Strippers Have a Story

I have my homework nest built and I’m ready to settle in for roughly six hours of homework. I knew that the Rogue Mare needed to pour some of her own grammatically incorrect, non-math related words out of her head to be able to proceed with the mind numbing world of “have to do” things.

I recently found myself in the midst of topless dancers. Yes mom, (she reads my blog), I was hanging around strippers. I’m sure that this does not even phase my mother though. If it does, she’d never show it. I would consider mom to be pretty conservative but she knows her daughter is always looking for a story. A person’s story, an animal’s story or her own story.

I’m not really sure how to label the girls that I met. It doesn’t matter to me though because, when I’m not at work, do folks refer to me as my occupation? No, they don’t. I’m just gonna call them “the girls” for the duration of this post. This paragraph caused me to think about how family members would say, “My son brought a stripper to Christmas dinner.” Would that same family member say, “My son brought a library assistant to Thanksgiving dinner?”

I spoke with girls who, for the most part, like their job, some who hated it but needed the money, and some who didn’t think there was anything wrong with what they did. I can identify with all of those feelings in regards to career choices and I’m sure most of you will concur.

Every face has a story. The girls were very open about who they were, if they had children, where they were from, whether they were going to college or merely trying to survive. Some are just trying to stay well enough to make it through the day. When I say well enough, I mean that they have found themselves to be addicted to drugs and they need this job to buy or trade the substance that keeps them functioning.

The girls were very kind. They were telling me how beautiful and sweet I was! No, they weren’t trying to get money from me. That was not the forum in which this meeting took place. They were just happy to talk to someone who was interested in who they were. That, gentlemen readers, is how you get a girl to like you.

The girls are people with beautiful bodies, stunning smiles and tortured souls. Many of us, especially artists, have tortured souls. You may or may not agree with the fashion in which they make their living but that is extraneous. Wait, I take that back, it is of greatest significance. Many career choices have the ability to derive a negative connotation. My first job was at a pizza joint. I seem to recall a pastor asking my parents if they were okay with my working at an establishment that sold alcohol. Really? He had the nerve to ask that while his daughter worked as a checkout girl for a local grocery store! I’m sure that she rang up her share of beer and wine on any given day. Funny thing is, the pizza place I worked at didn’t even serve alcohol.

I’m almost down to the conclusion. The core of my experience is that I respect the girls. We live in a money driven society. It is an animal that most of us have created. These girls pay sales tax and pay  into the economic system just as much, or more, than you and I. Sexuality sells.

“Judgements prevent us from seeing the good that lies beyond appearances.” ~ Wayne Dyer

Peace from the Rogue Mare

Why where it was made matters to me

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Several years ago I visited the remains of a town that was once a booming textile community. They proudly made sheets, bath towels, kitchen towels and such. This visit was way before I thought about American made and such, but I can remember feeling the energy that once inhabited those streets. I felt bad for the people who no longer had jobs and wondered what they did to take care of their families now.

Today I needed to buy new sheets for my bed. I couldn’t find anything that wasn’t made in India. My mind went back to thinking about those ghosts who still walk around the textile mills. Empty parking lots with chained link fences and buildings with broken windows abound in that area. Images of people with their metal lunch boxes walking from their cars into their steady job filled my mind.

The mills have since been leveled, imploded, demolished. I’m sure that there is a lingering heavy spirit that still covers those grounds.

There was a nearby village where mill workers lived. I did a little homework on this area and found out that the collapse of Fieldcrest-Cannon and the surrounding village was basically put to death by Wal-Mart’s insistence to send production overseas. The company, then Pillowtex, refused to do so. Because of undercuts by other companies, 7,650 people lost their jobs. The Cannon Mills era was over.

This was just a spot on a map when I visited. I didn’t realize the impact that it had on me until many years later. No wonder I felt the sadness and the energy still lingering in the air. There’s no telling how many families were destroyed, how many suicides complete, contemplated or attempted.

What you buy does matter. Take small steps in buying American made products. Don’t let it overwhelm you.

Make 2012 the year you try to make a difference in the American economy and in the lives of those who work here. Don’t forget to make it a happy new year too!

Peace from the Rogue Mare