I take a drawing class on Thursday nights with twelve strangers. Most are adults, some much older than I, a few barely old enough to vote. Our teacher, "Justin" starts class with a demonstration, during which we envy his swift, accurate strokes. Then, we students struggle for hours to draw something half as good as Justin's ten-minute masterpiece. Typically while we draw, dull chatter buzzes all night.
This week, the chatter wasn't dull.
A few desks away sits "Annie," her long gray hair gathered loosely into a large pewter barrette. Tall and statuesque, Annie wears her age like a trophy. When she peered over her tortoise shell glasses to say she was a programmer, I wasn't surprised. She looks like a woman who ignores glass ceilings. Married; long time, two kids.
She wore her first Christmas sweatshirt in early September, with its perfectly triangular trees quilted onto shocking red. Earrings to match. Tonight, Annie bragged proudly about her twin sixteen-year-old daughters. Such great kids, she reported, such "high standards" and "morality." You see, they don't swear. Ever.
"My girls, if somebody at their table swears, they'll say right to their faces 'to please not swear in front of them, and if they have to swear, then they can go sit somewhere else.' And you know what? They get up and move. Nobody doubts them for a second; no swearing! And their friends back them up. They have great friends."
I nodded; bored. Yawn. Kids not swearing. So?
Annie went on. "I don't swear, and neither do my girls. Kids learn it at home, and they know I'd never, ever swear."
It occurred to me her girls were kinda old to be so compliant to Mommy and/or prissy about swearing, but really, I could care less.
"Well, yes, kids learn at home. Or on TV." I nodded at her, thinking to myself how satisfying an occasional, well-deserved "eff you!" can be.
"I don't swear." She repeated staunchly, as if swearing was akin to water-boarding grandma. I shrugged. Nodded. Good for you, I thought, and made a point not to look up from my work.
Now, here's what made my eyes pop out like Wiley Coyote.
Justin plugs in his old boom box and notices he's forgotten CDs. A few people offer their iPods, but it only plays CDs. A guy mentions he only has "audio books" on CD, and he recalls I once mentioned I listen to audio books in my car, too.
"Ah, well, yes, but right now the only thing I have in my car is "The Audacity of Hope" and I really don't think that's appropriate for class." I say.
"What's that?" Justin asks.
"Barack Obama's second book, it's really great, but..."
"Don't you mean Barack OSAMA?!" Annie squawks loudly.
I'm aghast. I'm incensed. I'm in a classroom....but I rip into her anyway.
I start with "equating the President of the United States with Osama bin Laden is extremely offensive -- no, equating any elected official with a terrorist is offensive!" After repeating that about six different ways with analogies and the fact that even Bush never endured such vicious slander...I tell her that if she "needs to speak that way" that she can get up and do it somewhere else. Like Canada. Or Antarctica.
She doesn't apologize, but I'm pretty sure it's because she's afraid to talk. Occasionally, when I have just the right balance of caffeine and chocolate coursing through my veins, I channel Julia Sugarbaker and annihilate somebody with a breathless rant. Often I regret it; this time, I don't.
I notice Justin is bobbing his head, subtly, and smirking as Annie melts into her chair, and when I'm done, he simply announces it's 7:00 and time for a break.
Class drudges on, as does my landscape in charcoal, and eventually Justin asks if anyone has any music CDs to play while we're drawing. I suspect he's trying to stifle the inane chatter about American Idol, and I'm grateful. Nobody pipes in immediately, even though some came back from break with CD cases from their cars.
"I have Dave Matthews?" somebody finally offers.
"Are they still around? They've been around as long as I can remember," says Annie.
"Counting Crows? Steve Miller?"
"He's even older!" Annie comments.
"I'm shocked Mick Jagger is still kicking." an old guy chuckles.
"Paul McCartney was on Letterman last night!" I remark.
"Just one more bullet..." Annie says.
One more bullet? One more bullet? For McCartney? Did I hear that right? I snapped my mouth shut and turned to her.
"What? Did you just say one more bullet? Meaning, what?"
"I'm not a fan. I was around in the sixties and you wouldn't believe all the crap they pulled. It only took one bullet for John, sooo.."
It now occurs to me; she's told me her age - she was born in 1960. I highly doubt she was "offended" by 60s peace activism while under the age of ten ... without some brainwashing. I'm no fan of McCartney, but that's beside the point. Cracks about murdering people whose politics differ from your own really tick me off. Really.
Mommy says it's OK to talk about murdering liberals and OK to call the President a terrorist; just so long as you do it without swearing.
What the hell is wrong with people that they think it's OK to say such violent things so casually? I don't know the answer, but I suspect it's connected to the brainwashing she experienced; the same brainwashing she seems intent on inflicting on her own kids. It makes me ashamed of humanity.
I can't get past the fact that she seemed to have no qualms about saying this bile in a room full of strangers. You never know who you're dealing with - like me, aka the artist that created this last year:
Silence dominated the rest of the evening, and as we packed up our supplies, polite and cautious chatter resumed. I held the door for Annie as we navigated our huge portfolios through heavy doors and into the cool night air. I smirked to myself as we turned to find our vehicles; I walked to the left, and she; sharply to the right.
"See you next week," Annie called back at me.
I couldn't resist.
"Have a fucking great weekend, Annie!"
(Does that make me evil?)