I love Kellogg's Corn Flakes. Grab a big bowl, fill it 3/4 full with those delicious yellowish flakes, slice up a banana onto the top, shake the raisin canister and sprinkle thick gobs of them over the rest of the ingredients, then fill the mess up with milk. Stick your spoon in and enjoy a delectable, homemade breakfast - well...mostly homemade.
On other days, I like Cheerios with the same treatment. They also make a great snack fried in butter and sprinkled with garlic and salt. Everyone in my family loves them this way except for Analisse (1), who spews them onto the floor, fully chewed, then grabs another handful.
But really, I'm a Corn Flakes guy, through and through.
A dear family friend of ours
has recently begun writing a series on a subject that certain people find to be quite controversial, judging by some some of the blog comments as the series progresses. If you read the series, you will understand what I mean. Pay attention to the comments.
Mellisa writes about her spouse discovering that he is a female in a male body. The series is very thorough in every way imaginable. She, a fine author, works the crowd at her leisure, understanding the audience completely. From the beginning, Melissa sets the table by pleading with her readers to hear her out from start to finish. She warns them that they may be shocked by what they read, but then asks them to listen to her reasoning with an open mind, even dangling a "let us agree to disagree, but still love each other" carrot in front of their transfixed eyes. Then, up until her most recent series post, she completely describes the research, culture, and emotions behind being transgender and what it means to transition from a man to a woman, copiously walking us through her innermost emotions as a lover of this wonderful individual and a mother of her spouses children. It is beautifully written and well researched.
Unfortunately, I don't care.
I know Melissa. I know her spouse. I know her children. I have spent time with them. They have loved us and we have loved them back. Our children have played with their children for hours on end. In fact, when they play together, our children have never been more relaxed and quiet as when they grace our threshold. I have witnessed them as parents and try as hard as I can to
not let them see my imperfections. They have called me brilliant in full pretense, but made it seem genuine. Finally, they have made my wife's, Kristine, life immeasurably better in more ways than one. In short, our lives have not been the same since our first meeting.
And I still don't care.
Why does it matter if someone was born one way or another? Who cares if the research is conclusive or inconclusive? If all the studies showed that those who desire Cheerios over Corn Flakes was a personal choice, rather than a genetic mutation, would we chase away the Cheerios people with pitchforks and shovels? What difference does it make if a friend of mine chooses to buy a red car or was born to drive a Ford Mustang?
I don't care.
I see people. They are all sorts of colors. Some people whom society deems as normal, genetically, would never be allowed in the same town as my children. Others that society may deem as "queer" happen to be the kindest, warmest, individuals on the face of the earth - good with children too.
Or not.
People are people. Every person is like a special gift, wrapped up in every which way. Some have perfect paper, with pristine, symmetrically folded corners, with a perfect bow, only to discover a lump of coal inside. Others look like that on the outside but with a box of chocolates on the inside. Some look like how I wrap presents. Paper every which way, used ends of cheap wrapping rolls, a squished bow pressed onto the top. But inside, a beautiful necklace awaits the recipient.
The only way to know what is inside your gift is to unwrap it.
