Bruce Jenner and Ryland Whittington: To Laugh Or To Cry

Today, as I knelt in the humid Wisconsin air, scratching away at scrubby plants with a worn, yellow-handled weeder, my head was filled, somewhat unwillingly, with thoughts of the recent Bruce Jenner incident.

 In a way, I am awed at how quickly this story became a national topic. A man who held somewhat of a celebrity status decided that after decades of being a man, it was time to become his "true self." By now you will have seen the Vanity Fair cover plastered on every social media site, and the shelves of most grocery stores; the slender legs, white corset, and  the coy, albeit slightly stretched smile of the man who would now like to be addressed as "Caitlyn". The physical evidence of his being a man, removed and other clearly feminine attributes added, Bruce has achieved what he believes is his "true self."

And the crowd goes wild.

"A hero!" They shout. "An example to us all!" "We accept you for who you truly are!" The nearly unanimous response is one of warm welcome to the "new" Bruce.

And to those who dare not to accept this altered Bruce, the masses snarl,  "Bullies!" "Prejudiced!" "Unkind!" "Ridiculous!" and "Disrespectful!" I've witnessed this in my own newsfeed, and as the debate explodes, I have to wonder if I should laugh or cry. Honestly, this incident is not all that surprising; it appears to be the next logical step in our society's rapid journey down a road that leads to an all-encompassing "inclusiveness," regardless of any moral compass, or merely a good dose of common sense.

For a different example, a few months ago, you might recall that People magazine ran a story about a California couple insisting that others address their six year old daughter, Ryland, as "he," because Ryland told them she was a boy and "began to show aversion to anything feminine." So, the six year old was allowed to don boy clothing, and be addressed as "he." And again, the praise from our nation overflowed.

Ryland Whittington

 I remember my best friend growing up had insisted on being called "Henry" for quite some time, and her parents had merely chuckled and complied, but they didn't rush to the mall to buy her a tuxedo and boxers. Why? Because she was a child, still incapable of deciding what color of toothbrush to get from the dentist, let alone whether she was ready to spend the rest of her life as a boy. Today, she is a beautiful young woman and a happy one at that.

Ryland and Bruce are both products of a world that has turned on its head. Our society has rejected the idea of the woman being the nurturer in the family, the childbearer and a gentle feminine presence, who is the strongest supporter of her husband, the one whose talent holds the family together and of the man being the provider, the rock of the family, and its head.The contemporary woman does not fulfill her crucial role any longer and our nation's birthrate is rapidly declining. The year 2013 saw the lowest birthrate in our nation's history. Larger families (by this I mean more than two children) have become so rare that they are typically regarded as an oddity. Our country's general consensus: women need not retain that old-fashioned stereotype of the mother and wife. It is too restricting and of course, children are such a burden. As I heard just last week at work, "God bless anyone who has more than two!"

So, who will fill the void? Who will take the place of those women, who, whether consciously or not, have rejected the role of nurturer and mother? Bruce will. Bruce and the rest of the men in our world who have embraced their effeminate side. It seems only logical that now that most women reject their femininity, men will follow their lead by abandoning their masculinity, much to the approval of those around them.

So, what are we to do? Grow angry? Get into a huge debate on Facebook with our co-worker?
Nope.
Weed the broccoli, listen to the Weepies, and don't lose any sleep over it.
But do not accept. Do not comply with the spoon-fed ideas that the media and our society will try to shove into your mouth. I do not accept. And you who scream, "Accept!" will ironically enough, be the last to tolerate a dissenting view on the subject.

My friends, the world spins madly on, but there is still sangria and sunshine, a garden to be weeded and fish to be caught. Last but not least, please pray for Bruce Jenner, Ryland Whittington and for our nation. These are confusing and difficult times indeed and nothing can be solved, no one, whether it be me, you, or Bruce Jenner, can be healed without the graces that come from our Divine Physician.  

Blog Name and URL Change

Hi to anyone who might be reading this! I just wanted to say, I made a slight change to the blog's title and URL. It's now The Clock Maker's Daughter, as my father informed me that this is what his technical profession is called and it's what I originally wanted to name the blog. So it's been changed! The URL is also changed in accordance with the new title. Keep reading. And let me know what you think! Your comments encourage me to keep writing!
-The Clock Maker's Daughter

"Dear Virginia": A Soldier's Love Letters

A couple of weeks ago, I spent some time in Brimfield, Massachusetts with my mom, sister, and aunt at the Brimfield Antique Fair. My terrific aunt is a wheeling and dealing vendor at Brimfield and this was my second time joining her under a giant yellow and white striped canvas tent, amidst a wild array of vintage clothing and the most interesting assortment of people you could bring together in one place at one time.

After helping set up my aunt's boutique in the Mahogany Ridge Fashion Tent, I headed out to wander around the endless acres of antique-filled tents. If you haven't been to Brimfield, then it's hard to imagine because words can't really describe just how random, hilarious, and wonderful it is! It's essentially a jungle of everything from collectibles to items you could swear came straight from your Grandma's attic. The neat thing is there's something for everyone there, whether young or old and you just never can predict what treasures you'll find.Such as this Aussie looking vintage hat, which came home with me.

I scoped out various tents, and after purchasing a Victorian looking wristwatch, stumbled across a boutique with an assortment of old letters, tied with dark ribbon. I immediately snatched up the packet with the most letters and excitedly asked the vendor if the real letters were still intact. Clutching them to me when her answer came back affirmative, I paid the six dollars and headed back to my aunt's tent to read them.

To my excitement, I found that I had picked a stack of letters from the 1940's. They were written by a young soldier, Theodore Mayville, to his sweetheart, a girl named Virginia Watson, who was living in Grand Isle, Vermont. His letters were the only ones in the pile, but my romantic mind enjoyed imagining her replies.

For me, this somewhat deteriorated pile of papers was like a miniature time capsule and as I poured over each letter, it made me realize just how much has been lost in modern communication, whether it be through social media, texting, or other forms of dialogue. Once easily obtained, a message seems to be that much less precious and though convenient, the occasional text only conveys the bare minimum, making one's thoughts and emotions much less intimate. I pull out some stationary and write letters every month or so, but my absentminded scribblings can't compare to these letters, which conveyed every emotion this young man was feeling: sadness, longing, bitterness, joy, all conveyed in a few hundred words.

   Theodore was clearly stricken and wrote some overwhelmingly affectionate lines to "Ginny." But other moments have a grave tone to them, as Theodore must have been experiencing the suffering that only a soldier could understand, he tells her to keep her fingers crossed and pray that he might return to her side when the War is over.

After tearing through these letters, I wanted so badly to know what had happened to these two young people. He had begun writing to her from a training ground somewhere in the South Pacific, but in the last several letters, he'd been in Germany. I had to know. Did Theodore return to the states? Did he survive the war? What happened to Ginny?

A picture that fell out of one of the envelopes. I'd imagine one of these young women is "Ginny."

So I began to research, and sure enough, I found an obituary from just last year of one Theodore Mayville. As I scanned the obit, I became increasingly disappointed. It looked like Theodore's wife was not called Virginia. With a sinking heart, I realized they must have fallen apart. However, in the finishing paragraphs I saw that "Teddy," as he'd dubbed himself, had been preceded in death by his first wife and the mother of his children, Virginia. There it was! I triumphantly shouted, "THEY DID GET MARRIED!" And then realized, that I was slightly emotionally invested at this point. Virginia and Teddy married and had several children together. After her death, Teddy remarried.

My question now, is why would someone throw out these beautiful notes; this written testimony of a father's, or perhaps a grandfather's love?  Maybe I'm just more sentimental than most. In any case, I loved reading them and they gave much joy to a stranger decades after they were written. After all, who doesn't love a happy ending?