Thursday, July 01, 2004
It's all about ME!
The other day I went to the mall and bought myself a new skirt, made in India, and as I read the washing instructions on the label I thought about how textile workers in South Carolina were now free to pursue careers as spine surgeons or migrant farm laborers or fast food engineers thanks to the workers in India who fabricated my new skirt (pink, double-layer cotton voile). Later I went to the bookstore/cafe, and as I sipped a latte and skimmed the New York Times I pondered to myself on the importance of avoiding the temptation to talk about myself all the time, to insert myself into every anecdote, to act as I'm the center of the universe, to bore my readers with my banal musings. I absently played with one of my earrings as I pondered this. As I played with my earring I remembered purchasing it from a Mexican man who rented a table at the slave market in Charleston, next to Gullah women weaving baskets from native grasses. "Gracias, senorita, gracias!" said the vendor, flashing his teeth in a grateful grin. I wandered over to inspect one of the sweetgrass baskets, and as I stooped down, one of the weavers said, "Missy, w'enebbuh you ben' yo buzzum sho am bus' out yo clawt'! Lawd jedus, you oughts to haa'ness dem 'tings! You is ondeestunt!" Even though I had no idea what she was saying, I sensed the warm good will in her voice and laughed gaily in reply, whereupon she rolled her eyes elaborately, which I believe is a Gullah way of expressing hospitality. Then my earring got tangled in my hair, jolting me out of my reverie, and I made a mental note to myself not to fall into this trap - the trap of blathering incessantly about myself - when posting on my blog.
Then I thought, Oh, why the hell not? It's not like I'm some big shot JOURNALIST, with a column in the NEW YORK TIMES, for Chrissakes . . . why shouldn't I write about ME?
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The other day I went to the mall and bought myself a new skirt, made in India, and as I read the washing instructions on the label I thought about how textile workers in South Carolina were now free to pursue careers as spine surgeons or migrant farm laborers or fast food engineers thanks to the workers in India who fabricated my new skirt (pink, double-layer cotton voile). Later I went to the bookstore/cafe, and as I sipped a latte and skimmed the New York Times I pondered to myself on the importance of avoiding the temptation to talk about myself all the time, to insert myself into every anecdote, to act as I'm the center of the universe, to bore my readers with my banal musings. I absently played with one of my earrings as I pondered this. As I played with my earring I remembered purchasing it from a Mexican man who rented a table at the slave market in Charleston, next to Gullah women weaving baskets from native grasses. "Gracias, senorita, gracias!" said the vendor, flashing his teeth in a grateful grin. I wandered over to inspect one of the sweetgrass baskets, and as I stooped down, one of the weavers said, "Missy, w'enebbuh you ben' yo buzzum sho am bus' out yo clawt'! Lawd jedus, you oughts to haa'ness dem 'tings! You is ondeestunt!" Even though I had no idea what she was saying, I sensed the warm good will in her voice and laughed gaily in reply, whereupon she rolled her eyes elaborately, which I believe is a Gullah way of expressing hospitality. Then my earring got tangled in my hair, jolting me out of my reverie, and I made a mental note to myself not to fall into this trap - the trap of blathering incessantly about myself - when posting on my blog.
Then I thought, Oh, why the hell not? It's not like I'm some big shot JOURNALIST, with a column in the NEW YORK TIMES, for Chrissakes . . . why shouldn't I write about ME?
