Schools and other entities celebrate 'Black History Month.' My son wants to know when 'White History Month' is. I want to know when we quit thinking in terms of race.

Years ago my cousin married a Puerto Rican Jew. She converted to Catholicism to be with him. At the wedding, there were a few tense moments. Being Jewish, the bride's side of the chapel was clueless on when to sit, kneel, stand, etc. My dad took full advantage of this by starting to kneel, then sitting, then standing. He had the entire left side of the church faked out, following him in a monkey-see, monkey-do sort of Catholic hyper-genuflecting. Both sides of the church were in hysterics. Except for the moms and the priest. They were required by law to show their disapproval.

Later on, during the reception, the bride's side of the family was having their picture taken. My dad started making fun of them. "Hey, look at all the Spics!" he laughed.

"Hey, look at all the Micks!" one of them called back. They laughed. We laughed. No Jets and Sharks that day. Just Micks and Spics. They started singing some songs in Spanish. My Nana burst into a heartfelt rendition of Danny Boy. We all had a drink and a very good time.

So we celebrate our differences. How we react to those differences is the key. When it comes down to it, I really don't care what color the president is. What's his economic plan? He could be purple with green stripes and curly antennae - just get me a job, please!

Let's toast the new president for what he symbolizes - a fresh start. Then let's get started. He's going to need all the help he can get, poor guy - his mother-in-law is moving in with him.

I, too, have a dream. I dream of a day when it doesn't matter what color or gender a president is, when a woman is paid the same as a man, when the word 'Muslim' does not automatically translate to 'terrorist,' when you can marry who you love and nobody fears you will infect their family with your 'differentness.' Yeah, I dream a lot.

We have a very long way to go.

The Stairway of Misfit Ornaments

The boys were helping me trim the Christmas tree. A special moment, since I was sick of doing it and they were still under the impression it was fun. I worked carefully, since any sudden movement on my part might scare them off, especially if they realized they were actually helping Mom do something 'uncool.'

Then they found it - a creepy ornament. One created and purchased with the intent that yes, this will brighten someone's holiday, only to fail miserably and instead turn all gazers to stone. This particular one was a bulbous purple dinosaur somehow so popular with children. "Mom," my youngest said, "He's only wearing a Santa hat. Where are the rest of his clothes? And why is he looking at me like that?"

Everyone has at least one. Perhaps it was a gift, but it's hideous to the point you 'd like to flatten it with your car but you worry about feeling guilty later. Maybe you paid a lot for it and hope that one year it will suddenly be stunning in a good way. I can tell you that the only way it will ever be truly stunning is if you flatten it with your car.

I didn't have the guts to get rid of my 'gifted misfits' but I couldn't bear to display them either. Nothing like gazing at a beautiful Christmas tree and seeing a haggard, one-eyed Santa with a death wish staring back at you. So I kept them for years, stuffed in the bottom of a box like so many precious yet clunky memories.

My parents had ornaments from the Depression. Dark, worn, and fragile, for years I thought we kids weren't allowed to touch them because you could catch 'depression' from them. Why we put them on our tree I had no idea. Perhaps to appease the gods of depression.

Soon my kids were digging out more oddballs- a headless dog, an angry angel, an overly medicated banjo player, a tired dancing Santa, a teddy bear only Freddy Kruger could love. Silver Bells crooned quietly under the squealing as the boys chased each other through the house with their newly discovered Christmas freaks. They decided all the ghoulishness needed its own place of admiration, a "Creepy Hall of Fame." The pine garland on my spiral staircase became their spot. So much for making it into House & Garden this year.

The line between cheery and creepy is sometimes vague. Santa's supposed to be every kid's best friend - direct contact with THE King of Toys. But he scares the bejeebers out of kids. Same with ornaments - they're supposed to be beautiful and warm your heart. When they quietly turn on you, when all Santa needs is a carving knife to complete his outfit, it's all the more frightening.

Each night as we head upstairs and pass the Creepy Hall of Fame, the Misfit Ornaments stare back at us, waiting for us to close our eyes....that much closer to our dreams.

Keep that weirdo dino-freak away from me.