There Goes the Ruddy Two-shoes

Make Their Lives Beautiful, Too

Posted by ruddytwoshoes on April 25, 2008

I exited 6303 Owensmouth and was greeted by the loud, joyous chirping of birds that appeared as if they were celebrating my momentary release from the confines of the corporate world. The cool Southern California breeze playfully caressed my face and wrestled a small bundle of hair against my right nostril to give it a little itch. A flock of cars passing through the highway spawned a cacophony of rumbles, toots, and wails — laced with a hip-hop song blaring from someone’s bass-laden speakers — that is characteristic of urban Los Angeles. I gingerly walked to my car, which I park across the street everyday because of my indisposition to pay absurd parking fees, making sure I do not lose either of the slightly oversized pumps. As my vehicle came into view, I felt a strong sense of affirmation that the workday had ended, and I was going home.

The rush hour traffic lengthened what would otherwise be a three-minute drive and kept me in union with the ubiquitous madness of Los Angeles public roads for an extra ten minutes. My anticipation of being shielded in and stolen from all the hullabaloo by the white walls of my apartment grew so fierce, and I felt an incipient case of useless road rage inside me. I thought it best to preserve my energies and keep my lips zipped, so I did, and I then shifted my attention to The Doors, who did an excellent job of keeping me gracious.

A few moments later, I entered my scruffy apartment and found it to be the most amazing thing I have experienced in years. It so powerfully hints at the sloth of tenants who live here, but it is marked with those elements that make my life so damn beautiful. The good old sofa that cradles me as I submerge myself in some glorious piece of literature or audiovisual gratification streaming from the television screen . . . two towering shelves of books that annihilate all the dullness the strenuous nine-to-six injects into my brain cells . . . the tidy fridge devoid of murdered animals . . . the pleasant commode not necessitating a paper toilet seat cover . . . the only bathroom in this world where I can extremely brazenly walk in and out of unclothed . . . the bed that harbors my fatigued physique. . . and the most marvelous of all — the man currently scouring the kitchen sink who makes me the most fortunate woman in the world because I call him my husband.

Tonight, as any other night, I am able to rejoice in the presence of this beauty around me. Today, as any other day, despite the stresses that find a way to trickle in, home makes it such a beautiful day to live.

Every human being on this planet should have the privilege to this beauty I speak of every single day. Every human being should have the privilege to see the end — and a light at the end — of a tunnel of distresses propelled upon him by seemingly uncontrollable currents of life. Every human being should have the privilege to live like I do.

A budding awareness of the ills now beleaguering the globe has alerted me to the very unfortunate fact that there is a great inequality separating me from others who I rightly find to be my equals. I do not and do not have a desire to reside in an overly lavish Hollywood Hills mansion or drive a glistening Bentley or whatever else that makes one fall under the category of “wealthy” in California. I hold a position one is likely to undervalue in a Fortune 500 company that pays me a salary I deem meager, considering the elevated cost of living Los Angeles lays upon me. I cannot brag about assets or contribute to conversations relating to pecuniary investments others consider so important, but my living condition is one I will not complain about at this juncture because I have everything I need. I have more than what many of my equals will ever hope for.

Millions of Iraqis mourn the death of friends and family members haplessly victimized by a war begun by a vile superpower that has nonchalantly shoved their rights under the rug. They do not know where to find the end of the tunnel; they are not so certain there is going to be one. The carnage may end, but I question the possibility of their scathed hearts being able to recuperate enough for them to again live a life as beautiful as mine.

On the other side of the Arabian Peninsula, thousands of homeless Palestinians are trying to locate some hope that they will be recognized as human beings equal to those who forced them out of their land. There have been hopeless hundreds who blew themselves up, knowing no other way out apart from suicide bombing. How could they and those they left behind — like a Palestinian woman who was not allowed past an Israeli checkpoint despite an urgent need to be transported to a hospital because she was going to give birth and had to be acquainted with her newborn’s immediate death as a result — be so mercilessly violated as if they do not deserve to live? Why must they be denied their right to live a life as beautiful as mine?

And what about the 200,000 forgotten, destitute veterans in the United States who are not receiving adequate assistance from the government that forced them to stand up and bear arms for a country engaging in a war so foolish? And the indigenous peoples of Mexico who are dispossessed, disregarded, and disrespected by NAFTA and its profit-only-oriented proponents? What about the Haitians who are existing in tremendous poverty, whose only means of alleviating hunger is a mudpie I have never had to resort to? And the denizens of Darfur who are not allowed to live in peace? And the powerless sweatshop workers in third world countries so heavily battered by this atrocious globalization? And those members of the United States population, young and old, who may not see what tomorrow looks like because they are so sick and so poor they cannot afford to procure health insurance? And what about those whose love is not acknowledged because they are gay?

Are they not human beings, too, who deserve the quotidian privileges I savor in my existence?

I do not claim to have an enormous ability to understand how to cure these grave social ills that ought to be heeded by any person who has an eighth of a heart, but I would like to somehow light the candles of hope the groups I mentioned above — and all else who are at the negative poles of bitter realities who join them in their affliction — are not able to put a match to. I have found the best place to start, and that is the effort to have a growing consciousness of these maladies many people have preferred to ignore. I live a beautiful life, and I am not going through this life keeping it all for myself. I will do my part so that these disadvantaged human beings may soon see the beauty I am able to experience. I will attempt to speak of them, for them, and with them, and unite with the few others who have chosen to give them a voice and the kind of life they well deserve.

You should join me.

Believe me, you can.


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