About a year ago, I met this manic-looking reject-woman through a friend. She was one of those people that you just look at and immediatly hate. She wasn't attractive in any way, though not homely. She dressed exceptionally poorly though it wasn't like she looked homeless. She also had a way about her that made me want to punch her in the face. And I rarely ever puch strange women in the face.
Anyway, I recall having the misfortune to be invited to lunch with this particularly strange woman. She basically dominated the entire lunch conversation, boring us with the story of her life in what she constantly referred to as "a bubble".
I live in a slightly iffy part of town which hugs East Harlem and so, this woman, who appeared to be about thirty, was apparently just in her early twenties and "scared" to go out at night because Latin men find her "irresistible" and "cat call" her constantly. She was worried that one of these sweaty, hot-blooded "mens" would one day grab her by the neck and force her to do the merengue. I was slightly unsympathetic to this woman, not just because I wanted her to die as soon as possible, but also because she seemed geniunely uncomfortable living in my hood. She lived around the corner and was basically telling me I lived in a shithole neighborhood which didn't sit well with me. I mean, I pay good money to live here and I like it. So, innocently, I asked her why she was so unprepared for life in the big city among various people of color.
Here started the "bubble" references.
"I'm unprepared to live like this because I grew up in a bubble, okay! I had a maid, okay. I had nothing but rich Jewish white people around me all the time. I had friends who played tennis and went to parties at the yacht club on the weekends, okay? I was in this...this...this BUBBLE! Okay!"
So the feeling of common hatred that I felt the second my eyes had met hers was growing into a black rancor that I could amost feel oozing out of my skin. I literally wanted her to have an accident right there in the restaurant. But I remained calm and the venom in my veins slowly cooled to a soft pity. I sensed that she invisioned her life in a bubble as something to be proud of, despite her pretense of shame at living a life of privilege - a life which I still suspect she may or may not have lived. Though the black sheet she was wearing might have come from a very nice store on 34th Street, I didn't notice anyting about her that said, "I'm refined and well-educated. I am too genteel to live in el barrio con los nacos." So, I took her paranoia to be the result of some kind of pseudo-sophisticated delusion.
I know, this is supposed to be all about me and my life, starting from zygotedom, but I have a point.
Her bubble talk made me realize that we are all raised in bubbles of some kind. Even if some of those bubbles are a little cracked and broken, they are still bubbles. No matter how diverse we may think our environment is, our home is always our biggest influence. In most cases, our home revolves around our parents and no matter how different their individual cultures or even races might be, they were attracted to each other and in some way think alike. They have some things in common that are sure to influence their children, ie - us.
There are bubbles everywhere. A house is a bubble, a block is a bubble, a street, a neighborhood, a school, a city, a country, a continent. We all develop instincts, prejudices, fears - based on the environments in the various bubbles we grew up in.
My parents, for example, were by no means snobs. Nor were they rich or even slightly fancy people - but my father grew up on a farm in Estonia and my mother grew up in a notoriously picky Irish family. As a result of this, there were no Chef-Boy-R-Dee cans in my home growing up. I used to look at my classmates lunches and talk to them about what they ate for dinner and I'd hear things like "rice and beans" and "Spaghetti-O's" and make the gross-face and ask innocent questions like, "where's the meat?". I was labeled a snob by many of my classmates. Don't you see how unfair that was? It's the damn bubbles fault.
In my adult life, I have found myself held back in so many ways. I spent many of my formative years cooped up in my room watching TV or playing video games. Now I find in my adult life that I really enjoy sitting in my apartment typing on my computer, sending e-mails.
The bubbles again!
Next time you find fault with yourself or another person, just think about this bubble idea and instead of stressing yourself out and/or getting angry or depressed, just shout out, "I hate you fargin bubbles! Bubbles suck! Break! Break, you damn bubbles!"
OK, maybe that's too long, but you can figure out how you want to say it. It doesn't matter as long as you just blame the bubbles.
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