Kids run around. They fall. They hurt themselves. All the time. My son seems to have a knack for it. When this happens in school, they’ll give me a note which explains what happened and what they did to correct it. I remember this one note years ago, as my little boy proudly displayed his shiny new band-aid, where under the “corrective” action, the teacher had scrawled three letters : “TLC”. Me, the ignorant non-texting mom, who insisted on grammatical writing – I didn’t know what TLC was. Was it an antibacterial cream, a new magical, heals-instantly, kiddie band-aid ? “No,” laughed the teacher, when I asked her, “It’s Tender Loving Care.”
There are tons of abbreviations out there now, and OMG, although I have become more sharp and snappy (the husband nods at that) and well-versed in the really, really short way of saying things, as I am ROTFLOL writing this post (although it’s hard to type when rolling on the floor), there are some abbreviations which really make sense. Like T.I.L.I.I : Tell It Like It Is .
I came across T.I.L.I.I in a library. Apparently the librarians wanted feedback. So they put a little empty fishbowl, placed several small notepads and a bunch of sharpened pencils next to it, with a little notice board which said to T.I.L.I.I .
Nice !
I wish we all went around with signs on our forehead which said T.I.L.I.I . No I’m not asking for your truthful opinion on my clothes, or the state of my desk/car/home. I’m asking for your opinion on the things that matter to you. Especially the things that matter and those that you brush under the carpet or into the secret crevices of your self, things which you think wouldn’t make a difference, or which would rock the boat, or which come under the heading of that holy cow – culture (that which cannot be questioned).
I greatly admire Paley’s work, even if I’m not going ga-ga over it. From the colorful animation to the cute lead characters (who display actual emotions, instead of perpetual placid smiling calm), to their heart-shaped kisses and running around the trees, Bollywood style, Paley gives us her interpretation of the Ramayana. As I search through the internet, and work my way through Ebert’s review of the film and gasp at his words “it tells the story of a brave, noble woman who was made to suffer because of the perfidy of a spineless husband and his mother.”, and think (Whoa !) yes, that is how it was, cosmic reasons though there might have been for it (so I’ve been told). Then the bigger problem – I’ve suddenly forgotten how to spell S-P-I-N-E-L . . . I think it’s the desi baggage. Again. I’ve been socialized into thinking that Ram and the-adjective-that-I-cannot-spell are oxymorons.
But it is more than that; I, by widely accepted standards of femininity, must not be loud, or bold, or question. And it’s not just culture, it’s the culture of acceptance, all around the world which says that we shouldn’t nod our heads in disagreement when we are told how to dress (too many clothes, or subjective interpretations of too little), or when our bodies are our own, pregnant or not, because, you know, the rights of the unborn, even if it a tiny little speck in someone’s imagination, are greater than the rights of living, breathing, feeling women. The sins of the world are attributed to bad mothering. And must all good wives nag so much ? Or how we are the receptacles of honor, and when that honor is violated, it’s because the woman asked for it. Or how we should lower our lashes and our voices. Or be womanly. Or fit in with the boys. Or when we should circumscribe our feelings, rights and voices for fear that we might offend some amorphous entity.
I say we need a good, strong dose of T.I.L.I.I. (available now in your local store in your favorite flavors; a teaspoon keeps you strong and outspoken throughout the day).
So, drink up, people. T.I.L.I.I. And L.L.A.P.
