The real British way, believe it or not, is that EVERYBODY’S LIFE MATTERS.
That’s what colonization was all about. Every individual mattering.
That message was and continues to be British Born.
However, somewhere along the way of what and whom they deemed equal, they lost their way. They unilaterally decided that people had to take turns mattering.
That decision led to violence worldwide. It seems that violence remains the strategy of choice when trying to institutionalize change.
Brits are big on institutionalizing behaviors. It allows for greater control of the greatest number of people. I don’t know if all Brits are like that. They, like the Jews, cross-bred with all cultures, so to find a person who is all British may be impossible. Maybe that’s why they’re so fixated on breed.
Although I’m part British, my father once said, “You’re Lithuanian and don’t you ever forget it”. He probably knew some English traits that he knew I didn’t have.
It all doesn’t matter to me. So why do I write about it? It matters to everybody else. I know what stigma means. Since before entering kindergarten I wanted to know why people do what they do. No reason beyond wanting to explore.
My kindergarten teacher when passing out cupcakes that one of the mothers made for all the kids on Valentine’s day came to me last and said, “Mrs. so and so said she didn’t make one for you Sharon.” She returned to her desk and when I looked up I saw her sitting there eating one. Years later I figured out she probably already had one and wanted another.
When nine years old I was foregoing dessert at supper. When everybody else ate their cupcake I saved mine. I had a desk drawer filled with them – a small desk my father made me out of scrap wood. One evening after supper, my mother told me I was going to the hospital to have my tonsils out. It was like a huge weight fell on me.
I opened the drawer and wanted to give my cupcakes away, thinking I wasn’t coming home. Nobody wanted them. I tried one and it was too stale to eat.
All the mothers sat with their kids being admitted for tonsillectomies. When the nurse herded all of us into the elevator, I had to stand in the back because I was the tallest. As the elevator door closed I started to cry. My mother later told me when I got home what one of the mothers said. “Look at that tall one in the back crying, she’s going to make all the little ones cry”. I didn’t notice anybody else crying.
Come to think of it I was always placed at the end of the line or the back of the class. Being tall wasn’t good for a girl child. People commented on it like it was a deformity.
Now I’m wondering if crying is contagious like laughter? I don’t know. I’ve never been in a room of crying people. I was a crier – whenever I left my family. I don’t know why; it just came over me. Even now. I’m fine once I’m gone, the crying stops as quickly as it started. I never tried to cure it. I accepted it.
When I came home from the hospital I threw all the cupcakes away. I no longer wanted them nor did I care. I still do love cupcakes though. In fact I’m developing a cupcake line called CHEW CUPCAKES. They’re like BOWEL BUSTERS. And they have quite a chew. I haven’t posted all of them yet. The guys will like them too. My father liked cupcakes. He could eat a half dozen in the middle of the night. My next one is going to be lemon cream – all animal-free of course – a multi-flavored collection, something for everyone.