What I’m Riding . . . please do judge

Pretty soon Lady Liberty's going to have to have a piece of tape over her mouth.

Pretty soon Lady Liberty’s going to have to have a piece of tape over her mouth.

While watching A Stranger in My Home on ID the other day, a woman offered up this information:  “He was scary-looking, but I didn’t want to judge him, so I just accepted him as a presence around our house.”  I’m sure I’m paraphrasing, but that’s the gist of what she said.  What she didn’t realize was this:  she already judged him when she decided he was scary-looking.  But she ignored that.  And the guy stabbed her mother to death.

When did judging become wrong?  Judging is not wrong.  We do it every day, over the simplest of matters.  Dinner is a judgment call.  Disciplining your children.  Choosing a man to date, marry.  Choosing a job, an outfit.  All judgments.  If I’m walking on a certain side of the street and my natural, in-born, God-given instincts suddenly prickle and tell me to beware of you, reasonable or not, it is my right to cross to the other side.  Why do you care?  On the same token, if you are pleasing to me and I stay on your side of the street to admire your ass as I walk behind you, that is also my right.  And probably the more offensive choice to you.  So here’s my point:  it’s not the judging that is wrong, it’s what we do with that judgment that is the issue.  Crossing the street to get away from you is not offensive.  Looking at you and telling you to get off the street is.  Walking behind you and subtly admiring the view is not offensive.  Pinching your ass is.

In airports we are told over a sound system to beware of any suspicious activity.  So what is suspicious activity?  They speak of suspicious activity, yet base their whole security system on random screenings.  Random.  Seriously?  You want me to judge for myself what qualifies as suspicious activity while at the same time preaching to me what a heathen I am if I dare act on it.  So you basically want me to tap into something you’ve hammered out of me by constantly telling me how wrong I am if certain things make me uncomfortable.  Clowns make me uncomfortable, okay?  I won’t go near a clown.  If there was a clown sitting next to me, yes, I would get up and move.  No, I wouldn’t beat up the clown.  I would pretend I am getting up to go to the bathroom or get a Frappuccino and discreetly sit somewhere else, but no, you will not force me to set next to a clown because it’s PC, because I might offend that clown if I get up.  It may be a very nice clown, but it’s not my duty to find out.  What if he is indeed a John Wayne Gacy clown?

We used to tell our kids not to talk to strangers.  Are we now going to tell them everyone is sweet and kind and good and please don’t offend the guy sitting on the park bench handing out lollipops to children because it’s not nice?  Where are our brains?  What are we doing, teaching the next generation to squash their instincts?  When did it become not okay to feel and think and make decisions for ourselves?  You don’t have to go up to the guy and tell him his lollipops suck (no pun intended), or tell the other kids to not have any of his lollipops.  Just keep your own kid away from him.  Not wrong.  If I don’t want to date you because our religions are different or we don’t like the same movies, who cares?  If I don’t want to date you because of any reason that is of my personal preference, why should I feel bad about that?  Prejudiced?  Snobby?  Maybe I’m picky.  Maybe I’m a bitch.  That’s on me.  But if I am polite and tell you, “I had a nice time with you, but I don’t see it going any further,” that’s reason enough for you.   If some guy says he doesn’t want me because I’m too old or fat or blonde or laugh too much or whatever, then he’s a tool, he’s missing out, I judge him with my girlfriends over lunch at the Dining Car.  That’s both of our rights.  And I resent this new PC Stepford country bullshit that is trying to take it away from me.

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About whatimriding

Born and raised in Philly, I spent several years in Las Vegas, working at the House of Blues and writing about the city. I now reside in Tampa, where I continue to work on novels, scripts and short stories and tearfully await former Lightning forward Vincent Lecavalier's return to the bay area.
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