Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl

We've been reading Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl by Linda Brent (aka Harriet Jacobs) in class the last week or so. It is exactly as the title describes it - incidents in the life of a slave girl in North Carolina (I believe).

It makes for harrowing reading - Linda is almost obsessively stalked by her master once she enters puberty. He determines that he wants her. Luckily, he is afraid of losing status in town if anyone finds out, and is afraid of her grandmother, a godly woman (freed in the course of the book) that everyone in the town admires. At some point, Linda takes her sexuality into her own hands, and enters a relationship with the only type of person her master cannot control - another white man, of equal status with her master. She ends up having 2 children with this man, who become the property of her master (as the children of a slave follow the status of the mother). Linda flees when her master threatens to sell her; she spends seven years hiding in the garret of her grandmother's house. She eventually makes her way North, and is ultimately reunited with her children.

The book horrifies me on so many levels. On the one hand, it is hard to fathom someone treating another person as property. That level of cruelty is hard to wrap your mind around. Having 2 children myself, I can't imagine either one of them being born, and belonging to someone else. And not only that, but to belong to someone who does not have mine or their best interests at heart flabbergasts me. I cannot even imagine what I would have done in that situation.

One of the worst parts of the book (and there are many) are the times when her master uses her children as pawns, threatening to sell them if she does not comply and grant him her sexual favors. The horrific position of having to choose between controlling your body or protecting your children - what a choice to make! To use another human as a pawn, to threaten to sell them so that you can never see them again - I can't imagine sinking that low.

Despite the discomfort in reading such stark suffering, I think slave narratives are something every person should read at some point. It gives you a better understanding of why racial relations are so twisted in this country. How we can we have honest discussion and debate about race issues if we don't all understand where we came from, where the problems started? If I ever do realize the dream and become a professor, slave narratives are going to be required reading in as many classes as I can manage.

Creeping Provincialism?

We moved to Murfreesboro, from the thriving metropolis of Rantoul, Illinois (population 12,000) almost 2 1/2 years ago. At the time, we were thrilled to be moving to Middle Tennessee, because Middle Tennessee symbolized one thing for us - family. It is where our families are from, and where they still live. We (or at least I) fondly imagined ourselves basking in the warm glow of extended family life, attending Sunday suppers, making homemade ice cream, and just gradually getting together with our families as often as possible.

Somehow, this has not happened. What we failed to take into account was the fact that we had been gone for 7 years, and during that interim, we had become pretty self-sufficient. Used to not having family around, we had learned to plan other activities for the weekends, had gotten involved with and became parts of church families, etc. We simply did not know how to go about scheduling time with family, unless there was a holiday involved. We had also had a child, and had gotten as busy as families do.

I am from Nashville, and I deeply love my hometown. I worked after college for the Tennessee State Library and Archives, and had often spent my lunch hours wandering around downtown, reading historic markers and soaking up the atmosphere of the place. Moving away after my marriage was gut wrenching. It felt as if a part of me had been amputated. Gone was my sense of history, my sense of knowing I was treading the same streets as Davy Crockett, Andrew Jackson, James Polk, suffragettes, and everyday people.

So I thought that I would spend a lot of time in Nashville when I returned to middle Tennessee. I thought Murfreesboro would simply be a home base, but Nashville would be the pull, the place I would live my life. To be truthful, other than to visit my parents, I have gone to Nashville a handful of times since I moved back.

For one thing, Nashville has changed. It is bigger and busier. Years spent driving in central Illinois (where I saw more corn stalks than people) did not adequately prepare me for Nashville traffic again. Things have moved, or been torn down or built up, and I no longer feel at home there.

What I have become is a provincial. Other than church, and a play date that may take me to a different part of the county, I rarely leave eastern or downtown Murfreesboro. Everything I need is in this area - Hardy's preschool, my doctor, the kids' doctor, the grocery, my favorite park, downtown. I would probably stay pretty happily in this area of Murfreesboro forever, only leaving to visit family on occasion or to take a brief vacation.

I wonder sometimes if this provincialism is a negative thing - how on earth can I do whatever it is I am meant to do if I spend 90% of my time in a 5 mile wide area? How will I ever accomplish anything of value, of lasting worth? Shouldn't I want to go out and see more, venture out and do more?

I then think of some people who achieved greatness despite living very quiet, retired lives. I think of Emily Dickinson and Jane Austen. Both great writers who spoke great truth, but never ventured out into a wider life. I think of the thousands of women in the past who raised great leaders, such as Gandhi, Mother Theresa, Abraham Lincoln. These mothers were not famous, did not achieve greatness on their own. Yet somehow they managed to produce greatness.

Perhaps greatness does not always need great square footage to flourish - perhaps what it needs more is an unfettered heart and mind, willing to dream big, to think big, and when the occasion requires it, to act big.

Vacation Fun

The family and I recently took our first family vacation. When Hardy was first born, we lived in Illinois, and it seemed only fair to spend any vacation time visiting our families, allowing them to interact with our precious boy. Once we moved back to Tennessee, life seemed to intervene and not allow for vacation time. I became pregnant, and did not fancy any kind of road trip when I had to use the restroom every 30 minutes. Once Ellie was born, I just wanted to get through our day without adding anything more complicated to it.

So Justin and I decided recently to take a "starter" vacation, so to speak, over his Fall Break. His one request was that it would be under 2 hours away, as Ellie is not a great traveler. So I went into planning mode.

One thing to understand - there are few things I like better than planning a trip. I love to pour over vacation guides, surf the web, and brainstorm about where to stay, what to do, etc. So I have been in "hog heaven' (as my dad would say) in planning.

We decided on Chattanooga, as it is only 1 1/2 hours away and has a great aquarium that the kids have never been to. My research showed that Chattanooga had lots of other fun family activities, so off we went!

The first thing I did was book a cabin, and I was thankful for that. We rented a 2 bedroom chalet on Lookout Mountain. It was wonderful - a hot tub we all enjoyed, beautiful scenery, gas grill, 2 TVs, a kitchen. I definitely want to stay there again.

The first day there we hit the Aquarium. The kids loved the fishes, the butterflies, and all manner of wildlife they have there. They were both troopers, looking at things with no whining and no fits (definitely the way I judge a successful outing at this point in my life). We only stayed about 1 1/2 or 2 hours there - the kids began to drag at that point. Rather than push them past their limit, we took them to lunch and headed home for naps. We spent the rest of our evening watching a movie and just enjoying playing in the cabin.

The next day we went to the place Hardy had been asking about ever since I told him such a place existed - the Towing Museum. Unknown to us before the trip, the tow truck was invented in Chattanooga. The museum is reasonable and has lots of old tow trucks on display, as well as other memorabilia. There is even a wall filled with tow truck toys through the years. Aside from the fact you can't actually touch the tow trucks, the kids had a blast.

We then headed up Lookout Mountain, to Point Park. This is one of the locations for the Battle of Lookout Mountain during the Civil War. The view from there is amazing. We had a great time looking at the views, pretending to fire cannons, and just running around.

The highlight of the entire trip for both kids, however, was the hot tub. They both fell in love with it. Hardy asked if we could have one at our house. After unwinding in one, I am definitely in favor!

We ended our trip with a detour. In Tracy City (a little town about 5 miles from Monteagle on Monteagle Mountain) is the Dutch Maid bakery, which has been there since 1902. We stopped and enjoyed cookies and the heavenly smells of fresh bread baking. It is a good thing we don't live closer, or I would weigh 900 pounds.

This is the end of our vacation story. We had a great time. The best times were the quiet times in the cabin, when we could play and talk with each other without worrying about chores, or appointments, or anything at all. It was restful, and reminded of why I love my family.

Who I Want To Be When I Grow Up

Today is one of those gray, gloomy days that seem to be in such abundance lately. In addition to this, I am feeling a bit under the weather with allergies/sinus issues. I am therefor a bit nostalgic or homesick for the past. I find myself thinking of a the woman who has been my idol since I was a little girl.

The lady I am talking about is my sweet grandmother, Esther Mae Ward Hardy. My mother's mother, I only knew her as a sweet old lady. My mother is the youngest of six, and was born when her mother, Esther, was 37. My grandmother was a remarkable woman, not for her educational attainments or professional successes, but because of the force of her personality. Even today, more than 20 years after her death, all those who were fortunate enough to know her remember her fondly.



My grandmother was born in 1912 in Moore County, Tennessee. Her family was poor; in order to earn extra money for the family, she would drive another girl to school (a very wealthy girl, at least for that area) in a horse and buggy. She married at 14 to my grandfather. They struggled for many years - they sharecropped, tried anything to support their family. At one point, in 1929, as the Depression began, she and my grandfather, along with their baby, boarded a train for Detroit, Michigan, in hopes of finding a better life. Whatever they were searching for, they did not find it there, as they shortly returned back to Tennessee for good. She did what she could to help support her family - working as a cook at a girls' school, making butter.

In all their trials and tribulations, no one could ever remember my grandmother uttering a harsh word. She was known for always seeing the good in people, for not gossiping. You could take the meanest person you know, and she would see only how sweet they were to their mother. It is not that she was blind to their faults - it is that she loved them in spite of their faults. To me, she exemplified Christ-like love more than any person I know.

She also loved to cook, and to show her love through food. Of course, this meant the food that tastes amazing, but you probably should not eat. (As an aside, we never say that a person is showing their love for you when they give you salad - wonder why that is.) Whenever she knew my father was coming for lunch, she would hasten to make his favorites- turnip greens and homemade banana pudding. She would try to make my favorites as well - chicken and dumplings and tea cakes. Once, when I was visiting in the summer, she realized she had no special cookies for me. So she whipped up a batch of homemade cupcakes with thick fudge frosting. She did this in order to let you know that you mattered, that she was glad you were at her house.

She was a member of the Methodist church for almost 70 years. I cannot even fathom being the member of anything for that long. She read her Bible nightly, reading it out loud to my grandfather once he lost his sight. She prayed nightly, and her faith never wavered, even in the midst of severe family trials that would have shaken the faith of any person. She always held out hope that God would somehow provide - we might not see how, but we could rest assured that God knew, and that was all that mattered.

In the eyes of the world, my grandmother was not a very successful person. But in my eyes, she is the woman I want to be. Despite a lack of formal education beyond the eighth grade, she was intelligent enough to love people as they are, to accept them as they are. She embodied grace and acceptance. She taught me how to work hard, and how there is no shame in hard work, as long as it helps you support yourself and your family. She taught me to love others and to seek to make them feel special and loved. I hope one day that as many people were positively affected by me as by my grandmother.

Why I Gave Up Being the Perfect Mom

I haven't been a stay at home mom the entirety of Hardy's life. I worked until he was 2 1/4. There was never any question of me staying home then - Justin was in grad school, and until we got over the pesky habit of eating, I needed to contribute monetarily to the household. In truth, I always felt guilty about working when Hardy was a baby because I was not working my dream job. It was a fine job, and the people were nice, but it was not what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I longed for the time when Justin would be a professor and I would be home.

I thought I would be an entirely different type of stay at home mom than I really am. Before I started staying home, I envisioned a highly structured day for Hardy and myself, one in which we engaged in flash cards, worked on algebra, and conjugated irregular French verbs together (never mind the fact I took Spanish and Latin). We would whip up tasty meals together, chuckling happily over Hardy's attempts to master paella (which I can't eat anyway due to shellfish allergies). We would have sing-a-longs and perhaps even a puppet theater to rival the Von Trapps.

And then reality set in. By the end of the first week or so, I knew that there was no way I would ever be able to set up, let alone stick to, a highly structured plan for our days. I didn't realize that the walls would start to push in, making me so restless as to eagerly jump at the chance to run any errand with Hardy. I did not county on the unusually hot summer that welcomed us back to Tennessee, forcing us to stay inside.

We became busy - Hardy started to Mom's Day Out two days a week. That fact made me extremely guilty at first - I had one kid and maybe 850 square feet of duplex to keep clean - why did I need a day out? We found a mom's group, ostensibly for Hardy to socialize but really for me to maintain some semblance of sanity (without my mommy friends, and our monthly Mom's Nights Out, I would surely be in a loony bin somewhere). We went to the Discovery Center weekly. We played at the indoor playground at the mall - anything to get out of the house for a bit and to kill some time.

After the birth of Ellie, life became even less structured. My sweet angel girl wanted to eat every 2 hours and take 4 short naps a day - no time for singing sweet songs with Hardy or making our own butter. She was a different baby from Hardy, and I at times had no idea what to do with her.

At some point recently, I decided to stop feeling guilty over the type of Mom I am, and accept that I will never be a Martha Stewart type of mom. We are more likely to play tickle fingers over here than to conjugate irregular verbs. My kids might not be able to count to 10 in 4 languages, but they know how to build a turtle shell and pretend to be a turtle family with me. We might not sing folk songs together, but we have a blast cranking the Black Eyed Peas and dancing around the den.

I think by stop stressing over being the perfect Mom, and by being the best Mom I can be, I will actually end up a better person. Perhaps my kids seeing me stumble from time to time will make them more accepting of other's mistakes. Perhaps instead of being the perfect Mommy, I can be the Mommy that tried to teach them to stretch their imaginations, to love the places a good book can take you, and to always find time to dance in the aisle at the grocery store.

Free Speech and the Confederate Flag

To my embarrassment, my home state has been in the news recently due to a case involving the Confederate flag. Students at an East Tennessee high school sued (several years ago) that their free speech rights were violated because they were not allowed to wear clothing with the Confederate flag on them at school. The Supreme Court yesterday declined to hear the case, thereby ending the matter and leaving the school system's ban on Confederate flags intact.

I have mixed feelings over this case. On the one hand, I believe whole-heartedly in the concept of free speech. I believe this right is the backbone of a free society. I believe that as citizens we should have the right to say or wear whatever crazy or idiotic things that we wish. And I believe this right should be extended to everyone, not just to those who believe as I do.

So while I detest, with every fiber of my being, seeing the Confederate flag, people should have the right to wear it if they want. The thing about believing in free speech means that you have to defend those who spout things you believe are vile and offensive. While I hate the Klan, they have the right to spew their hatred. I also have the right to voice my opinion about their beliefs, and to do what I can to convince others they are wrong. I am not a big fan of Rush Limbaugh (his voice hurts my ears), but I do listen to him from time to time. I am glad that I live in a country that allows those I disagree with to have a voice. I feel that means that my voice cannot be taken from me, if I protect the voices of others.

To the Confederate flag issue, it saddens me that it is associated with the region that give birth to me and to which I call home. I hate that people focus on the flag and the hatred, and do not focus on how much race relations have improved over the past 40 years. I hate that things and people that should be synonymous with the South, such as Eudora Welty, Fannie Flagg, biscuits, chicken and dumplings, chess pie, iced tea, Paula Deen, kudzu and fried pies, are overlooked in favor of the flag.

I cringe when someone says they display the flag to show pride in their Southern heritage. If you truly have pride in your heritage, fly a flag with a biscuit on it. The flag is synonymous with the Confederacy, and with a war fought over basic human rights, a war on which we fought on the wrong side. Why on earth should we honor a heritage that viewed people as property, as lacking in basic human dignity based on the color of their skin. Why laud Southern honor when that honor was used to dominate not only African-Americans but women as well. I see nothing glorious about people who would go to war, risk killing the young men of their region, over the right to keep people enslaved, to deny them basic rights.

If we truly want to honor our Southern heritage, let's laud those things that have made us better, not worse. Let's not honor the things that have divided us.

Sins of the Father

I am taking an African American history class this semester to see if I want to go to graduate school; attending class has only intensified the desire to go to school. It is a very interesting class, and the professor really encourages a lot of discussion. He also tries to get the class to see how events of the past shape the events of today.

Tonight he touched on the idea of "post traumatic slave syndrome". It is an idea that the effects of slavery linger on, even in today's society. That what people decry about the "state of the black family" has roots that go back hundreds of years to slavery. He was not espousing it as something he necessarily believed; more he wanted us to know a strain of academic thought that is present.

The discussions made me think more about "sins of the father". It is a concept I never really got before. Why should I be punished for something my father or some distant ancestor did? Where is the fairness in that?

It's not that I am being punished for another's actions; it's that sin has consequences, some times long reaching consequences we can not even begin to imagine. So while slavery has been illegal since 1865, you cannot undo the sin that resulted from slavery in a few years. African Americans did not obtain full citizenship in 1865 - there were 100 more years of legalized discrimination, Jim Crow, erosion of voting rights, economic discrimination. Not until the Voting Rights Act of 1965 were African Americans able to fully exercise their right to vote. School segregation and housing segregation continued on till at least 1980 in some places, if not longer. How can we be surprised that there are still racial issues to be dealt with in this country?

The sins of our fathers still linger. I see it every day I go to the gym. After I drop Hardy off at school, I turn beside an older home that is for sale for $1.2 million. In the .4 of the mile I drive from there to the gym, I pass housing projects and other housing that speaks of years of endemic poverty. Even in our small city, there are pockets of poverty and ill-education that are being ignored. How long must these people be punished for the sins of others? And what is my responsibility in this? Do I have any? What can I do so that my children do not have to bear the costs of the sins of those who came before?

Confessions of a Cabbage Patch Kid

If I did not have my father’s nose, I would have bet that my parents found me in a cabbage patch. To say I am not a lot like my parents would be a bit of an understatement. I am a somewhat quiet introvert who loves nothing better than curling up with a good book, especially if it is one that I have read about 100 times already (bonus points if it is Jane Austen). I was the kid wanting to blend into the woodwork, hoping no one would take notice of me. My parents, on the other hand, are a bit different.

My father has lived a varied and interesting life. He dabbled in amateur drag racing back in the day (by which I mean the 1950s – I am a late in life, second marriage kid). He married (the first time) young and divorced young. After his divorce (which left him, as he often says, with his wheelbarrow and his clothes), he lived hard. Not many nights passed outside of a bar or other nightclub, and fought his fair share of fights. He managed a drive-in market for awhile, and sometimes illegally “ran” liquor from Kentucky. He got more than his fair share of speeding tickets. He was a butcher for a bit, and the night manager of a beer distributorship. He has sold first aid equipment and been an insect control guy. He has a core group of friends that he has been friends with for 65-70 years (since elementary school). He has lived in the same area of Nashville for over 70 years, so it is hard to go anywhere in that part of town and not find someone he knows. So to say my dad is interesting is a bit of an understatement.

My mother is your classic extrovert. She walks into a room and can strike up a conversation with anyone; I joke that she has never met a stranger. She is a keen dancer, and won several dance contests as a young woman (never with my dad – he is not a dancer by any stretch of the imagination). She can out-dance me (not a particularly hard feat, as I did not inherit any sense of rhythm) today, even with her having gout. We laugh and call her the “social butterfly” – when she enters a party, we do not see her the rest of the night. She flits around, talking to people, telling jokes, trying to get up a dance, you name it. She too has held a variety of jobs – worked with a non-profit back in the 1970s, helped my dad manage a grocery store, been a stay at home mom, and ran her own daycare for the last 25 years.

I have often wondered what my parents made of me growing up. I was always pestering them to take me to the library (which they did with unfailing patience, letting me browse for as long as I wanted). Instead of asking to go to the beach, I wanted to vacation at historic spots (my favorite vacation was to President Andrew Johnson’s home in Greeneville, TN). I started working part-time at 14. I never stayed out past curfew (curfew was a moot point as I opted to work every weekend from age 16 until college). I never tried to sneak alcohol as a kid, and they never received the dreaded 2:00 am phone call from me. I did not even date much in high school, as boys distracted from my goal (a college scholarship).

Despite our differences, however, my parents and I have always gotten along (barring the preteen years when I was convinced they had lost all sense and had no idea of how the world worked). They willingly took me to the library every 3 weeks (when the books were due), and let me stay there as long as I wanted, seemingly without impatience. They took me to I believe every historic spot in Tennessee and every Civil War battlefield (of which Tennessee has a fair few – the second most battles of the war were fought here, with only Virginia having more battles). They never pressured me to be more outgoing, athletic, or anything that was not me. They turned up at every drama club performance, softball game, parent’s weekend, and anything else I was part of, cheering me on and making me feel special.

I learned a very valuable lesson from my parents, and one I hope I pass on to my children. I learned the beauty of tolerance and acceptance. I learned (hopefully) to accept people as they are, without trying to change them or force my own agenda on them. I learned that different people can not only get along together, but love each other. There are no persons (outside my husband) who I value more than my parents. I only hope that my children one day feel I gave them the same love and support that my parents gave me.

My Son, the Sports Star

Today was one of Hardy's soccer games. We are new to organized sports, as Hardy is only 4. My last voluntary contact with sports ended when I was about 9 years old, and I decided to give up my softball career. As one of my nicknames as a teenager at Governor's School was "Miss No Depth Perception" (not the most witty bunch of teenagers), you can guess Hardy inherited no sporting ability from me.

One of the things I admire (and fear a bit) about my son is his very vivid, creative, imagination. He spends a lot of time pretending to be a rooster (he "crows" in the morning to let us know he is awake), a monster truck, a fire engine, a train, a turtle, a ladybug, a cat, a dog, etc. Very rarely does he ever think he is a little boy. When one of his friends greets him when he arrives at school, he inevitably answers as whatever he is pretending to be that day (barks if he is a dog, revs his engine if he is a car, etc.). After some strange looks, and time spent around my son, my kids have realized he is in his own world and let him inhabit it.

It's fun to watch Hardy play soccer because he always has fun and plays his own game. What that game is no one has figured out yet. And he does not seem particularly interested in inviting people to share his game. It wasn't until the third game (after 4 practices as well) that he realized he is supposed to run after the ball. Before that he would just randomly run up and down the field. When he would be goalie, he would spend the time with his back to the field, probably pretending to be a fire engine. If he encounters the ball, he usually runs the other way, as in this picture.

Today was classic Hardy. When he was playing an offensive position (I am not sporty, so have no idea what that is), he would usually run away from the ball when it came near him. I am pretty sure at one point he was pretending to be a chicken (he had his arms like wings while he was running down the field). At one point, the coach put him in as goalie (the coaches do a great job of switching the kids around to all positions). Justin went over to stand near the goal and give him some encouragement. A ball starts coming his way. Justin yells, "Stop the ball, Hardy." So what does my literal son do? He walks out, puts his hand up in the stop position, and yells "stop" to the ball. Surprisingly, soccer balls do not yield to such persuasion, and the other team scored a goal.

I could not tell you what the score of the game ended up being. I am pretty sure we did not win (our team has not managed to score a goal yet this season, a point which bothers absolutely no one on the team). I could not even tell you most of the names of the kids on the team. But I can tell you that my son had a blast, running and playing in the fall air. Perhaps he is the one who has it right. Rather than worry and fret and try to fit other people's expectations, perhaps I should just relax and enjoy the fresh air. Perhaps I should relish the person I am, and not worry if no one else wants to play with me. The important thing is to get out there and to do your own thing.

Why Goofy is My Hero

I have loved Goofy ever since I was a very young girl. I received my first Goofy when I was 3 years old. I had been visiting my aunt, and she and her family had recently returned from Disney World. They had brought home 2 Goofy's and I had latched onto one during our visit. At the end of the visit, my aunt gave me Goofy. Years later I realized this probably belonged to one of my cousins; I can only hope he did not love Goofy as much as I did.









Over the years I have collected various other Goofy memorabilia. I have Goofy coffee cups, Goofy earrings, Goofy watches (my favorite one was my backwards watch - it ran counterclockwise!), figurines, house shoes, movies, cookie jar, etc. If it had Goofy on it, it ended up with me (not in a scary, shoplifting kind of way). I have not had a chance to add anything to my collection since I had children who clearly inherited the Goofy loving gene. After my son became a toddler, he claimed several of my small stuffed Goofy's as his own, and was especially tempted by my Goofy stockcar. I packed away most of my collection until a time when it is not so tempting to little hands.













I still have my original Goofy, as seen in this picture. We have been through many tough and good times together. He has had multiple nose and hand transplants (thank heavens for the wonders of pantyhose), has lost an eye, had a little girl pull his ear off (much to my horror - I was 5 and promptly pushed her down and started whaling on her. You DO NOT touch my Goofy. I am not quite as hypersensitive about sharing Goofy now. Most days, that is.). He lost his original clothing years ago. When I was young, my grandmother made him a little suit out of some sort of gray pinstripe material (she was an excellent seamstress). No one had a spiffier Goofy than myself. Unfortunately that snazzy suit did not survive the depredations of childhood. Goofy even went to college with me, and soberly presided over my dorm room.

Most of the time Goofy lives in my bottom drawer, safe from prying and sticky fingers. I love my children and would share anything with them EXCEPT Goofy. Remember, you do not touch my Goofy. The rule applies even if you sprang from my womb. I do admit, however, that Goofy still gets pulled out when I am sick for cuddling.

One reason I love Goofy so much is that he is always so joyful. No matter what is happening, Goofy is always happy and having a great time. He might not understand the joke is on him. Or he may understand and not give a darn (I hope I am as comfortable in my own skin one day). He is a loyal friend, always looking out for Mickey and willing to take part in whatever Mickey has going on. He doesn't even mind being upstaged by the less-talented and more obnoxious Donald Duck. When he falls down he promptly gets back up and goes at it again. Also, Goofy never takes himself too seriously. That is a quality I find endearing and which I think helps you get through life. There are just going to be too many occasions where you fall on your behind in this life. You might as well laugh at yourself and have a little fun in the process.

I think life would be happier for us all if we took Goofy for our role model; if we decided to always enjoy life, no matter if it is the life we planned. To get back up when we fall. To laugh even as others laugh at us. To be comfortable in our own skin. To be a true and loyal friend. In short, to be full of graciousness and love.