Milpitians, Chia-pits and Samaritans

We girls just got home from running some errands. It's getting harder and harder to get Austin to join us on these errand runs. I can see why, though I don't know how to change it. For instance, this little confession will explain much: I hurt my neck groovin' to the awesome funk of MC Hammer's "Too Legit To Quit," while driving. I consider MC Hammer semi, quasi Christian music, since oftentimes, if you really listen to the lyrics, which I have, he mentions his Christian faith. Also, he's from the East Bay, as am I, and there is just something so ghetto about that that no one else can understand, maybe not even my own children or husband.

I did not live in a ghetto, by any stretch. My home was lovely, if I do say so myself. I loved my house. I loved my neighborhood and neighbors, and we never had any swinging going on. And, we would have known all about it, because back then, you knew all your neighbor's business.

We played flashlight hide and seek with every kid within a two block stretch, and trusted everyone. I had a pretty idyllic neighborhood in actuality; however, as I got older and moved around in other circles, other people's perceptions of my neighborhood and hometown were less than idyllic.

In fact, when I was in high school there was a time, after some violent bully from our high school beat and killed his girlfriend, hid her in the foothills, and took a group of other high school kids to see her abandoned and beaten body, that the mere mention of my hometown struck terror into just about every other school in Silicon Valley. When we would play another school, particularly Palo Alto High School, we would use our sordid reputation to intimidate them. Hey, if you're going to make lewd comments about Milpitas High, as so many were apt to do, we're going to fight back, and it might not be pretty.

However, the reality of it was that everyone was shocked about that killing. Everyone was scared. Being from Milpitas did not immunize us to fear, by any means. A killing in our small community was a rarity, not commonplace in anyone's life. I mean, I'll guess that when something like happens in a small community, it affects everyone for a time, as though you're all wearing the same scarlet letter.

I think I had hoped that my letter would eventually fall off, but it hasn't. In my forties now, my letter is still prominently stuck to my chest, no matter what I'm wearing or where I am. Not too long ago, I was in a carload of hockey revelers on our way to a hockey game. The most arrogant, prideful woman in the group started; "I was over in Milpitas today. What a hole!"

Now, this is uncomfortable at best, but at worst, it's just plain ol' mean, because this woman knew I grew up in Milpitas. She had even been to my parent's house, wherein she had kept her purse tightly clasped to her chest the entire time she sat in their living room, doing her best to pretend she was a normal human-being. Maybe it was the way my seventy year old grandmother eyed her shoes.

She continued: "Yeah, I mean really, what a hole!" 'Yeah, we heard you,' I thought, but she was clearly waiting for someone to bite. Fortunately I was in the third row of a Suburban, so maybe we could all just avoid her luring tactics, but no: "Yeah," said someone sitting beside me. "I hate even driving over there." 'I mean, good grief people! No one's bashing in windows and stealing babies from cars! What's the big deal?'

Suddenly, it was that old feeling: I was seventeen again. We were playing "Paly" and they were nowhere near as friendly as their nickname suggested -- they were not my paly's" 'Ugh, here we go,' I thought. 'I've got what? Three minutes? Five minutes at best before we get to the dreaded, "Where did you go to high school?" question.' Maybe a freak flock of geese would fly into the windshield, and we would never have that conversation, but no.

I was in a blurred state, as the question came from someone's stupid mouth: "Michelle, where did you go to high school?" I cleared my throat, hoping to become invisible, but God has never come through on that yet, so I had to continue speaking: "I, uh, well, I went to Milpitas High." Dead silence. There were no inquiries, just silence. One of THEM had been in their midst the entire time, and they hadn't even known it. Those insidious Milpitians! What will they think of next, trying to mingle with normal folk? For goodness sake, there was a Saratogan sitting next to the Milpitian! Throw the peasant off the Titanic! I think he clasped his pocket to insure that his wallet was still there.

Rick was a row ahead of me, and whenever this situation comes up I am furious at him for not moving us out of this area, so that no one in my immediate surroundings have these ill-conceived thoughts of me and my upbringing. I glared at him, as only a Milpitian can do, I suppose. I mean, if I lived in Bohunk, Missouri and I told someone that I had gone to Milpitas High School, they wouldn't know what they heck I was talking about. If I told them that "Milpitas" meant "little cornfield," and had a proud Native-American heritage, they would buy it.

I could infer anything; "Oh, yes, back in Milpitas we used to run the ponies out back on Grandpapa's farm. Oh, and when the fish would run, it was heaven on earth -- sheer heaven. Oh, and I will never forget the way we used to gather round old man Scooter Barns, and he would tell us about his boyhood in Nantucket on his granddaddy's farm." Then, my eyes would glaze over, as though I were going to cry, and say in an almost inaudible whisper, "I miss it." I would let everyone guess that my childhood was more Norman Rockwell than anything Norman could have conjured up.

But no, I was living down people's inference that Milpitas should be pronounced into the most detestable word in reference to male anatomy, and the fact that some guy I never met, and never would did despicable things to his girlfriend!

Which brings me to Smuckers. How did I take such a leap? Well, let me say this, when there is a leap to be made, I will take it. Let me begin by telling you about Smuckers like this... It was a sunny morning in San Jose, where I live now. Just a stone's throw away from where I used to live, but without such erroneous stigmas, and I looked out my window to see the most adorable puppy I have ever seen. She was pouncing over long stems of grass, and digging her little nose into the wet dewy lawn. Quietly, I sneaked out the front door, and coming upon her I picked her up and she snuggled cozily into my arms. She was delightful!

I tiptoed into the kids' rooms and introduced my new-found friend as a potential blessing, dropped in our front yard by God's own hands! I know, I'm an idiot, but really the puppy was so cute. Then, after calling Rick at work and begging to keep the puppy, and having him agree that we could, the construction workers next door said that the "stray" was theirs. They must have seen the way our faces dropped when they told us this, because upon saying that she was theirs, they said we could have her, free. Free!

Well, when you are holding the cutest puppy in the world in your arms, you hold on even more tightly when you are told that you can keep her free of charge. With the news of our new addition - Mandy's new best friend - came the change of her name from Chiquita to Smuckers. She never seemed to know either name, so it didn't really matter.

We had all always believed that Mandy needed and longed for companionship. I think we should have instituted that prior to her being eleven years old, but that only became abundantly obvious later. At first, Mandy and Smuckers seemed to love each other. They romped and played. Growled and giggled, so it seemed.

It was the first time I looked at Smuckers though, that something that had first gone undetected caught my eye: Maybe it was the way in which she nipped, and clung to Mandy's neck while Mandy trotted along that seemed barbarically reminiscent of news headlines. Not that I had ever thought Chiquita-Smuckers was a pedigree, but really, what was she? What was her esteemed, or ill-esteemed lineage? I picked her up in my arms and inspected her, and it was then I realized that her miniature "Little-Rascal-Petey" look was very reminiscent of something I'd seen before on a pit-bull. In fact, wasn't Petey from the "Little Rascals" a pit-bull? Good sense came flooding back to me, as I remembered hearing that. Smuckers was a pit-bull, and we'd just begun our own Michael Vick breeding ground in the suburbs of San Jose.

I went back to the construction site, holding Smuckers in my arms. "Hey, how's it going?" A couple guys met me at the chain-link fence. "You know," I held Smuckers up to get a better look at her face, "I'm just wondering, what do you think she is? I mean, is she a pit-bull, because we have kids and we don't want to die. I think being mauled in our sleep would be a bummer." I laughed.

"Oh, yes, yes, she is a pit-bull, but only half. She is chihuahua too." The man smiled a big, wide smile.

Horrified, I brought Smuckers back tightly into my arms, as though protecting her from the truth of her sordid beginnings. "A pit-bull chihuahua? Seriously? I mean, how does THAT happen?" And then I shook my head, "Never mind. I don't want to know." I looked at Smuckers wondering what brutality brought forth the relationship between her parents, and decided that some things were best left unknown. Poor Smuckers.

I did what any new puppy parent does, I went into the house and googled "Chihuahua pit-bull" until I realized that these mixes were called, "Chia-pits," but nowhere could I find their expected temperaments. I suppose some things are just left to common sense. If you've ever heard the tenacious yaps of a Chihuahua, and been mauled by a vicious pit-bull then you knew full well what Mandy was in for. In all her eleven years, Mandy could not have known that such a creature existed.

For a while, we pretended that they were playing. We pretended that Mandy was probably more comfortable without all that blasted fur around her neck that Smuckers had pulled out. And, we pretended that Mandy was happier with her new friend than without. Eventually, as Mandy collapsed at our feet, and yelped in pain from Smuckers' incessant attacks, it was more difficult to pretend that things were okay. With Mandy's pain on display before us on a daily basis, we became resolved that Smuckers would have to find a new home.

Sitting at the Craigslist portal, readying to list Smuckers on their online marketplace, I was at a loss for words. How does one part with something so darling? I'll tell you how. You're husband pushes you aside, types in recklessly, "Free - Cutest Dog Ever," attaches four photos of the dog, and pushes a few buttons, and you begin to receive the most alarming responses ever.

For the guy who sounded hungry, we said no. For the woman who said she'd love to add Smuckers to her other seventeen dogs who sleep in her bed with her, we said no. To the woman who said her aggressive dog needed a "play friend," we said no. With over 100 responses to our Craigslist add, and after we were shutdown for trying to give away a pet, which is a violation of Craigslist rules, we found just the right family.

A woman and her three children e-mailed me. They had just lost their dog who had run away. Her children were heartbroken. They could not afford to buy a new dog, because they had had to pay to mend the fence in their backyard in case they could find their old dog. She had always wanted a pit-bull, but they lived in a smaller home, and could not have a large dog. Smuckers would never get larger than twelve pounds. When these people came to visit Smuckers, the woman cried. She agreed that she was the cutest dog ever, and asked if they could have her, even though we had other people interested: It made sense. This family needed Smuckers, and because she was killing Mandy, Smuckers needed this family. It was a match made in heaven.

What's the point? Well, I think I have a lot in common with Smuckers who, by the way, was renamed Mandy, since it was the only name she would answer to. Smuckers was loved and cared for her whole young life. If there was something wrong, she certainly did not know it. And, really, there was nothing wrong with Smuckers. She was too puppy-young for Mandy, but she wasn't really vicious, just playful.

I think the world is as apt to judge people for their pedigrees and human AKA lineage, as they are dogs. When people ask what you do, or where you come from, sometimes it is with less interest about the answer than how they stack up against what you do, or where you come from - not always, but often. Jesus knew this too. Walking through Samaria, not around it as most Jews were apt to do in his day, he sat at the Samaritan well in the midday heat.

He knew that any person coming to the well at that time of day would be an outcast, someone not readily acceptable to society. When he asked the woman at the well for a drink, she even thought he was taunting her. "You are a Jew and I am a Samaritan woman. How can you ask me for a drink?" (For Jews do not associate with Samaritans) John 4:9. But, Jesus knew differently. He knew that his Father in Heaven had created each human-being with purpose, intent, and love.

Just as he did not turn away from the woman at the well, he does not turn away from anyone because of where they come from - Milpitian, Chia-pit, or Samaritan.