Today I Wept for Humanity

I'm not trying to be poetic or use some sort of metaphor.   I walked down the street and CRIED.

Because apparently it is not enough that there is war and murder and oppression and starvation and the flagrant misuse of the word "ironic".  No.  Those are the things that always seem to be there.  The things of which we all conscious on some level, but have become more of an ache than a sharp pain.  Tragedies that have not lost their horror or scope, yet no longer surprise us, as horrible as that sounds.  And sometimes we are able to forget.  We have to forget.  We have to put aside the overwhelming catastrophes that humans inflict on each other so that we don't go mad.  So that we can still enjoy our small pieces of paradise.  So that we can watch a little girl in her funny winter hat skateboard down the sidewalk and still smile.  I am not dismissing all the things that people all over the world are suffering this very second at the hands of their fellow species.  Those actions can never, and should never, be brushed aside.  I'm fighting for the idea that we must all cling on to the good.  Fight for the smiles as hard as we fight against the hate.

And what has unhinged me so?  What set forth this tirade?  It was the silliest, simplest, saddest little thing.  A Salvation Army collector has materialized outside the entrance of my grocery.  With his red bucket and ever-ringing bell.  Now, I do not always give to people collecting money.  I believe very few people have the means to ALWAYS give, but I told myself that if I had change left over when I came out, that I would drop it in.  Shopping commenced, jelled cranberries were bought, and all was merry and bright.  As I made my exit, I slowed and reached into my pocket for the change I had dedicated to that red bucket and bell.  I was not the only one exiting, though.  There was also an older gentleman (I use the term "gentleman" quite loosely here) with a truly inordinate amount of toilet paper also making his departure.  As he rushed by, I heard him snark, "Ugh!  Out here already?!  It's not even Thanksgiving!"

I had a short exchange with the man collecting money about this Grinch, dropped in my changed, wished him a happy Thanksgiving, and went along my way to ponder humanity as I walked my groceries home.  I don't know why, but the man's comment really cut at me.  Sure, people kvetch about Christmas music, decorations, and hype bombarding them the second Halloween is done.  This humbuginess doesn't really bother me.  These people are entitled to their harmless, be it misguided opinions.  (Really people.  Christmas is wonderful, why wouldn't you want to prolong it?)  But complaining that an organization has started to collect money to help people "too early"?  How can it be "too early" to help?  I know some people have some very strong opinions about how helpful Salvation Army really is (and that IS a very valid opinion), but that's not my point right now.  My point is that there was a human being giving his time and energy in an attempt to make the world a better place, and he was met with angry words from another human being because something associated with Christmas was put into his path three days before Thanksgiving.

Now, I've never done a study on collecting for charity.  I don't know if extending exposure during the holiday season ends up in the collection of more money, or if people get angry and fed up, and therefore donate less.  The statistics part of me really wants to know, but the rest of me wants to believe the best in people.  That having collectors out there starting earlier brings in more money, and helps more people.  Again, not the point.  The point is that this man could not just walk by, saying nothing.

It was too much.

As though there is a time limit, a finite window of opportunity when people are allowed to be charitable, and it only comes after we have all stuffed our faces with turkey.  And jelled cranberries.  As though that man ringing his bell is as annoying as the Hippopotamus Song on November 1st or seeing Christmas lights displayed next to Halloween candy.

Here's the thing.  I love Christmas.  And of course I adore the music and the decorations (and cookies!), but it's more about the feeling of it.  The giving.  The joy.  The smiles.  The love.  So when people attack or grumble about the artificial trappings of Christmas, I don't get too fussed about it.  Because I still get to listen to my tunes and eat my cookies.  It's when someone is frustrated by the deeper meaning of the season that I get worried.  Not necessarily the Christian significance of the holiday, more how this time of year should remind humanity of its better nature.  Remind humanity to care and to smile.  And this man was having none of it.

So I wept.

Today is Brought to You by the Letter "D"

I enjoy many things that begin with the letter "D".  Debbie Fritsch (that's my mom… hi, Mom!), Disney, dairy, Dchristmas… you get the idea.

But today is November 12th, which means I am going to talk about one "D" word in particular.  My dad.  Because November 12 is the birthday of James Patrick Fritsch!  Huzzah and glad tidings.

Now, my dad and I have a very special relationship.  And I mean special.  I'm pretty sure that if anyone monitored our Face Time conversations, they would be forced to institutionalize us.  At least we think we're funny.

Together, though, Dad and I are grand adventurers.  We have taken on London and Paris.  Our road trips across America are the things of legend.  Wanderlust is kind of what we do.  Looking back, though, there is probably one city where most of my fondest memories are set, especially those involving Dad.  And that city also begins with the letter "D".

And that's Duluth, Minnesota.

NO!  It's Detroit.  Duh.

Since moving away from Michigan, I have spent the last ten months telling people that I'm from Detroit and getting the response, "Well, that's a good place to move from."  And this statement would awake in me a truly unholy ball of rage and indignation that would convince most passersby that I am actually a redhead.  At first, my responses were a well-crafted succession of stuttering syllables, which sounded mostly like: N-no!  Detroit is.. well, yeah, we have some issues, b-but, you know it's actually really…  I mean… HOCKEY!!

Eloquent.  I know.

Since then, I have started to refine my tactics.  I now look the naysayer straight in the eye and ask them if they've ever BEEN to Detroit.  Most say no, and then I, with a stab at calmness and civility, explain to them the myriad museums, restaurants, clubs, venues, festivals, and markets that can be found in Detroit.  Some listen, and some are confused as to how it is legal to serve food in a burned out building.   Apparently some believe that there is NOTHING LEFT in Detroit.

After I started being articulate again, I began to wonder why I was so passionate about Detroit, and even it was legit for me to say I'm "from" Detroit.  I have never lived in Detroit, but I have definitely lived in Detroit.  There have been plenty of holidays, birthdays, and just because days spent in the Motor City.  I believe I have put in my time, and most of those hours were logged with Dad.

I think I get upset when people dump on Detroit because it feels like they are pissing all over some of my favorite memories and experiences.  Hey.  DON'T piss on my memories.  I like them.  It's as though they don't believe anything good can happen in Detroit, so it follows that most of my good times were not actually that great.  Skewed logic, you say?  Well, that's the way my mind works.  Wah wah.  And my memories are awesome.  Like me.  And my Dad.

So… do you know what it's like to wander around the Detroit Institute of Arts as a kid?  This was probably my Dad and my number one hang out.  The mummies, the suits of armor, the van Goghs, the Rivera murals, and rainbow hallway that lead to the food court.  There is this one spiral staircase that is still my favorite part of the entire museum, and Dad knew that no trip was ever complete until I went either up or down that staircase.  Well, he probably didn't know, but I reminded him.

Next up, Tiger Stadium.  Guys, I knew Tiger Stadium.  We were tight.  I had journeyed both into the men's bathroom (there was a trough) and onto the roof.  I had it perfectly timed out that I only had to pee when a major play was about to take place.  Dad loved it.  My talents are truly limitless.  To me, a trip to Tiger Stadium was all about trying to catch a fly ball, attempting to get a autograph from Cecil Fielder, and running up and down the GIANT ramp.  Not winning.  This was the 90's.  The Tigers were not winning.

When someone starts in with me about Detroit I wish I could open my skull and telepathically relay my experiences.  Like how I felt as an eight year old, when my dad took me to see my first professional show.  It was the first national tour of Beauty and the Beast, I wore a dress with roses all over it, and it played at the Masonic Temple.  It was beautiful.  Or know the excitement of watching your dad crossing the finish line at the end of the Detroit marathon.  Or spending your 16th birthday at a Red Wing's game.  Or getting dressed up to watch the Joffrey Ballet at the Opera House.  (Dad's response to ballet:  I like it.  Nobody talks.)

I could keep going.  I could talk about spending the day at work with Dad downtown.  I could talk about the Detroit Historical Museum, or the Verlander no-hitter at Comerica Park.  And I know Detroit is messed up.  And yes, I have stories of coming back to the car after a baseball game to find out the car has been broken into.  But honestly, the girl who does my hair just got her car stolen from outside her house.  She lives in a cute little suburb in Washington state.

So on this November 12th, I want everyone to know that I'm missing Dad and missing Detroit, and woe betide the next human who tries to tell me that Detroit is just not worth… well, anything.  Because I associate Detroit with Dad, and you don't want to get in that fight with me.