I hold many secrets of those that I love and for those that I could care less about. I hold these secrets because half of them I have forgotten and the other half, I know, that should I reveal them in anger or flippancy, it will be me that stands alone looking ill-bred.
Merida is run amok and rampant with Gringos that love to gossip. I always expect this behaviour from people who stand before hallway lockers, dialing combination numbers, while acne wreaks havoc upon their faces. I am never expecting this faux forte from people who are my age.
Plainly spoken, I feel devastation when I witness gossip. When I am asked to participate by answering a question or when I find myself overhearing it, I can feel the blood rush to my face with anger.
I knew my mother was a hypocrite when I sat in the kitchen of her Vancouver apartment and overheard her bad-mouth another woman, from the living room, with what was gossip. I felt so inflamed that I jumped from my seat and asked her how she could possibly speak this way about another human being not present. You see, this same woman, my birth mother, had practically taken to washing my very own mouth out with soap when she discovered me gossiping as a child.
When I am asked to gossip I can not separate the request from the moment you may gossip about me or from how you might feel if I gossip about you. The request is inextricably joined, in my mind, with sorrow for all concerned.
What do Gringos do when they no longer have a career with which to identify themselves with? What do Gringos do who arrive in a new country, leaving the old country, with very little education? What does a Gringo do, who all their lives placed value upon themselves by who they were associated with? What does a Gringo do with time on their hands and no idea what to do with that time? How do we, as Gringos in new countries, bolster ourselves (egos) to the same stratosphere we once felt ourselves in, in our old country? How does gossip equate with notions of power and self worth? Why does the telling of gossip often cause the speaker to adopt facial expressions of superiority that aligns itself with orgasm? Why is gossip so heady an entity? Why, under Biblical or Koranic terms, is gossip akin to the death of a soul?
Having lived in New York City for most of my life, the concept of living in a city of millions but expecting anonymity (and indulging in it) is normal and what makes me feel calm. Relative strangers popping up out of the woodwork to tell me untruths about myself and expecting comment is unheard of in my circles. Unheard of and only to be expected from the uncouth.
I know things about events that I was not a part of, about people who never spoke to me and they are things about myself through a rumour mill. Here is an analysis of gossip:
Person one: Did you hear Bla Bla did this?
Person Two: No! Really?
Person One: Yes.
Two days later:
Person Two: Rumour has it that you, Bla, Bla, did this. Is it true?
Person Four (Bla, Bla): Yes. No. Maybe. I don't want to participate in this Bullshit.
A day later:
Person Two to Person One: I mentioned it to Bla, Bla but she seemed vague like she had something to hide...
I was invited to Thanksgiving here, in Merida, and at the moment that I accepted the invitation I had gotten my own news that the people I had invited for my own Thanksgiving would not be able to attend. Three days later, yet three weeks before the other Thanksgiving, I was informed that my original plans were back on track. I immediately sent an email to the home of the people who had invited me stating that I would not be able to attend. I received an email back asking me if something had befallen me thus making me unable to attend. I chose to ignore this email because it did not seem genuine and I had left enough time before the day to be sure they had not gone out of their way to possibly having purchased food accounting for my presence. I had wished everyone a grand day and asked to be forgiven for not attending. I did not see fit to give an explanation as to why I would not attend as these were not close friends.
Two days after Thanksgiving, I was approached by a woman that had gone to the other Thanksgiving and was queried as to why I had not come. She mentioned that she had overheard others surmising why I had failed to come and that it had been wondered aloud if I was to be invited or would accept any other invitations. If I gave two shits I might call up someone and explain myself, but two shits I do not have.
As a New Yorker: No means: No. It never involves an explanation. Ever. You can't come? See you next time. You're neurotic and don't want to come? OK. See you next time. People who want to explain themselves, do. Those that feel no need, don't. And it is never my position to question why you chose to do what you chose to do. Perhaps this is a regional thing. Perhaps New Yorkers are like this and people from Minnesota aren't. I don't know and I don't care. What I care about is the fact that I came up in a conversation about an inconsequential event that was transformed into a mountain from a molehill.
How do you suppose it felt to be questioned by a third party about my having simply said: No, but thank-you? It made me feel many things but mainly it made me feel defensive. It made me realize that if nothing can be made to be something, then something must be guarded at all costs.
I am a private person. I am private in the sense that your secrets are safe with me. I am private in the sense that I may blather on about this and that, but I am blathering with both eyes open as to what you will do with the information. If I see you ten times and ask you what you are doing and you say: I am going to go for drinks and you never invite me along too, I think you either don't want me along or you are as thick as P.E.I. mud in Spring.
Ten years ago I threw away my phone book. I threw it away because it was filled with names I did not feel I could count upon for a friendship, for an emergency, or for the time of day. I vowed I would never have another phone book unless it was filled with people who cared about me and whom I cared about in return. I need acquaintances like I need neurosyphilis. As a New Yorker I suppose that I am intensely paranoid about who I invite to my home. I never want you in my home if you are an acquaintance. Never. The reason for this is that I am intricately and delicately wired and can not tolerate my sanctuary, my one place in the world, my home, being invaded by ne'er do wells or people who don't love me. I meet acquaintances in restaurants or bars, or at your house should you decide to invite them. I do not encourage strangers to be here at my home. I encourage strangers to be my friends through casual encounters that lead home.
This one small encounter with a relative stranger has put my guard up. Merida is small and I prefer to remain anonymous rather that encounter daily run-ins with people whom I know nothing about telling me all about what they think they know about me.
I did not come here to meet Gringo's who in my native country would never have given me the time of day. I came here to write and do the things, in my own home of tranquility, that I wasn't afforded in my native country. I am used to being alone and my solitude has never caused me grief or loneliness. It has always made me stronger, given me time for reflection, and reinforced my sense of equanimity.
It is unfortunate that I arrive here feeling as though I need to begin again, standing alone with acne, in front of a locker in a hallway, but unlike high school, I begin with 53 years of experience.
Merida is run amok and rampant with Gringos that love to gossip. I always expect this behaviour from people who stand before hallway lockers, dialing combination numbers, while acne wreaks havoc upon their faces. I am never expecting this faux forte from people who are my age.
Plainly spoken, I feel devastation when I witness gossip. When I am asked to participate by answering a question or when I find myself overhearing it, I can feel the blood rush to my face with anger.
I knew my mother was a hypocrite when I sat in the kitchen of her Vancouver apartment and overheard her bad-mouth another woman, from the living room, with what was gossip. I felt so inflamed that I jumped from my seat and asked her how she could possibly speak this way about another human being not present. You see, this same woman, my birth mother, had practically taken to washing my very own mouth out with soap when she discovered me gossiping as a child.
When I am asked to gossip I can not separate the request from the moment you may gossip about me or from how you might feel if I gossip about you. The request is inextricably joined, in my mind, with sorrow for all concerned.
What do Gringos do when they no longer have a career with which to identify themselves with? What do Gringos do who arrive in a new country, leaving the old country, with very little education? What does a Gringo do, who all their lives placed value upon themselves by who they were associated with? What does a Gringo do with time on their hands and no idea what to do with that time? How do we, as Gringos in new countries, bolster ourselves (egos) to the same stratosphere we once felt ourselves in, in our old country? How does gossip equate with notions of power and self worth? Why does the telling of gossip often cause the speaker to adopt facial expressions of superiority that aligns itself with orgasm? Why is gossip so heady an entity? Why, under Biblical or Koranic terms, is gossip akin to the death of a soul?
Having lived in New York City for most of my life, the concept of living in a city of millions but expecting anonymity (and indulging in it) is normal and what makes me feel calm. Relative strangers popping up out of the woodwork to tell me untruths about myself and expecting comment is unheard of in my circles. Unheard of and only to be expected from the uncouth.
I know things about events that I was not a part of, about people who never spoke to me and they are things about myself through a rumour mill. Here is an analysis of gossip:
Person one: Did you hear Bla Bla did this?
Person Two: No! Really?
Person One: Yes.
Two days later:
Person Two: Rumour has it that you, Bla, Bla, did this. Is it true?
Person Four (Bla, Bla): Yes. No. Maybe. I don't want to participate in this Bullshit.
A day later:
Person Two to Person One: I mentioned it to Bla, Bla but she seemed vague like she had something to hide...
I was invited to Thanksgiving here, in Merida, and at the moment that I accepted the invitation I had gotten my own news that the people I had invited for my own Thanksgiving would not be able to attend. Three days later, yet three weeks before the other Thanksgiving, I was informed that my original plans were back on track. I immediately sent an email to the home of the people who had invited me stating that I would not be able to attend. I received an email back asking me if something had befallen me thus making me unable to attend. I chose to ignore this email because it did not seem genuine and I had left enough time before the day to be sure they had not gone out of their way to possibly having purchased food accounting for my presence. I had wished everyone a grand day and asked to be forgiven for not attending. I did not see fit to give an explanation as to why I would not attend as these were not close friends.
Two days after Thanksgiving, I was approached by a woman that had gone to the other Thanksgiving and was queried as to why I had not come. She mentioned that she had overheard others surmising why I had failed to come and that it had been wondered aloud if I was to be invited or would accept any other invitations. If I gave two shits I might call up someone and explain myself, but two shits I do not have.
As a New Yorker: No means: No. It never involves an explanation. Ever. You can't come? See you next time. You're neurotic and don't want to come? OK. See you next time. People who want to explain themselves, do. Those that feel no need, don't. And it is never my position to question why you chose to do what you chose to do. Perhaps this is a regional thing. Perhaps New Yorkers are like this and people from Minnesota aren't. I don't know and I don't care. What I care about is the fact that I came up in a conversation about an inconsequential event that was transformed into a mountain from a molehill.
How do you suppose it felt to be questioned by a third party about my having simply said: No, but thank-you? It made me feel many things but mainly it made me feel defensive. It made me realize that if nothing can be made to be something, then something must be guarded at all costs.
I am a private person. I am private in the sense that your secrets are safe with me. I am private in the sense that I may blather on about this and that, but I am blathering with both eyes open as to what you will do with the information. If I see you ten times and ask you what you are doing and you say: I am going to go for drinks and you never invite me along too, I think you either don't want me along or you are as thick as P.E.I. mud in Spring.
Ten years ago I threw away my phone book. I threw it away because it was filled with names I did not feel I could count upon for a friendship, for an emergency, or for the time of day. I vowed I would never have another phone book unless it was filled with people who cared about me and whom I cared about in return. I need acquaintances like I need neurosyphilis. As a New Yorker I suppose that I am intensely paranoid about who I invite to my home. I never want you in my home if you are an acquaintance. Never. The reason for this is that I am intricately and delicately wired and can not tolerate my sanctuary, my one place in the world, my home, being invaded by ne'er do wells or people who don't love me. I meet acquaintances in restaurants or bars, or at your house should you decide to invite them. I do not encourage strangers to be here at my home. I encourage strangers to be my friends through casual encounters that lead home.
This one small encounter with a relative stranger has put my guard up. Merida is small and I prefer to remain anonymous rather that encounter daily run-ins with people whom I know nothing about telling me all about what they think they know about me.
I did not come here to meet Gringo's who in my native country would never have given me the time of day. I came here to write and do the things, in my own home of tranquility, that I wasn't afforded in my native country. I am used to being alone and my solitude has never caused me grief or loneliness. It has always made me stronger, given me time for reflection, and reinforced my sense of equanimity.
It is unfortunate that I arrive here feeling as though I need to begin again, standing alone with acne, in front of a locker in a hallway, but unlike high school, I begin with 53 years of experience.
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