Misinformation

Where I've been working recently (which, for the sake of its good honor and reputation as an academic institution, will remain nameless), I sit at the front desk, and have access to a nifty "Network Viewer" which allows me, at any given time, access to the security cameras in front and back of the building. Since I also control the door opener, when someone knocks I can view who it is and open the door, or not, depending on the looks of 'em.
Today some men were painting the front of the building, and I couldn't help but hear some of their conversation from where I sit. Because it was such good stuff, which I will share in a moment, I also turned on the camera. It was like a regular tv show, as much for its inaccurate propaganda as for the fact that I was watching it on a screen. Here's what I heard from the painters . . .

For some reason, the conversation was about May Day, the first of May, which the communists* brought to this country** at first disguised as "Earth Day."*** You know, Earth Day. It was supposed to be this day when you do not like really radical stuff like worshipping the earth,**** but like, you know, you're supposed to take care of the earth or something. So they brought May Day over here first as Earth Day, but that didn't go over very well,***** so they had to think of another way of doing it. So then in the 70's****** they tried to bring it back again, but this time, they decided to disguise it as this thing called Cinqo de Mayo,******* so that, oo, it's like this Latin holiday, you know? So Cinqo de Mayo is really May Day, a holiday of evil communist propaganda.
After hearing this, I wanted to justify the righteous, know-it-all emotions I was feeling, so I paid a visit to my trusty friend Wikipedia. Among the other things that I learned about May Day, which you will find enumerated in the copious endnotes to this entry, I discovered that although May 1 is generally dubbed Loyalty Day or Law Day by our country's leadership (names which I think display a shocking lack of originality, beauty, or imagination), one of the initial purposes for the holiday--to honor workers and their rights--is observed by us on Labor Day. I bet that's a holiday these guys don't mind celebrating.

*May Day was originally a pagan holiday celebrated in pre-Christian Europe, to herald the start of summer. This incarnation of the holiday is still celebrated to a certain extent, especially in Europe. Later it was given an additional meaning, and associated with socialist and labor movement celebrations as International Worker's Day/Labour Day.
**May Day--in its socialist, labor-oriented form--originated in the United States to commemorate Chicago's Haymarket Riot of 1886, the movement behind which started on May 1 of that year.
***Earth Day, which has two dates officially (neither of which is May 1 or even in May) was first observed between the years of 1969 and 1971, when John McConnell and Wisconsin Senator Gaylord Nelson both introduced the idea of a global day to practice environmental stewardship on March 21 and April 22, respectively.
****The irony of this statement, as noted under * above, is that May Day actually did originate as a form of earth-worship. Huh.
*****Actually, Earth Day still exists. The U.S. generally celebrates it on April 22, and in DC there's a whole Green DC week leading up to that date.
******Which is when Earth Day was invented . . .
*******A holiday (not even celebrated federally in Mexico, but only by region) to commemorate the initial victory of Mexican forces over French forces on May 5, 1862. In the U.S. it is commonly seen as a day to celebrate Mexican traditions and the heritage of Mexican-American citizens.

But, then again, those guys could probably teach me a lot about painting a building.

My Inner Judge

This is my inner judge. She has been modeled from dark gray clay, and is loosely patterned after a variety of girls I knew in nursery school. She has pigtails (because pigtails are perfect), bangs (because everyone has bangs), and an engaging smile (because perfect people smile). You may not think she looks very judgmental, or intimidating, or particularly critical. But you would be wrong.

I started a pottery class this week. Well, it's really a course in "Intuitive Hand Building," led by a woman named Hope, who, although she doesn't have PhD in art, likes to say that she has "an inner authority." I trust any woman authoritative enough to not shave her armpits. Plus, a whole month of classes is 5 dollars, read it, 5. So I sat in a church basement for an hour-and-a-half with Hope and two other women, Jean and Jennifer, making pinch pots and trying to intuit how my clay wanted to be built.

When the class began, Hope gathered us all at a table for some sharing time. She displayed a few pieces that she has made over the years, and one that she had done just that day: her inner judge. This inner judge was nasty. It was hunch-backed and beak-nosed, with sagging breasts, a reptilian spine, and hair in a tight bun. It looked like the fourth grade teacher everyone dreaded having in my elementary school, except that Mrs. Yagod wore clothes and wasn't made out of clay. Hope explained that we would all make our own inner judges--evoking the critiques, inhibitions, anxieties, and judgments that keep us from creating freely, and expressing them in a physical form--and we would put them outside in the stairwell while we potted, or clayed, or hand-builded.

I wanted to make my inner judge immediately, because I knew exactly how it looked, but first we had to make pinch pots. My pinch pots looked exactly like the one I made with my dad when I was five, so I tired of that easily, and when given the go-ahead, lit into my inner judge with panache. You see, when I was three- or four-years-old, I went to nursery school with a whole gaggle of very adorable, very outgoing, very sociable, very non-only-children. I immediately recognized myself as different from all of them because:

a) I could be (and even liked to be) alone

b) I was dressed differently

c) I lived far away from them, and not on a cul-de-sac or even on a street with a sidewalk

d) I played differently (eschewing puzzles and games to use the rocking horse in the corner to zip through forests and chase down evil ogres).

But I didn't want to be different. I figured, if everyone else does this one thing, but I do this other thing, I must be doing something wrong. To add to this psychological confusion was the fact that I didn't have bangs. Everyone had bangs; where did mine go? It was concluded that I must have been born with bangs, like everybody else, but that somebody cut them off for some reason. I have a widow's peak. Doesn't that sound so much more romantic and sophisticated than "bangs?" I think so.

But getting to my point, I couldn't own this difference. Nor could I own the fact that I was clearly a true artiste. I colored a rainbow one day, but to the horror of the other little girls, I had included black, brown, white, and gray in my rainbow. Quite progressive by today's standards, but I was promptly told, "There is no black in rainbows." Ohh. I had done something wrong. Better not do that again. Better not do anything out of the norm, unexpected, imperfect, or original again. At least not until you're a teenager. But don't worry, by then you'll be too nervous about taking a wrong step that you won't even have guts left to be original without worrying that your originality won't be an accepted originality.

But who knew that one day, I would be asked to personify, or clayify, my inner judge? And who knew that my inner judge would end up being a schoolgirl made out of mud (which is all we all are anyway), and that I would suddenly be able to trace it all back to being four-years-old?