Scoping It Out OR Abandoning Tunnel Vision

Sometimes I like to fool myself into thinking I'm open-minded. I've been blessed to grow up in a time, culture, family and geographical region that promoted and celebrated diversity and squelched racial prejudice. I have friends of every ethnic background, every religious persuasion, every political camp, every socio-economic category, etc., and it's not because I'm "collecting" people (think Mormon Julie from the Real World New Orleans who claimed to have never met a black person before... that girl was a moron), but just because I've known tons of people, and I'm generally predisposed to like everyone. I'm glad I know those truths that we're all children of God and all men are created equal, and I'm grateful these beliefs are hard-wired into my paradigm, which sometimes I take for granted. My grandparents weren't like that. My great-grandparents certainly weren't. Even my parents occasionally disappoint me on that score from time to time, but we're all doing our best, right?
But I'm a lot more narrow-minded than I'd like to admit, and I have some rather hard-wired notions that may keep me back. Perhaps the worst ones are the ones I hold about myself.
For example, the other day I was at the flea market (where else would I be on a Saturday, right?) and I found this booth with a very obnoxious little man. He was selling off some pretty pricey taxidermy-- like a polar bear and a warthog, or something just as odd. I don't really remember. My eye initially went to a convertible game table, but I quickly found the real treasure: a jar full of old clockworks and watch pieces. His junk was way overpriced-- he wanted a dollar per piece, and the old crook had taken the watches apart and was selling the insides separate from the faces. But the stuff was exactly what I'd been looking for-- just what I needed for my new obsession with steampunk art and decor, so I started picking through the pile. I called my Aunt Sylvia over to check out my most excellent discovery, and she too got a little thrill from combing through the clutter. The little man, an obnoxious and unsavory sort, mockingly asked, "Are you an artist?" I didn't miss a beat. I said yes. And he then said, "Yeah, only an artist would care about little tchotchkes like that." But I remember blushing and hoping my aunt hadn't heard the exchange, because it felt so pretentious (and untrue). I'm not an artist. I'm a dabbler. I take other people's stuff and turn it into something else. Yes, I create things all the time-- jewelry, glittery silhouettes, floral arrangements, hats and scarves, even furniture... but I wouldn't call them art. I just call them my projects.
But later, the whole thing bothered me a bit, and it took me a while to figure out why. Were he to have asked if I'm a writer, I'd have had not one bit of hesitation saying I was. Of course I'm a writer. I wrote for a living for several years. I edited a newspaper and magazine. I blog frequently. When I suffer insomnia, I write essays. I have huge portfolios of my work, and I'm not ashamed of it. I am a writer. But why am I not an artist?
Likewise, I don't mind being called Bohemian, because it's a lifestyle and an aesthetic I admire, but I often wonder if it's the right word to describe me. When someone says "Bohemian," for me it conjures a picture of a dark-haired beauty, not Miss Auburn Ordinary. I don't feel fashionable, because while I do my own thing, I think my style would be taken more seriously and look better on a waif. I've seen pictures of myself recently and been distraught over my resemblance to Mama Cass. Sure, she was boho, and a sex symbol even. But I'd really rather be Juliette Binoche.
And of course, my harsh judgments are not limited to myself. Were that the case, I'd not worry so much. But I judge people ALL THE TIME. Not on the color of their skin or how much money they have or what they think about Deity. I judge them on their choices. I judge them for their personalities. Which comedian was it who said, "I never hate anyone based on the color of his skin, because when I take the time to get to know him, I find there are so many other, legitimate reasons to hate him."? And while I don't really hate anyone, I could stand to be more charitable.
The other night, a friend asked me what it would be like if we were to get married. I told him I'd never marry him. He said, "Is it because I'm brown? Is it because I'm not a Mormon yet? Is it because I'm in the military?" Oh my goodness, no! It's because while I hold him in very high esteem, I don't feel that he takes me seriously, and he often breaks his word to me. He doesn't treat the things I value as important. His friend then chimed in. "It's because she's going to marry me." And I told him, "No, I'd not marry you either." He probably thinks I said it because he's short, but we all know I have no problem going out with little people. It's because he's gotten into the habit of treating me like a convenience, which I got over after my high school boyfriend used to do that to me. I don't tolerate it. I don't like the way that boy thinks he can coast on his charm. That doesn't impress me.
People who are selfish, people who are takers, people who are ungrateful-- those are the ones I judge harshly. I'm not a huge fan of ignorance or stupidity, but sometimes folks who fall into those categories are victims of circumstance. We can't dictate the hand we're dealt, but we can each choose how to make the best of it. I strongly believe we are blessed so we can in turn bless the lives of others, and I have very little use for people on the take.
I know, I know. I'm a self-righteous prig, as C.S. Lewis would say. I don't care if your clothes come from K-Mart or Abercrombie & Fitch. I just care how you treat people who'd shop in any store.