In his book, The Alchemist, Paulo Coelho says, "It's the possibility of having a dream come true that makes life interesting." The tide and flow of every breath is a step in the process of human change. Like many things, change is to be expected and embraced. For many of us though, we resist it for the sheer fact that familiarity makes us feel safe. Bathed in the embrace of its sameness, we shy from the signs that flash out new directions.
This comfort zone, this place of refuge, is the very thing that blocks the blessing for many of us to move into new possibilities. We stand in the quagmire of familiar circumstances, suspicious of unclear possibilities. What is missing in our lives is an acknowledgment of the stages of change to which we are inexplicably tied.
Embracing these changes, these constant shifts, is what develops a defined life. Following a strand of change from one end to the other; creates the intoxication of a sustained generational history. Every change is a loop in the tapestry. It becomes the defining fiber for each line of DNA; an entry in the annals of humanity.
So, as I sit atop this mountain overlooking my land, I see the shifts in the scape of life. The peaks and the valleys, the eroded cliffs and the dense forests. I recognize the hill paths well worn from the soles of constant use; the deadly ledges from whence I almost fell. I acknowledge the lakes that have pooled together with tears of my loved ones. I see the barren fields and the burgeoning gardens.
The paths we must all take are not encumbered by human order. It is the conspiring in the heavens that creates streets and intersections. The GPS of life becomes moot for lack of destination and yet for every man, the destination is a lock - death. Therefore, the shifts and tides we find ourselves in, move us closer to this pressing inevitability.
If you were to be thrown into the current of a strong flowing river, controlling your path or destination would be futile. You would have to submit to the demands of its flow. Life is a river current of certain stages. Somewhere in the middle of the rapids, we need to let go and just keep our heads above water. For in this resignation, we find the peace that carries us firmly to our destination.
That's God for you; bringing you to your dreams through a raging torrent, asking you to just "Let go and let God". So, I rewrite Paulo Coehlo's statement with this conviction, "It's the possibility of having a dream come true that makes God inevitable."
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
The Age of Innocence
I watch as a little boy places his action figure on the table in front of me. His eyes are fixed on the action hero. I can't quite hear what he is saying but I can tell that he is in deep dialogue. He stretches the plastic man's arms out and from one of them extends a sword. I hear a slicing "whoosh" escape his lips.
I am seated on a black leather couch a few feet from his father who pays him no mind and continues to manipulate his Blackberry. I make a reference to how we are all addicted to our Crackberries and the father nods and chuckles. The little boy acknowledges my interruption with a slight gaze but then gets back to his play. He lifts the figure and begins to trot around the waiting area. I can see that he intends for his hero to fly. The whooshing sounds give it away.
His action man flies not too far off the ground in swooping movements. Occasionally his head comes dangerously close to a table but never quite hits it. There is some invisible battle being fought here. The frequent manipulations of the arms and sword indicate a furious engagement that only he can see. He is intense about his endeavor and oblivious to my scrutiny. As I watch he comes back to his father and indicates that his sword is dislodged. His father breaks from his Blackberry task and offers his assistance in reestablishing the hero's weaponry.
Content with his renewed armament, the boy places his figure on the table in front of me and begins an epic battle. As the battle rages on in his mind, I begin to marvel at his freedom. He is totally disconnected from the activity around him. Here we are in a gymnasium lobby, he waiting on a sibling, me waiting on my daughter who is in her Tae Kwan Do class. Unlike the little boy, my mind is racing with the responsibilities of adulthood; work, mortgage, car notes and all the other things that make being a grown up cumbersome.
I keep my gaze on this little boy and feel the envy creep slowly through me. A life without the burden of tomorrow, the freedom of a spirit that enjoys only the moment. I try to reconnect with my childhood memories. Of playtime with Alexander Smith as we loaded sand into the backs of toy dump trucks. I recall building roads in the dirt and padding down the loose dirt with water; my times with Kitu Singh and his sister Emma, whose teeth are credited with the scar over my left eye.
The little boy in this waiting room represents more to me than nostalgic memories. He is the epitome of freedom and covering. His father sits protectively, engaged in his own activity, his occasional look keeps watch over his offspring's ministrations. The son, surrounded by the comfort of this protection, continues his play unconcerned. I envy this, never having had the comfort of a father of my own. Never having known that protective feeling of a man's influence over my youth.
This relationship between this boy and his father is about as close a human feeling one can get to understanding our relationship with God. One can truly only be as nonchalant as this child when one lives in the knowledge of the covering and protection provided by someone willing to face death and danger on your behalf. I never had a father that felt me important enough to press through his challenges to embrace me. The feeling of abandonment that I claimed I never felt, has manifested itself in my adulthood like a carved Greek pillar in a museum.
So as I sit here watching this boy, I am taken back to my own fears, hurts and hang-ups. My nothingness in the expanse of a life built on the insecurities of no God-figure. My disconnection from an integral shape-defining relationship that could have charted me on a different course. His "whoosh" brings me back into the moment and I smile at him. He looks up at me with his brown eyes and asks, "What is your name?" I hesitate and respond, "Soneka Kamuhuza," and as the words leave my lips, immediately realize the fallacy. Unlike this boy, whose father sits guard, I have never taken on my fathers identity, nor felt his comfort in my life. He has left no memories of innocent playing on my pages, nor created a shield around my life.
Yet oddly I am drawn to this moment, this innocence, this freedom. In this boy we all live vicariously, playing free, in our own little world, believing without looking, knowing deep inside our hearts, that we are protected.
I am seated on a black leather couch a few feet from his father who pays him no mind and continues to manipulate his Blackberry. I make a reference to how we are all addicted to our Crackberries and the father nods and chuckles. The little boy acknowledges my interruption with a slight gaze but then gets back to his play. He lifts the figure and begins to trot around the waiting area. I can see that he intends for his hero to fly. The whooshing sounds give it away.
His action man flies not too far off the ground in swooping movements. Occasionally his head comes dangerously close to a table but never quite hits it. There is some invisible battle being fought here. The frequent manipulations of the arms and sword indicate a furious engagement that only he can see. He is intense about his endeavor and oblivious to my scrutiny. As I watch he comes back to his father and indicates that his sword is dislodged. His father breaks from his Blackberry task and offers his assistance in reestablishing the hero's weaponry.
Content with his renewed armament, the boy places his figure on the table in front of me and begins an epic battle. As the battle rages on in his mind, I begin to marvel at his freedom. He is totally disconnected from the activity around him. Here we are in a gymnasium lobby, he waiting on a sibling, me waiting on my daughter who is in her Tae Kwan Do class. Unlike the little boy, my mind is racing with the responsibilities of adulthood; work, mortgage, car notes and all the other things that make being a grown up cumbersome.
I keep my gaze on this little boy and feel the envy creep slowly through me. A life without the burden of tomorrow, the freedom of a spirit that enjoys only the moment. I try to reconnect with my childhood memories. Of playtime with Alexander Smith as we loaded sand into the backs of toy dump trucks. I recall building roads in the dirt and padding down the loose dirt with water; my times with Kitu Singh and his sister Emma, whose teeth are credited with the scar over my left eye.
The little boy in this waiting room represents more to me than nostalgic memories. He is the epitome of freedom and covering. His father sits protectively, engaged in his own activity, his occasional look keeps watch over his offspring's ministrations. The son, surrounded by the comfort of this protection, continues his play unconcerned. I envy this, never having had the comfort of a father of my own. Never having known that protective feeling of a man's influence over my youth.
This relationship between this boy and his father is about as close a human feeling one can get to understanding our relationship with God. One can truly only be as nonchalant as this child when one lives in the knowledge of the covering and protection provided by someone willing to face death and danger on your behalf. I never had a father that felt me important enough to press through his challenges to embrace me. The feeling of abandonment that I claimed I never felt, has manifested itself in my adulthood like a carved Greek pillar in a museum.
So as I sit here watching this boy, I am taken back to my own fears, hurts and hang-ups. My nothingness in the expanse of a life built on the insecurities of no God-figure. My disconnection from an integral shape-defining relationship that could have charted me on a different course. His "whoosh" brings me back into the moment and I smile at him. He looks up at me with his brown eyes and asks, "What is your name?" I hesitate and respond, "Soneka Kamuhuza," and as the words leave my lips, immediately realize the fallacy. Unlike this boy, whose father sits guard, I have never taken on my fathers identity, nor felt his comfort in my life. He has left no memories of innocent playing on my pages, nor created a shield around my life.
Yet oddly I am drawn to this moment, this innocence, this freedom. In this boy we all live vicariously, playing free, in our own little world, believing without looking, knowing deep inside our hearts, that we are protected.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Mother of Mine!
It's for the forty four hours and forty six minutes
of labor you persevered
For the pain and anguish I saw you endure
Shouting out in anguish, as we waited for her
The sheer magnitude of your patience
as I watched your tears
Knowing that even as you pushed through
these were moments of your deepest fear
It's for staring down death without a blink
Taking needles in places I would never think
It's for never calling me names
even when I wasn't sincere
For taking my male frailty and inadequacies
and holding them secure
For giving a sense of purpose when my path was unclear
Calling me a champion when the loss was near
For that last push that brought her some air
Letting her little voice recoil in a hushed room
As if screaming, "I am here!"
My very life blood, joined with you in cell
I honor you now, I sing your song
I stand at your parade, saluting your part
For giving her life, and both of us a new start
My name, your name, my life, your life
Through the annals of time
For standing stoic in your morals
and unbending in faith
Your voice and manner unwavering winds
Never changing unlike seasonal friends
Pray tell my love what more to come
A puzzling story, I'm sure to some
I honor you now, Mother of Mine
Soneka K. Kamuhuza Copyright 2009
of labor you persevered
For the pain and anguish I saw you endure
Shouting out in anguish, as we waited for her
The sheer magnitude of your patience
as I watched your tears
Knowing that even as you pushed through
these were moments of your deepest fear
It's for staring down death without a blink
Taking needles in places I would never think
It's for never calling me names
even when I wasn't sincere
For taking my male frailty and inadequacies
and holding them secure
For giving a sense of purpose when my path was unclear
Calling me a champion when the loss was near
For that last push that brought her some air
Letting her little voice recoil in a hushed room
As if screaming, "I am here!"
My very life blood, joined with you in cell
I honor you now, I sing your song
I stand at your parade, saluting your part
For giving her life, and both of us a new start
My name, your name, my life, your life
Through the annals of time
For standing stoic in your morals
and unbending in faith
Your voice and manner unwavering winds
Never changing unlike seasonal friends
Pray tell my love what more to come
A puzzling story, I'm sure to some
I honor you now, Mother of Mine
Soneka K. Kamuhuza Copyright 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
What's in a name? (Africa)
A friend of mine has been hounding me for about a year and a half to watch a movie called Sankofa. She insisted that I needed to watch it. She believed that my sensibilities would grasp the depth of the message meant by the film-maker. She stated that there were several people she had shown it to who didn't get it - much to her frustration.
So, after finally acquiring a copy, she handed it to me last week, just in time for the weekend. Actually, she handed it to someone else - her boss - who felt it necessary to try to hijack this shipment that was meant for me. After a few threatening phone calls, the Sankofa DVD was delivered to my office.
Not intending to have anything too heavy, we sat down to watch the Sankofa DVD Saturday night. We usually pick a light hearted movie for Saturday nights, well, as we learned, Sankofa is far from that. It is the journey of a modern day woman who returns to the past to experience slavery on a plantation. The cinematography leaves much to be desired, however, the critical components of this movie build like the crescendo of an engrossing symphony. Once started, you will be forced to chase it to its end.
The rape, abuse, physical and emotional assault that follows is reminiscent of slave movies already seen. However, Sankofa carries through it an underlying message of identity and heritage that is subtle yet loud in its depiction. It is a story told from the perspective of Africans having never lost their identity in the midst of slavery. Those who sought to carry their traditions and heritage through generations. Their strength, found in communal traditions, acts of initiation and refusal to assimilate, empowered them. What culminates, I will not reveal, as I encourage everyone to watch it for themselves.
Sankofa's underlying tone shows the calculated method with which generations of Africans systematically lost their identity and took on slave names. Sankofa displays an intimacy with Africa to which the movie Roots, alludes. It careens full speed to a cataclysmic end that can be the only conclusion to a life of sadism, death, lies, abandonment, cruelty, hatred, terrorism and despair. In the midst of this, remains this component of a name. What is in a name?
Mine is Soneka Kamuhuza. A very distinct name. Well it's unique for this hemisphere, a dime-a-dozen in Zambezi, Zambia. I once rode a bus in Zambia, somebody called out to a Soneka, and half the bus answered. That burst my bubble. See, among the Lunda, Soneka is about as common as John is to the English. In America, I'm about as unique as Barack Obama. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. In Sankofa, I realized that the allegory was in the identifiable characteristics of strong African connections being countered by a terroristic effort to break that very bond.
To be named Toby, Henry, Mark as opposed to Kwame, Tesu, Ade was the beginning of the slavery brainwashing process. In essence the most critical part of the integration process was to lose your name. The slave would be beaten until he accepted his slave name. It would be his disconnection from who he was, his acceptance into who he was to become. So for over four hundred years the perpetuation of dissolution and separation has been perfected to what is now seen in African-American culture; Jones, Yokum, Sisko, Todd, to name a few.
A generation of people exist as if adrift at sea, with no port in sight. The slave masters game plan has come to pass. The very connection that Sankofa bridles with in its energetic scenes; the volcanic aspiration of self that Sankofa pulsates, is now lost. The silent fart of a distressed identity emits slowly from the bowels of a festering cultural myopia, all held together by a society with the runs. These frequent bathroom trips only help to highlight the stench that now emits from what is left of our hard earned freedom.
Somewhere, in the midst of all this cultural atrophy, I believe Sankofa rises as if to remind the many African-Americans who remain adrift. "Look East. Look to where the sun rises each morning. Remember a land where the sun is seen first each day by your people. A land that your ancestors called home. A land where they were free. Africa, mother Africa."
So, after finally acquiring a copy, she handed it to me last week, just in time for the weekend. Actually, she handed it to someone else - her boss - who felt it necessary to try to hijack this shipment that was meant for me. After a few threatening phone calls, the Sankofa DVD was delivered to my office.
Not intending to have anything too heavy, we sat down to watch the Sankofa DVD Saturday night. We usually pick a light hearted movie for Saturday nights, well, as we learned, Sankofa is far from that. It is the journey of a modern day woman who returns to the past to experience slavery on a plantation. The cinematography leaves much to be desired, however, the critical components of this movie build like the crescendo of an engrossing symphony. Once started, you will be forced to chase it to its end.
The rape, abuse, physical and emotional assault that follows is reminiscent of slave movies already seen. However, Sankofa carries through it an underlying message of identity and heritage that is subtle yet loud in its depiction. It is a story told from the perspective of Africans having never lost their identity in the midst of slavery. Those who sought to carry their traditions and heritage through generations. Their strength, found in communal traditions, acts of initiation and refusal to assimilate, empowered them. What culminates, I will not reveal, as I encourage everyone to watch it for themselves.
Sankofa's underlying tone shows the calculated method with which generations of Africans systematically lost their identity and took on slave names. Sankofa displays an intimacy with Africa to which the movie Roots, alludes. It careens full speed to a cataclysmic end that can be the only conclusion to a life of sadism, death, lies, abandonment, cruelty, hatred, terrorism and despair. In the midst of this, remains this component of a name. What is in a name?
Mine is Soneka Kamuhuza. A very distinct name. Well it's unique for this hemisphere, a dime-a-dozen in Zambezi, Zambia. I once rode a bus in Zambia, somebody called out to a Soneka, and half the bus answered. That burst my bubble. See, among the Lunda, Soneka is about as common as John is to the English. In America, I'm about as unique as Barack Obama. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. In Sankofa, I realized that the allegory was in the identifiable characteristics of strong African connections being countered by a terroristic effort to break that very bond.
To be named Toby, Henry, Mark as opposed to Kwame, Tesu, Ade was the beginning of the slavery brainwashing process. In essence the most critical part of the integration process was to lose your name. The slave would be beaten until he accepted his slave name. It would be his disconnection from who he was, his acceptance into who he was to become. So for over four hundred years the perpetuation of dissolution and separation has been perfected to what is now seen in African-American culture; Jones, Yokum, Sisko, Todd, to name a few.
A generation of people exist as if adrift at sea, with no port in sight. The slave masters game plan has come to pass. The very connection that Sankofa bridles with in its energetic scenes; the volcanic aspiration of self that Sankofa pulsates, is now lost. The silent fart of a distressed identity emits slowly from the bowels of a festering cultural myopia, all held together by a society with the runs. These frequent bathroom trips only help to highlight the stench that now emits from what is left of our hard earned freedom.
Somewhere, in the midst of all this cultural atrophy, I believe Sankofa rises as if to remind the many African-Americans who remain adrift. "Look East. Look to where the sun rises each morning. Remember a land where the sun is seen first each day by your people. A land that your ancestors called home. A land where they were free. Africa, mother Africa."
Saturday, April 11, 2009
It's just Salmon!
It was my wife's birthday this past Saturday and so as is tradition in our house, we celebrated the whole weekend. My daughter had a grand plan for her mother's breakfast in bed Saturday morning. So as she and I drove back from our first day of celebration Friday night, she announced that we did not have all the ingredients for the gourmet breakfast. Ever the dutiful father, I redirected and headed to the local supermarket for the much needed ingredients.
As my daughter navigated us through the store, she would occasionally grab a recognizable item and either toss it into the cart or shake her head as if disappointed. We finally found ourselves at the fish counter and she pointed triumphantly at Salmon. This was her grand ingredient, smoked Salmon. Not any type of Salmon, but the Alaskan kind. The Discovery channel, swimming upstream, being caught by bears kind, yes, that kind.
Never having been keen on Salmon as a food source, I have not purchased it. My girls on the other hand, enjoy Salmon burgers on occasion. So as we selected the Salmon, I noticed a pattern, the price. The price to weight ratio for the Salmon was extremely intriguing. It felt like I was holding a piece of paper napkin and yet the price said $8.99. Azheni's insistence on Salmon as a key ingredient swayed me to invest in this daylight robbery. In this case SuperFresh Supermarket was robbing me at night, so it was nightlight robbery.
The next morning as I helped prepare the breakfast, I discovered that I had invested in four slivers of smoked Salmon, for the grand price of $8.99. That's almost two bottles of cheap wine, a case of beer, two chickens (not Purdue), or four loaves of bread. Now for $8.99 for parts of a fish, I reckon the particular fish should have swam from Norway to Alaska, navigated its way up an electrical dam, given some fishermen directions, stopped in Canada to give a concert and then committed Harakiri in a gesture of honorable death.
As my daughter navigated us through the store, she would occasionally grab a recognizable item and either toss it into the cart or shake her head as if disappointed. We finally found ourselves at the fish counter and she pointed triumphantly at Salmon. This was her grand ingredient, smoked Salmon. Not any type of Salmon, but the Alaskan kind. The Discovery channel, swimming upstream, being caught by bears kind, yes, that kind.
Never having been keen on Salmon as a food source, I have not purchased it. My girls on the other hand, enjoy Salmon burgers on occasion. So as we selected the Salmon, I noticed a pattern, the price. The price to weight ratio for the Salmon was extremely intriguing. It felt like I was holding a piece of paper napkin and yet the price said $8.99. Azheni's insistence on Salmon as a key ingredient swayed me to invest in this daylight robbery. In this case SuperFresh Supermarket was robbing me at night, so it was nightlight robbery.
The next morning as I helped prepare the breakfast, I discovered that I had invested in four slivers of smoked Salmon, for the grand price of $8.99. That's almost two bottles of cheap wine, a case of beer, two chickens (not Purdue), or four loaves of bread. Now for $8.99 for parts of a fish, I reckon the particular fish should have swam from Norway to Alaska, navigated its way up an electrical dam, given some fishermen directions, stopped in Canada to give a concert and then committed Harakiri in a gesture of honorable death.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
I Wanna Be A Man
I wanna be a man
Not just any man
But one who can walk in the halls of my ancestors
head held high, shoulders straight, proud face,
with an enduring smile
A man whose legacy permeates the ages
whose name brings joy and respect
remembrance in stories
I wanna be a man
Not just any man
But one who breaks the cycle of abuse,
neglect, pain and suffering that has become
the imprint of my yesterday
The defined steps that I once embraced
inevitable and claimed as necessary
with ugly rights of passage that have
indelibly become my swan song
I wanna be a man
Not just any man
But a man that exemplifies good values, stoic morals,
emulates humility and speaks truth
A man that reviles deceit and lies, stealing and cheating,
anger and pain
One that can stand on a hill, survey his land
A man in whose legacy lives the inheritance
of a generation
I wanna be a man
Not just any man
But a man with wind in his back
and pep in his step
A man whose words resonate with the delivery of saints
The verses of servants and the countenance of God
One that can hear the murmurs of Isaiah's prophecy
The lamentations of David's lyrics
A man that delivers his sermons on a podium of grace
I wanna be a man
Not just any man
But a man of value, teaming with purpose
A man whose life shouts "Glory!'
Resounding echos of success on the pages of life
One whose chapters are filled with substance
A page turner in the library of family history
I wanna be that man
Lord, make me a man
Not just any man
But one who can walk in the halls of my ancestors
head held high, shoulders straight, proud face,
with an enduring smile
A man whose legacy permeates the ages
whose name brings joy and respect
remembrance in stories
I wanna be a man
Not just any man
But one who breaks the cycle of abuse,
neglect, pain and suffering that has become
the imprint of my yesterday
The defined steps that I once embraced
inevitable and claimed as necessary
with ugly rights of passage that have
indelibly become my swan song
I wanna be a man
Not just any man
But a man that exemplifies good values, stoic morals,
emulates humility and speaks truth
A man that reviles deceit and lies, stealing and cheating,
anger and pain
One that can stand on a hill, survey his land
A man in whose legacy lives the inheritance
of a generation
I wanna be a man
Not just any man
But a man with wind in his back
and pep in his step
A man whose words resonate with the delivery of saints
The verses of servants and the countenance of God
One that can hear the murmurs of Isaiah's prophecy
The lamentations of David's lyrics
A man that delivers his sermons on a podium of grace
I wanna be a man
Not just any man
But a man of value, teaming with purpose
A man whose life shouts "Glory!'
Resounding echos of success on the pages of life
One whose chapters are filled with substance
A page turner in the library of family history
I wanna be that man
Lord, make me a man
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Lingerie in Saudi Arabia
I just read that women in Saudi Arabia have decided to boycott lingerie shops. One would immediately think that this was related to some religious issue. I must warn my usual readers, that we are going where no man has gone before, into the ladies department. One small step for me, a giant step for you. I must also warn you that some of you will be moving to Saudi Arabia.
Here is the declaration; "Only men can work as lingerie salesmen in Saudi Arabia." There it is, out in the open. Let's get out of the way of the mass migration. Men everywhere are packing their bags or getting ready to line up at the Saudi Arabian embassy. Stop, before you reach for your phone,or line up for a work visa; there's a catch. There is currently a huge uproar in Saudi Arabia, women are flabbergasted and embarrassed at being forced to endure this shameful experience. On my behalf I wonder how long this has been going on, and why I didn't know about it sooner.
Okay men; ever wanted to get a job at Victoria's Secret? No? Ever thought about it? All the married guys are backing away slowly. Okay if you were single and had the resolve, would you apply? I don't think there's a man's man alive who is completely comfortable in this environment, no matter how much you like lingerie (I need to be careful here). So how does this happen in a country that has not given women equal rights? Furthermore, barely allows them to show any skin in public. Lingerie being sold by men?
I know that in America there would be no discriminating against any male who applied for a job at an intimate apparel store. Yeah, right! I can imagine telling all my boys at the pool hall about how I made my quota in brassiere sales over the weekend. "Hey Bernard, have you seen the latest design in thongs? The D-cup straps are made quite hardy!" No, I don't see it. How these men have survived in a macho driven culture like Saudi Arabia is beyond me. This in a country that won't allow women to drive in public? Someone buy me a drink.
I am trying hard not to make this a religious discourse. However, I am quite confused and unable to understand the hypocrisy. So the next time you're in Victoria's Secret, feeling awkward about escorting the wife, get really involved in the process, it might come in handy in the future.
Here is the declaration; "Only men can work as lingerie salesmen in Saudi Arabia." There it is, out in the open. Let's get out of the way of the mass migration. Men everywhere are packing their bags or getting ready to line up at the Saudi Arabian embassy. Stop, before you reach for your phone,or line up for a work visa; there's a catch. There is currently a huge uproar in Saudi Arabia, women are flabbergasted and embarrassed at being forced to endure this shameful experience. On my behalf I wonder how long this has been going on, and why I didn't know about it sooner.
Okay men; ever wanted to get a job at Victoria's Secret? No? Ever thought about it? All the married guys are backing away slowly. Okay if you were single and had the resolve, would you apply? I don't think there's a man's man alive who is completely comfortable in this environment, no matter how much you like lingerie (I need to be careful here). So how does this happen in a country that has not given women equal rights? Furthermore, barely allows them to show any skin in public. Lingerie being sold by men?
I know that in America there would be no discriminating against any male who applied for a job at an intimate apparel store. Yeah, right! I can imagine telling all my boys at the pool hall about how I made my quota in brassiere sales over the weekend. "Hey Bernard, have you seen the latest design in thongs? The D-cup straps are made quite hardy!" No, I don't see it. How these men have survived in a macho driven culture like Saudi Arabia is beyond me. This in a country that won't allow women to drive in public? Someone buy me a drink.
I am trying hard not to make this a religious discourse. However, I am quite confused and unable to understand the hypocrisy. So the next time you're in Victoria's Secret, feeling awkward about escorting the wife, get really involved in the process, it might come in handy in the future.
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