Two for One: Writer’s Island & Slice of Life Sunday

April 12, 2008 at 12:17 pm (Writer's Island)
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I actually wrote the following true story (she is blushing beat red!) several weeks ago to the prompt of Passion at Sunday Scribblings. But, it fits so perfectly this week for both Writer’s Island’s prompts of Flight and Chance Encounter and Slice of Life Sunday’s prompt of Blind Date/One Night Stand, I thought I would do a re-post with a few minor edits.

Passion: A One Night Stand

Three months prior to my 39th birthday, I was sharing the woes of my love life with a very wise and close friend. I had been married for over 22 years and my divorce had only been final a few months. “What you need is a one-night stand!” she very expertly advised. Me - a one night stand? I didn’t know if I could do this . . . I mean, actually getting naked with someone I did not know???

I should tell you that I was not a total prude. I was a flower child from the 60’s after all – the sex, drugs and rock & roll generation. An early marriage at 16 is testimony to my being “open” to the physical side of life. Plus, the fact I married the most degenerate of all sexual degenerates had afforded me enough sexual knowledge for a definite best seller. And, I still believe my ex sold our copywrites to the producers of Bob & Carol and Ted & Alice. However, even with all this experience, under my belt so to speak, I was not too sure about doing “it” with a total stranger. But then . . .

I had an early morning business conference in Columbus, which I was not overly excited about attending, and which also required spending the night before to avoid the rush hour mayhem. I asked my friend Evelyn, the wise one, to go along so at least a night in the city wouldn’t be a total waste. We arrived early and of course hit the malls. After several hours of shopping, we went to our hotel and got settled in. We decided a visit to the hotel lounge would be a nice start to the evening’s entertainment.

Why is that two women sitting at a table in a hotel lounge, obviously having a lively conversation while sharing a few drinks, is a sign that male attention is needed? It must be an unwritten law of the testosterone universe. Anyways, there we were, enjoying our drinks when two average looking guys decided they would come to our rescue. They brought copies of our drinks as a peace offering, along with the line, “Have we seen you ladies in here before?” The now not-so-wise one laughed at their tired pick-up line and invited them to join us. After a few more drinks and dinner, at our gentlemen caller’s request and expense (maybe she was wise after all), the wise one and I had to make a visit to the Ladies Room. “This is your chance for true passion!” she advised me, “Sex with no strings, no commitments, no I’ll call you’s. Just pure passion!”

I will have to admit my conversation with Jim-Bob (I still can’t remember his name) had begun to get steamy, or probably heated is a more accuarate description. It seems he was a big-wig in some regional union organization in town for a convention (I am anti-union), a Democrat (ah yes, I am a Republican), and a draft-dodger ( and I am a dyed-in-the-wool American); needless to say, not exactly the endearing qualities I was looking for in a man. But then, I reminded myself, you are not looking for a man, just a one-night stand. And, through my alcohol-enhanced vision, he was beginning to look pretty good. So, wise one and I stumbled our way back to the table and, after another drink or two, I gave Jim-Bob the signal this was going to be his lucky night.

Once in his hotel room, what I had envisioned as an evening of unbridled passion turned out to be ten minutes of wham-bam-thank-you-mam followed by an awkward silence that I had never known before, or since. After more minutes than it took to do “it”, Jim-Bob finally broke the ice by asking me what I did for a living (obviously he forgot the details of our previous three-hour conversation). This actually led to further conversation that turned out to be so interesting that I had forgotten we were both still naked under the sheets.

At some point, Jim-Bob asked me what kind of books I liked to read. Now, having gained a sense of comfortableness, I leaned over the side of the bed to get a cigarette out of my purse and propped myself up on my elbows so I could smoke. “I like to read most anything.” I began, and we discussed several books we had both read. “But I must say, my very favorite are books about serial killers.” I did not notice Jim-Bob had made a slight move away from me as I continued talking about Ted Bundy and then the Michigan murders, adding that though it was rare, there were female serial killers. “I keep thinking if I read enough books about serial killers, I will be able to figure out what would motivate someone to kill a complete stranger. Do you ever think about that?” I asked as I looked in his direction while moving my arm below the edge of the bed to put my cigarette out in the ashtray sitting on the floor.

Now let me tell you, after his performance an hour earlier, I did not think it was possible for Jim-Bob to move any faster, but he proved me wrong. He was up and out of that bed so fast he stumbled and fell to the floor. “Is this where you pull a knife or gun out of that purse and kill me?” he cried as he pulled himself up and backed into the corner. I was so stunned by his flight reaction to a simple question, it took me a few seconds to put it all together, especially since he was standing there, with all his manhood standing at full attention, visibly shaking down to the last bone in his body. Once the implications of my reading preferences finally registered, given the circumstance of our meeting and our current locale, I burst into uncontrollable laughter. I laughed so hard I cried, rolling back and forth on the bed, and ended up running to the bathroom to keep from peeing the bed.

After I gained control of both my laughter and bodily functions, I had to walk out and face this nameless man, in my nakedness I might add, who thought it possible I was a serial killer stalking unsuspecting horny men through chance encounters in hotel bars. I have often wondered how he tells this story. I do think passion is definitely in his version!

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Writer’s Island: Déjà vu? or a Slice of Life

March 21, 2008 at 2:45 pm (Writer's Island)
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 Déjà vu? or a Slice of Life

Without wanting to appear as a total nerd, I will go on record to admit I love book stores. I love the smell of book stores, especially older ones located in a few front rooms of an older home. I particularly love the relaxed feeling of not having to be somewhere. Being in a book store puts me in another place and another time, without a clock. I truly enjoy wandering up and down aisles of books, or better yet, sitting on the floor going through a stack, selecting one here or there to peruse.  

One of my very favorite book stores is located in German Village in bookloft-main_thumb.jpgColumbus, Ohio. German Village is listed on the National Register of Historic Places and is one of the largest restored districts in the United States. This quaint neighborhood has over 1,000 historic buildings, most dating from the mid- to late-19th century. The Book Loft, which is located on South Third Street, is an absolutely must-visit for any reader. These blocks of restored buildings are filled with over 700,000 titles. Each of the 32 rooms is devoted to a single subject and maps are given at the entranceway. Plan to spend an entire afternoon, if not an entire day just visiting The Book Loft.  

Not too long ago, I visited a similar book store and found myself sitting cross-legged on the wooden, uncovered floor in one of eight rooms in an old home dedicated to the preservation of books. I cameapple-pie-piece.jpg across an unusual book with the title “A Slice of Life” above a picture displaying the most inviting piece of apple pie with a very healthy (or unhealthy, depending on your point of view) serving of vanilla ice cream. Below the picture was a tag line, “Digesting the pieces of our lives one slice at a time.” Hmmm . . . such a provocative title and inviting picture demanded a thorough look-see.  

I began reading a chapter in the book, entitled “Our Wedding.” There were several accounts of wedding proposals, rehearsal dinners, wedding days, and honeymoons. I found myself laughing out loud while wiping away tears reading about botched elaborately-planned proposals, fly-in-my-soup dinners, run-away brides, and embarrassing get-a-ways. Then I came to an entry that didn’t seem to fit the chapter. It began talking about decisions made throughout the writer’s life. The article gained my undivided attention when the writer spoke of being “the black sheep in that I was an over-achiever” and a few sentences later, “But in 1968, when a “good girl” became pregnant, social proprieties had to be met and an immediate wedding had to be planned.” Oh my, I thought! Am I having a Déjà vu experience or has someone plagiarized a slice of my life! 

As it turns out, this experience and book is the finalized dream of yours truly. Yes, I do indeed hope to find my book, “A Slice of Life” on the shelf of any given book store in about two years. But you may also have your own Déjà vu experience in reading my book as I am looking for contributing writers. I have created a meme, Slice of Life Sunday, complete with blog, http://sliceoflifesunday.wordpress.com, to collect pieces of A Slice of Life. Come on over and check me out!

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Social Influence: the doom of empowerment

February 29, 2008 at 10:25 pm (Writer's Island)
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Social Influence: the doom of empowerment

As I look back over major decisions I have made in my life, I see a pattern that clearly displays how I have allowed others to influence those decisions. It is one thing to seek guidance or advice, and an entirely different scenario to allow undue social influence to determine a final decision that affects the rest of one’s life.

My first major, life-altering decision came at the tender age of sixteen. I was raised in a lower-middle class family, of which I was the black sheep in that I was an over-achiever. I was never content to idly sit by and accept my lot in life. I taught myself to quit stuttering the summer between fifth and sixth grade after being humiliated by the class bully. I competed for and won a spot on the cheerleading squad in Middle School despite being told “poor kids” were not good enough to belong to such an elite group. And I successfully stood up against the orders of the high school principal who informed me I would have to either give up the honor of being elected Homecoming Attendant for my class or my “hood” of a boyfriend, and proudly had him escort me to the homecoming dance while wearing my Junior Homecoming Attendant sash. You would think a girl who had the strength and moxie to overcome so many obstacles early in life would not have crumbled so quickly to undue social influences. But in 1968, when a “good girl” became pregnant, social proprieties had to be met and an immediate wedding had to be planned.

My first husband never asked me to marry him, and I never said yes. In fact, only the week before I discovered I was pregnant, while at the prom with my “hood” of a boyfriend and soon to be husband, my best friend and I discussed how we were going to breakup with our boyfriends after their senior graduation parties were over. We would have ended our relationships sooner but there was the prom, and everyone already had dates, and then of course there were all the graduation parties. We both may have been dumb enough to get pregnant by age sixteen, but we certainly were not going to miss the main social events of high school. However, once the “preggy” bomb was dropped, neither John nor I considered we had a choice in whether we were going to enter into matrimonial bliss. Our mothers got together, planned the church wedding, and made sure we both showed up.

Uncharacteristic for him, my father did lovingly come to me the night before my wedding day to assure me I did not “have to get married.” And for a split second I considered not getting married. Even as naïve as I was, I knew neither John nor I truly loved each other. And I knew I really did not want to marry him. I wanted to graduate the next year and go to college and become a lawyer. But, I was pregnant and what I wanted was no longer important. I still had the marks from the beating I suffered at the hands of my mother wielding a leather belt the night she found out I had “shamed the family.” My father was wrong, I had to get married. The social reality of 1968 loomed over my head and buried the empowerment he was offering.  

I have often thought about the “what would have been’s” had I had the courage to stand up against social influence. Shortly after I was married, the women’s movement gained strength and ever since much ado has been made about empowerment. The physical beating I encountered at 16, with the many emotional and psychological beatings I endured through twenty-two years of marriage, never allowed me to personally accept this empowerment until many years later.

I was 42 years old and complaining to my 20 year-old son about missing the opportunity to go to college. He listened for a few moments and then questioned why I didn’t go now. Feeling even more sorry for myself, I responded with, “ because I’ll be 50 before I get a degree.” He thought for a few more moments and very wisely responded, “But mom, in eight years you are going to be 50 anyways. It is your choice whether you will be 50 with a degree or 50 without a degree.” Choice?, I had a choice?

I had been thinking about going to college for several years. However, I allowed the social prejudices of the day that implied college was for the young, who had futures, to convince me I was too old. In one simple sentence, my son unknowingly set me free from years of accepting I was not worthy. I regained the strength it took to overcome stuttering and reclaimed the moxie it took to stand up against the snobs and bullies of higher social classes. I registered for college and five years later graduated summa cum laude. A little bit of empowerment goes a long, long way.

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Writer’s Island: Given a Second Chance? - Pay It Forward

February 23, 2008 at 4:43 pm (Writer's Island)
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I have given much thought to this week’s Writer’s Island prompt of “Second Chance.” My mind immediately thought of three different events in my life where I received a second chance to make up for something, do something over, or to even live another day. As I pondered how I wanted to appoach this prompt, it came to me that in each of my second chances, I did not have the opportunity to adequately express my gratefullness by paying the person back for giving me the second chance. I only was able to say a very sincere thank you. Then it occurred to me that each of these situations did provide an opportunity for me to pay it forward, an idea I have since seen in a movie.

pay-it-forward.jpgI watched this very heartwarming, and at some points heartbreaking, movie several months ago. The movie was based on a book of fiction by the same name written by Catherine Ryan Hyde. Reuben St. Clair, the teacher in the book and movie, issues a voluntary, extra-credit assignment to his class: Think of an idea for World Change, and put it into action. Trevor, the 12-year-old hero of the book, came up with the idea to do something “real good” for three people and when they ask how they can repay you, you just say “Pay it Forward” by doing something real good for three other people. With his calculator he figured his helping three people would lead to nine more people receiving help, which would lead to 27, then 81, to 243, to 729, 2,187, 6,561, etc.. “See how big this gets?” was his vision for affecting world change. The book and movie goes on to show the affects of the changes that takes place from this very simple idea. Definitely a must see movie, but I will forewarn you, be prepared for an emotional roller coaster ride.

Since the publishing of the book, and with much help from the movie, this work of fiction has become a true movement in America (there is even a website!), and probably beyond the ocean. And now it has reached what I call Blogsville (you can tell I’m a small town girl). Greatfullivin has responded to the Pay It Forward movement that has been posted on many other blogs. I have eagerly agreed to be a part of this movement. For the Blogsville version of Pay It Forward to continue, I need three of my readers to agree to three basic rules:

  1. Email me your snail mail address, so I can send you a small token gift of friendship.
  2. Write a post linking back to my blog.
  3. Be willing to pay it forward, by posting a blog about Pay It Forward, and sending out three gifts of your own.

The gifts you send need not be expensive, something from the heart that best represents who you are will go along way in promoting the spirit of the Pay It Forward movement.  According to the rules, we have 365 days to send our gifts out, but I will send mine on March 21 in honor of a second chance that I was given to me a year ago.  I will post the names of the three people I am Paying It Forward to in my March 21st blog.

I will admit the Blogsville version of Pay It Forward does not appear to be as world-changing as the idea promoted by the book and movie (and a song, and a commercial), but one never knows. Paying it forward is the best way to pay back a second chance given to you.

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For more muses on “Second Chance”, be sure to visit:

~ paisley ~ lissa ~ jeques ~ Gemma Wiseman ~ Selma in the City ~

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Writer’s Island: Time Travel

February 16, 2008 at 2:50 pm (Writer's Island)
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Having a childhood in the 50’s and 60’s, the thought of time travel provoked images of outer space and the great unknown. Now, being in my mid fifties, the thought of time travel takes me back to 1969, the year man made the first giant leap for mankind by stepping onto the moon. I still feel the anticipation watching the highly promoted televised event, all the while remembering that I had just moved back home from a five month lesson that contradicted the giant leap for mankind statement.

I should begin by stating as a teenager, I was not the sharpest tack in the box. I was raised in the sheltered white environment of Holmes County, Ohio. It would be the 1980’s before the first black residents of Holmes County would be permitted to remain residents. It’s not that I was completely unaware that people of color existed; I had history class in high school after all, although it was not one of my favorite subjects and thus never really learned too much regarding all the citizens of our country. I can honestly say, the terms of coloreds, black Americans, negro, or niggers were never used in my home. So, basically for me, black Americans did not exist. That is until at age 17, when my husband of seven months (like I said, not the sharpest tack) and I moved to Memphis, Tennessee. He was given the opportunity to attend the National Hardwood Lumber Inspection School, a five month program that provided quite an adventure for two very naïve teenagers from lower middle-class families in a lower educational-class community.

John and I packed up our 66 Ford Falcon and left for Memphis on Valentine’s Day 1969 in the middle of a winter storm. I still remember the excitement of driving through Columbus and Cincinnati. What huge cities they were! The further south we drove, I began to notice the people were different. They talked funny at the restaurant where we stopped to eat and some had very dark suntans. At one point during our drive, I asked John about why some of the people down here were so dark. His comment was a simple, “They are niggers, just don’t look at them or ever talk to them.” And that was the end of the conversation. I had come to trust his judgment (definitely not the sharpest tack) during our marriage and my interest in the color of people’s skin changed to how warm the weather had gotten. Yes, I was going to like living in Memphis!

We located our small duplex apartment on Faxon Avenue and met our landlady, who lived in the house next door. Mrs. Goolsby was a very friendly southern lady eager to help us get settled in, and who would prove to be very a formidable, if not knowlegible, teacher in the social studies lesson I was about to learn. She introduced us to the two boys living in the adjoining apartment, also students at the lumber inspection school and also to a new found treat, Kentucky Fried Chicken! Yes, I was definitely going to like living in Memphis.

We had been living in Memphis about a week or so, when the need to do laundry finally reared its ugly head. I had never gotten used to going to the laundromat the past seven months, after having a washer and dryer “at home,” and I put off going until the last pair of underwear was taken out of the dresser. I bagged up the dirty laundry and stopped by Mrs. Goolsby’s to get directions to the nearest laundromat, which as luck would have it, was only two blocks away. As I entered the laundromat, I noticed it looked a little different from the one I used back in Millersburg, Ohio. There was a laundry attendant, as in 1969 the coin changing machines were not invented yet and every laundromat had an attendant to change dollar bills and sell laundry soap. It also had the same basic setup with two rows of washing machines, back-to-back down the center of a long room with a row of clothes dryers across the aisle from each row of washing machines. However, on the wall at the end of each aisle was a sign. One aisle had a sign which said, “Whites Only” and the other aisle a sign stating, “Coloreds.”

Hmmm. . . this was different I thought to myself, but being the law abiding person that I was, I went to the ‘Whites Only” side and proceeded to load my white clothes into a washer. After adding the detergent and the coins into the machine, I picked up my bag and went to the other side of the laundromat and put our colored clothes into a washer. As I was beginning to load our towels, the laundry attendant came running over and promptly demanded, “Honey child, what are you doing on this side of the laundermat?” “You tell me!” I answered back in a huff (like I said, I hated going to the laundromat), “I do not understand why I can’t just use the washers on one side for all my laundry. What possible difference can the color of my clothes make to a washing machine?” The laundry attendant took a step back and proceeded to look me over, as if I had two heads or something. “You’re not from around here, are you?” she asked, in a much lowered voice. “No, I am not.” I assured her, “And, in Millersburg, Ohio, we don’t have to use different washing machines for different colors of clothes. Are the dryers particular too?”

I could hear a chuckle coming from the attendant as she began to unload my colored clothes from the washing machine, “Let me help you here,” she began, “You need to understand something. The signs,” pointing at the wall, “are not for the color of the clothes but for the color of the people. White people like us need to use that side. This side is for the niggers, you know the colored people.”  Ahhh, I thought and followed her back over to the “Whites Only” side and began reloading my colored clothes. After a few minutes of pondering this new and very curious information I asked, “What difference does it make to the washing machines what the color of the people are?” Now the attendant was barely able to contain her amusement of my naïveness and proudly enlightened me with, “It’s not the washing machines who care, but the people. We white people don’t want the niggers using the same things we use.” she said pointing to another sign I had not yet noticed:

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  I finished my laundry, using the “Whites Only” washers and dryers and headed back to our apartment. I stopped by Mrs. Goolsby’s to share my new found knowledge and was given an in depth lesson in social studies. Being true to the old south, Mrs. Goolsby shared how we, the real Americans, did these colored people a favor by taking them out of their jungles of Africa and brought them to America and all we asked in return was for them to be our slaves. We gave them good homes, food to eat and clothes to wear, which was more than they had in Africa. Now it seems, after a hundred years or so, the colored people didn’t like this arrangement and have been making “a fuss” over having rights. “Rights!” I can still hear her exclaim, “Rights are for Americans, they are niggers, they don’t have rights. They didn’t even have clothes until we gave them some. They couldn’t read or write until we taught them how to. Now they want rights! They need to learn to be grateful for what we have done for them.” Mrs. Goolsby went on to suggest it would be best if I did not venture too far from the apartment without John as she was concerned for my safety since I didn’t seem to fully understand what she was telling me about the coloreds. About six weeks later, on April 4th, when John came home from school, I told him about how it had been on television all day that white people were to stay in our homes and to not go outside, even to sit on our front porch. It seems there was some kind of a big rally downtown about some guy getting killed a year ago. We ate our dinner and continued to watch the news on television. At some point, we got the bright idea to drive downtown to see what the big deal was all about. Who was this Martin Luther King, Jr. guy and why couldn’t we take a drive if we wanted to (absolutely not the sharpest tacks)?  Needless to say, two white people in a white car driving down Main Street, Memphis, Tennessee in the middle of the rally on the anniversary of the murder of the pivotal leader of the American Civil Rights movement to end segregation and discrimination of black Americans was not well received, by the colored people. Our ignorance was perceived as belligerence. Our car was surrounded and pounded upon. We were lucky to have gotten away from the extremely hostile crowd. I was scared to death and John’s, “See, what did I tell you? You got to stay away from those stupid niggers.” began to make some sense.  At that point, I was beginning to see what John and Mrs. Goolsby had been saying, and made sure to keep my distance from the coloreds throughout the remaining months as residents in Memphis. I did not completly accept the distorted view of the coloreds. It just never made sense to me that the color of a person’s skin automatically made him a good person or a bad person.  For someone who had never been aware of a whole group of people for 17 years, the next eight years proved to contain nothing but negative information and further distortions. Then in the winter of 1977, I gained an entirely different perspective after watching the miniseries, Roots. What Mrs. Goolsby had presented as a welcomed relocation and career move for the Africans, was actually a kidnapping and forced slavery, among other horrific acts. And as moving as the miniseries was, I had also come to realize that my husband, of now nine years, was not the all knowing and all trustworthy person I had originally thought him to be. In fact, I had come to distrust many of his opinions. And now, almost thirty years later, I see that it wasn’t that I wasn’t the sharpest tack in the box, but that I had never been allowed out of the box – the box of ignorance and silent bigotry, which was the foundation of child rearing skills in Holmes County, Ohio. Throughout the time travel of prejudices these past thirty years, I have questioned what was never spoken in my childhood and what has been regurgitated as racial discrimination ever since, and I have come to the conclusion that I was right in the first place. There is no difference to the washing machine as to the color of the clothes or the color of the people washing the clothes, because there is no difference. There are good and bad in all colors of people. We white Americans just need to cleanse ourselves of the filth of bigotry.

For more interesting views on the prompt, Time Travel please read:

JustJen      Keith Hillman       Crafty Green Poet       Selma in the City   Gautami Tripathy        Linda Jacobs     Anthony North     Tumblewords      preethi   UL   Jeques   Constance   peepakthe assassin   Little Wing

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Writer’s Island #3: I Have Changed

February 9, 2008 at 7:39 pm (Writer's Island)
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Mirror, Mirror in my hand

Tell me, Tell me if you can

Where did the days of my youth go,

And why dear Lord, do I walk so slow?

My brown eyes now need glasses to see,

And I find I must get up in the night to pee.

Many things have changed since I’ve gotten older,

Summers are hotter and winters are colder.

My breasts, once quite a firm and perky pair

Now need pushed and padded to prove they are still there.  

My days of drinking and partying late into the night

Have been replaced with early to bed and eating light

And now I see my shining locks, once so full and thick

Are thinning and graying and falling out in my hairpick.

How can this be? I ask with eyes full of tears

Things sure have changed in my golden years.

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Writer’s Island #2 - Do You Believe in Political Magic

February 2, 2008 at 12:00 pm (Writer's Island)
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Do You Believe in Political Magic? 

The Magic Touch? Winfrey Lends Her Brand and Her Empire in Support of Obama’s Presidential Bid. Washington Post, Sept 5, 2007 

Clinton’s pull “Magic” out of their hats at surprise DM stop. Des Moines Register, Dec. 18, 2007 

Huckabee looks for more “late night” magic. USA Today, Jan 4, 2008 

McCain looks for last-minute-magic in Iowa. The Swamp, Dec. 27, 2007 

I find it curious many articles written about our presidential hopefuls use the term magic to describe what each candidate needs to claim the White House prize. Over 140 years ago, Otto Von Bismarck, then Prime Minister of Prussia, defined politics as being the “art of the possible.” Magic on the other hand, is defined as the “art of creating illusions of the impossible.”  Given these two definitions, I offer the following as a composite definition of Political Magic: the art of creating the possible through illusions of the impossible. A closer look at the magic tricks used by the top two contenders in each of the two political parties will better explain the phenomenon of Political Magic.  

Oprah Winfrey’s endorsement of Sen. Barack Obama is obviously a slight-of-hand rope trick. In the Rope Trick, a magician places the ends of a rope into his hands and closes his fingers around the ends. The magician shakes the rope slightly, says a magic word, blows on his hands and drops one end of the rope. Poof!  By magic the end now has a knot in it! Ooohh, ahhhh…the secret: The rope already had a knot in one end. It was just kept hidden until the appropriate time to reveal the knot. Obama could not have a more solid political magic knot to hold onto than Oprah Winfrey.

In her endorsement speech of Obama, Winfrey, declared she felt “a responsibility at this point in time” to come forward, thus she tossed her rope into the political arena of the candidate’s presidential campaign.  Ooohh, ahhhh… what would prompt the mega-queen of the O Factor, who had never officially endorsed a political candidate before, to suddenly provide a lifeline knot for Obama to hold onto? The secret or the illusion of the impossible… it was not a sudden decision. It was more than two years ago when Winfrey and Obama began discussing her financial role in his bid for the presidency.  Her seemingly unexpected public support was actually part of a carefully choreographed marketing campaign. What??? you say, can this be true? Oprah’s statement on Larry King’s show is proof of this as she said, “My money isn’t going to make any difference. My value to him, my support of him is probably worth more than any other check that I could write.” And, she is right. She has a long and successful history in the art of creating the possible by using her powerful influence to promote sales of books and bras, while decreasing the sale of the American dietary staple, beef. The O Factor has also launched the careers of the now rich and famous Dr. Phil and Rachel Rae. Will the rope trick work for Obama? An old adage advises, ‘When you are at the end of your rope, tie a knot and hold on.” Obama has the Political Magic of an O Factor knotted rope – hang on Obama, it just might swing you into the White House. And while Obama is swinging from the O Factor rope, Hillary Clinton is pulling a rabbit out of her hat.  

Pulling a rabbit out of a hat is one of the oldest of all magic tricks and relies on diversion of the audience for its successful completion. In this trick, the magician sets a top hat on a table and distracts his audience with one hand while using his second hand to put the rabbit, located below the table, in the hat. A less skilled magician simply places a “special hat” that has a spring top that will open down into a hole in the “special table” which he can reach through to retrieve the rabbit located below the hole in the table. The amazing thing about this trick is everyone knows the rabbit is there, somewhere; no one truly believes a magician can create a rabbit out of thin air, but still they allow their attention to be diverted and do not see the rabbit until the magician magically makes it appear.  And what little fur-ball did Hillary Clinton plan to pull out of her bag of political magic tricks? Who else but Bill, of course. Not that this was a surprise – we all knew he was somewhere lurking, waiting to make a grand entrance to Hillary’s campaign when we least expected it. The bigger question is why she chose the timing of her grand finale Political Magic trick? 

Early on in her bid for the White House, Hillary Clinton was viewed as a shoe-in for the Democratic nomination. Hillary was seen as a strong advocate for change in a time when Americans desperately wanted change. Hillary is also smart, very smart in fact. She knew her facts, she remained committed to her ideals and she is one the most accomplished speakers in recent presidentail-bid history. And, she is tough - she has survived marriage to Bill after all, along with the very public scruitiny of the sexual details of his affair in the very same office Hillary is now seeking to place her roledex and nameplate.  And she is experienced. She has over 30-years of political experience, with eight in the White House. Yes, the art of the possible of having the first female president in the White House was definitely on the horizon. With such a big bag of political magic in her favor, one would think this skilled political performer would have been able to divert the attention of the voters for several more months while shrewdly planning just the right moment to pull Billy-bunny out of her hat. Having a former President as your husband, even if that President is Bill Clinton, is the crème de le crème of political magic. However, Hillary was not the expert political performer that she and her Hillaryland cohorts believed. Her initial campaign focus on policies was received as being too heavy-handed; she was too tough, being perceived as a royal bitch instead of a strong leader; and as her numbers began to fall, her political followers began looking for the rabbit. Pulling Bill Clinton out of the hat through the hole in her presidential table bid, in a grocery store in Iowa of all places, was so ungraceful it was dubbed as a “Bill in a china shop” move by the New York Daily News. Graceful or not, the rabbit is now out of the hat and it is not going back in. It has been reported Bill has seized control of Hillary’s campaign. He has taken the campaign focus off policies and placed personality and charisma, his and hers, in the forefront. Where Hillary was once seen as cold, calculating and controlling, Bill has created the illusion of the impossible: Hillary as a warm, caring, and capable candidate. Will the hat trick, despite its clumsy execution, work for Hillary Clinton? It depends on how well behaved Billy-bunny remains and whether other political magicians decide to perform the “make the cast-away girlfriend re-appear” trick to put Hillary back on her “offensive” march to the White House.

 Political Magic is not only performed by the Democratic front runners, the Republican hopefuls have a few tricks up their sleeves too. Mike Huckabee has put a political magic twist on the shell game. The Shell Game is performed by placing a pea under one of three walnut shells. The magician then moves the three shells around each other several times and then asks the viewer to pick the shell the pea is under. Regardless of which shell is selected, the  viewer is incorrect. The last shell to be turned over always has the pea. Hmmmm . . . how can this be? This is another slight-of-hand trick. The pea is actually removed from under the shell in which it was placed prior to the shells being moved around each other. Then after two of the shells have been turned over, the pea is cleverly placed under the third shell as it is being picked up.  Ahhhh. . .and the twist that the Huckster has added to this little game of musical-chair-deception; the pea is always under the first shell the voter selects, it just doesn’t always look like the same pea. 

Being a former Southern Baptist pastor, Mike Huckabee won his bid for Governor of Arkansas on his Christian conservative convictions. He is a very likable, average American type guy, with little financial resources to mount a presidential bid for the White House. He is the proverbial David fighting the wealthy Goliaths; a candidate worthy of the art of the possible. However, once he threw his hat into the presidential arena, Huckabee had to slide his convictions around the table. Not that he has actually changed his convictions; instead, he uses a different label on the pea under the walnut he feels his current voter-audience wants. He appears to have accepted that to achieve the American dream that anyone can grow up and become President of the United States of America; he has to be all things to all voters, the ultimate illusion of the impossible. In Iowa, Huckabee never came right out and said he was 100% against abortion or disapproved of same-sex relationships, although these are his very fundamental values. Instead, he campaigned with his “Christian leader” pea, which he placed under the appropriate shell for liberal-conservative voters. Once he began campaigning on the New Hampshire political trail, his pea was now called “proven leader” and “authentic conservative,” which would be better received by the conservative-liberal voters. To appeal to an even more diverse group of voters through some late night magic, this Baptist pastor traded his Bible-thumping sermons in for guitar-picking rock tunes with Jay Leno’s house band, a clever political magic trick he learned from Billy-bunny. Will Mike Huckabee’s shell game of value labeling win him the Presidency? Anything is possible, it is America after all.

John McCain, the current forerunner for the Republican nomination, has become very skilled at the Coin Pass Through magic trick. In this trick, a spectator is asked to hold out his or her hand palm up. The magician then places his hand on top of theirs, palm down. With his other hand, he places a quarter on top of his hand and explains to the spectator that with one quick slap of the coin he will make it pass through his hand and into theirs! Slap! the quarter is in the spectator’s hand. This trick is achieved by the magician already having a quarter lightly taped in his palm before he places it above the spectators waiting palm. Then, when the quarter on top of the hand is slapped, it is caught up by another piece of stronger tape in the magicians other palm. Hmmm…how does John McCain use this trick to advance his bid for the Presidency? The tape in the palms of his hands is his calling card, Liberal Republican.

Being a liberal Republican with a mixed bag of political values, affords McCain the opportunity to “almost” be all things to all voters. Unlike Huckabee’s illusion of the impossible for wanting to “be” all things to all voters, McCain’s almost being all things to all voters is his art of the possible. Voters, whether Democrat or Republican, can hold out their palms and be assured they will receive a quarter of the values they hold dear from McCain. The Straight Talk Express, is McCain’s illusion of the impossible. First, “straight talk from a politician” is an oxymoron to the nth degree. Second, McCain’s straight talk greatly differs from his voting records. Although he says he would overturn Roe vs Wade, he has a mixed voting record on abortion issues; he says he would veto all pork-barrel bills and announce all pork spenders, but skipped voting on the Woodstock Museum project; and in 1996 he voted yes on prohibiting same-sex marriages but in 2006 he voted no to a constitutional bad of same-sex marriages. Will John McCain’s use of the Coin Pass Through trick slide him into the Oval Office? It is possible, as to many voters, getting a quarter of what we believe is better than getting nothing at all, which is what we have had for two decades.    

Do I believe in Political Magic? I believe all political candidates are actually operating a business, a business to get elected to whatever office they are seeking. The ability for any business to succeed is directly related to their marketing strategy. The art of creating the possible through illusions of the impossible is simply a marketing strategy. What I do believe is that through the art of political magic, America has evolved from the land of opportunity to the land of opportunists, one trick at a time. I also think choosing any one of the candidates in this presidential election as our next leader is like selecting one piece of candy from a box of chocolates; you do not know for sure what you’re going to get, but you do know it is going to be brown and gooey.    

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The above is my submission on a prompt from Writer’s Island. For additional interpretations on “Magic”, please visit the following blogs:

 Gemma Wiseman      Jadey      Anthony North      Tumblewords

jeques      Just Jen       Constance      chicklegirl      Robin  

watermaid      Selma       Marja      gautami tripathy

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Writer’s Island: Desire

January 29, 2008 at 9:11 pm (Writer's Island)
Tags: , ,

 Life,  Liberty and

 

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         the Pursuit . . .         

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