I love mankind; it's people I can't stand.

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Feeling: Calm. Loving my life.
Eating: Um... life?
Drinking:Dasani water
Wearing: Jeans, black tank top with built in bra, lavender panties, eith a little sleeping kitty on them, my claddagh, green choker and matching earrings, contacts, vestiges of the day's make-up, black belt.

Listening to:
*Hummmmrumblerumblerumble* It's my washing machione making contented noises.
Chatting with:
Keeping my own counsel.
Thinking: "I need to concentrate on my posture more."
Remembering: Dave's tongue ring.
Glad for: My ability to move past fear into growth.

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Today is: 2002-06-28 - @ 1:01 p.m.
Are you an American?

all time - is relative
To be an American

You have left your home, where you have been persecuted. The reasons vary. Stereotyping, racial or religious prejudice, being forced to try to be someone you're not. You come to the 'Promised Land'. "Roads paved of gold, "melting pot," "and acceptance." All are music on your tortured ears. You leave, amidst cries and promises of letters and updates, and more tears, and promises of eternal remembrance. Then you arrive here. You go through customs, all of you belongings packed into an infinitely too small case, including your dreams of a peace and acceptance. You're not an American yet. It takes a while to get settled, to find a place to live. Get a job, and a school for your kids to go to. You're not an American yet. Every day your hopes and dreams wake you up in the morning. "I don't have to try to change here. They accept people here; this is the Promised Land." You pack your kidís lunches, filled with food from home, and send them off to school in their clothes, which your wife made. You leave for work. You're still not an American yet. You arrive for your first day of work at the factory, with cheerful smiles for your new co-workers. Strangely, they don't smile back, just lean over their work, drudging along. You work hard, hoping the boss will notice. He doesn't. You're still not an American. Lunch starts, and you pull out your lunch, authentic, homemade with love. You notice some of your co-workers looking at you. They seem to be laughing at something. You lift up a part of your food, in a gesture of offering to the one closest to you. "Hell no!" He cries, "I'm not having any of that shit." You eat the rest of your lunch hurriedly, and get back to your machine, glad when the day is over. You're not an American yet. You walk home, ignoring the calls from the passing cars, trying to get home. Your wife is standing in the doorway, crying. Apparently, she went to the store, and they refused to sell her anything, calling her names until she left. You're not an American yet. The kids come in from outside, clothes ripped and torn, holding back tears. Young ones can be so cruel. You sit around the table, explaining about your day, and the nasty co-workers, before, exhausted you all go to bed. Guess what? You're still not an American. You wake up, and everything repeats it's self. Let's go forward a few months. Your kids are wearing jeans now, and your wife is wearing sundresses and dyeing her hair blonde. You kids are now the ones doing the bullying, since they now fit in. Your wife is starting a bridge club, forgetting to write her old friends, who are now fading in her mind. You have hot dogs for lunch, despite the fact you miss your old food. You are friends, of sorts, with your co-workers, and join them in a few beers after work. You laugh with them, when a new immigrant comes in to work. You've unpacked you suitcase of hopes and dreams in the Promised Land, and threw them all away, in hope for a bigger TV., or a promotion. You no longer associate yourself with where you used to live. You stereotypes, persecute, and are prejudice towards others. You are now an American, welcome to the stereotype.

Quot for the Entry: "One day our descendants will think it incredible that we paid so much attention to things like the amount of melanin in our skin or the shape of our eyes or our gender instead of the unique identities of each of us as complex human beings." ~Franklin Thomas

all time - is relative

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