Courage

by Susan Cameron

I had a friend who did a tour of duty in Vietnam. He came home with only one functioning eyeball and over a dozen medals testifying to his courage. He thought the medals were incredibly funny. "We were on patrol and got ambushed. Shrapnel hit me in the eye, but I kept shooting. What else was I going to do? Of course I kept shooting! When it was all over and I was about to leave the hospital, there was a big ceremony, and I had all these medals pinned to my chest. Hey, a bunch of guys were shooting at me, and I shot back. What choice did I really have? Is that courage?"

I think my friend was excessively modest, but I understood his point. To say that he acted courageously implies that he had a choice to act cowardly; since acting cowardly would have resulted in his death, acting courageously required no conscious choice at all. My friend was amused by the bits of metal and ribbon his country gave him for his bravery, but at least America acknowledged his suffering and his sacrifice. Most people who perform acts of courage remain anonymous and unrewarded.

For example, look at the business executive hauling his briefcase into a conference room full of hostile faces, about to give a presentation that will decide his career's future. Walking into that room takes courage. He is as fearful as a grunt humping through the boonies cradling an M-16 in his arms, wondering if he's going to be ambushed today. If the businessman does well, he may get a raise or a promotion, but nobody will praise him for his guts. Look at the laborer working in the hot sun and cold wind, enduring the daily grind so he can put food in his children's stomachs and keep a roof over their heads -- no medals, no glory, but doesn't he have courage? Isn't a man who endures the hardships of the workplace year after year for his family's sake as brave as a man who faces bullets once in his life for his country's sake?

There are no medals for courageous neighbors who band together to fight crime rather than put up "For Sale" signs, or for whistleblowers who risk their jobs or even their lives when they expose their employers as polluters or crooks. There are no congratulatory ceremonies for brave women who slap their bosses, or sue them, rather than tolerate sexual harassment. Fifty years ago, white southerners who courageously defied their community's standards and fought for civil rights for blacks were ostracized, harassed, or murdered, not lauded in speeches; today, black children in America's ghettos who dare to attend school, study and get good grades in defiance of their community's standards often meet the same fate. Examples of courage are all around us, if we stop and look.

Leo Tolstoy said, "Any idiot can face a crisis. It's this day-to-day living that wears you down." Everyday life can require more courage, tenacity and resolution than warfare on a battlefield. Courage is the will to endure, whether the extraordinary hardships of war or the mundane hardships of ordinary life. Courage is choosing to do the right thing even when it's easier or safer to do the wrong thing.

Robert Louis Stevenson summed it up: "The world has no room for cowards. We must all be ready somehow to toil, to suffer, to die. And yours is not the less noble because no drum beats before you when you go out into your daily battlefields, and no crowds shout about your coming when you return from your daily victory or defeat."

copyright 1993, Susan Cameron

Appearances

Cassie's been busy selling houses, but now she's back with a whole new look.

Skinny Bitch has been obsessed lately about how everything looks – the models, the sales offices, even our clothes. She’s decided it looks better, more professional, if we’re all dressed alike.

“That way people coming in will know right away who works there,” she said at the Monday sales meeting.

“Does that mean we have to wear uniforms?” Mandy Sherman asked. Mandy’s our resident fashionista and wouldn’t be caught dead in anything approximating a uniform, especially if it didn’t involve spike-heeled sandals.

“Not exactly,” Skinny Bitch said, her lips all pursed. “Men, you will wear dark suits, preferably black, with white shirts and conservative ties. Women will wear black skirts or pants with a crisp white blouse. Everyone needs to wear black closed toe shoes. And ladies, no low cut tops or short short skirts. Nothing too tight, either. We have an image to maintain. If you look professional, people will feel more secure, more trusting. Any questions?”

The room fell silent as each of us took a mental tour of our closet. I was thinking that my only white blouse might have been crisp once upon a time, but not anymore.

“When does this start?” somebody asked.

“This weekend,” Skinny Bitch said to a uniform groan.

“I can’t afford a whole new wardrobe,” Mandy said.

“Surely, you have some black pants or a black skirt and a white blouse,” Skinny Bitch said.

“Pants and skirt, yes, but I think I only have one white blouse,” Mandy protested.

“That’s what washing machines are for,” Skinny Bitch replied, looking down at Mandy.

A whispered undercurrent charged the room, but no one else spoke up.

“So, does everyone understand that?” Skinny Bitch said.

Heads nodded in grim unison.

“On to the next thing,” she said as she reached into a box she had on the table in front of her. “We are unveiling a new financing program that we’ll be advertising heavily, and to make sure your prospects know about it, I’ve had these made up for you all to wear.” She pulled out a saucer sized bright yellow metal badge, the kind soccer moms wear with their kids’ pictures. She affixed it with a magnetic strip to her filmy coral top with the deep v-neck. The words, “Ask me about our new loans!” formed a smiley face on the badge.

There was an audible gasp from the group. If visitors to our models couldn’t pick us out from our professional clothing, they sure weren’t going to be able to miss this.

Skinny Bitch stood before us smiling broadly as her badge tilted slowly sideways and fell with a loud clatter onto the table. The magnetic strip must have fallen into her bra, because she clasped her hand to her chest before she turned away from us and reached in to get it. Turning back around, she reattached the badge – upside down.

The room erupted in laughter, but Skinny Bitch’s frown matched her badge. The woman has no sense of humor.

“You get the picture,” she said stiffly.

Yes. Yes we did.

“Anyway,” she continued. “Be sure to pick up your buttons before you leave, and start wearing them today.”

“What are the terms of the new loans?” Jack Porter asked.

“I don’t have that for you right now,” Skinny Bitch said. “I’ll send an e-mail.”

So armed with a wardrobe edict and bright smiley buttons touting loans we knew nothing about, we scattered to our neighborhoods.

We’d been looking professional for nearly a week when the word went out that Skinny Bitch was making surprise visits to the sales offices. She’d take a quick tour of the models, make sure everyone was properly attired with smiley buttons in place then wheel her Mercedes off to the next place. By the end of the second week, Skinny Bitch sightings were on the wane and heading into the weekend, I forgot about the inspections. Skinny Bitch never ventures out on the weekends.

Sunday morning I was running late by the time I got dressed and checked myself in the full-length mirror. My black pants and crisp white blouse looked way perkier than I felt. Pink fuzzy slippers poked out below the pants, because I always kick off my shoes at the garage door and switch footwear there in the morning before I go.

Downstairs I had just grabbed my purse when the phone rang, startling me so much I tossed my purse in the air. The contents scattered everywhere. Sarah was calling to say she was sick. I called the temp service to line up a sub for Sarah, then picked up the stuff from my purse. I found everything except my car keys and spent the next fifteen minutes on my hands and knees until I spotted them behind the sofa. Crawling under the end table, I grabbed the keys and slithered clear of the table. I thought. When I stood up, my head cracked on the corner. Now I had a headache and my crisp white blouse was filthy. With no clean white blouses left, I put on a blue one. Who would care?

I finally pulled into the model parking lot twenty minutes late. A crowd waited at the door - a family of four, a couple on bicycles, and oh my God, there was a scowling Skinny Bitch. I looked down at my blue blouse and sighed. Late and out of uniform, I was busted.

With all eyes on me, I took a deep breath, opened the door and swung my legs out of the car. That’s when I saw, in all their glory, my very pink, very fluffy slippered feet. So unprofessional.

I braced for the wrath of Skinny Bitch, but when I looked up, she was laughing as hard as everyone else. Maybe there’s a real person in there after all.

Copyright 2010 by Liz Zuercher

How to Write a Poem

First, cultivate daydreaming:  lie on the couch, stare at the stains in the ceiling, browse a bookstore, wander the woods, climb a tree, hide under a lilac bush, lunch at the zoo with zebras and monkeys, soar over the city.

When an image taps you on the shoulder, take it by the hand and hurry home. Make a cup of tea, sit down and chat, just the two of you. You can even flirt a little—smile, flash your dimples, give a sly wink, chuckle low and sexy.

Next, once you’ve charmed your guest, throw a party to celebrate. Issue invitations to your favorite words. You know so many, but be picky. Invite only the sturdy nouns and vigorous verbs. Insecure nouns and verbs dress dowdy, hang their heads, and act like wallflowers. They don’t make the best party guests. Most important, include only a few adjectives—they’re always fun, but such a rowdy, flamboyant bunch. They tend to talk too much and take over the conversation.

Now gather the necessities—the dictionary, the thesaurus, the rhyming book, pens and paper, snacks, cold drinks. Don’t forget those orphan lines and images you loved, but had to cut from other poems. They’ve been living in the basement, stuffed in the files. Dust them off. Place them around the room.

Make sure to introduce the guests to each other. Work the room, mix with everyone, poke a little here, provoke a little there, tell a joke, sing a song, turn a cartwheel. Don’t forget the music. Play a polka, a country-western stomp, a ballad, or a jazz trio. How about a symphony or piano solo? Play them all.  Let the guests cavort, romp, tumble, tangle, debate, discuss, chatter, and cavil.  Don’t turn out the lights until the moon goes to sleep.

Finally: do not clean up when the party is over.  Put your feet up. While nibbling on left-over bonbons and tasty bon mots, describe how the black knight boogied with the ballerina, the fireman squashed a lost flame, and you caught the frog and the princess kissing in the hall.  Don’t forget to note the spinster drank too much and left wearing the chip dip bowl on her head.  Close by expressing what a good time you had.

Susan Matthewson

A Poem of Grrrrr-atitude

Thanks to you
I have hated myself
Thanks to you
I have wished I were dead
Thanks to you
I have learned how little value I have
Thanks to you
I have demanded the impossible of myself
And resented you for my own inadequacies
Thanks to you

Thanks to you
I have failed
Thanks to you
I have not gone after my dreams
Thanks to you
I do not even know what my dreams are
Thanks to you
I have allowed myself to become mired
in a web of confusing and constricting emotions and thoughts
Thanks to you
My anger flairs and I want to lash out
Thanks to you

Thanks to you
I have had to learn self control
Thanks to you
I have had to learn not just to bite my tongue
(“If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”*)
but to bite my thoughts – allowing my breath to become louder than they are
Thanks to you
I am learning to allow the awful just to be – apart from myself
Thanks to you
I am learning the lesson that life is what I make it,
that my life is what is inside my head
and that you really have no control at all –
All thanks to you

Thanks to you
I have had to find the quiet place, the sweet place, inside myself
Where you are not as you are and yet where you are allowed to be just as you are

Thanks to you

*Thumper in Bambi (repeating his mother’s words)