02-23-2004, 12:14 AM
In an upper middle-class suburb of San Francisco, a group of energetic nine- to eleven-year-olds tussle for control of a soccer ball. Their Little League uniforms are pretty well stained by now, as small lungs gasp for air in this fierce competition. It is for the Division Championship. The score is tied with only minutes to go. There is much at stake. The shrill blast of a whistle announces a foul. One side of the field emits a loud groan in unison, immediately followed by angry protests directed at the referee. The free kick could mean the championship. Coiffured heads quiver with rage as inch-long, manicured nails stab the air to emphasize pleas to reconsider the unjust call. Nearby males, in expensively casual sportswear, with $150 sunglasses dangling from shirt fronts, add their bass voices to the rumble of complaints.
On the other side of the field, equally coiffured heads tilt sideways, lazily, as huge smiles greet the announced foul. These manicured nails delicately encircle bottles of imported mineral water. Dainty sips are taken. An occasional male belly-laugh is heard in response to the truly impressive invective echoing from across the field.
Later the winners, with their children in tow (the actual players who won the game for these ecstatic adults) celebrate the victory at a pizza palace. Silence is called for, and someone proposes a prayer of thanksgiving. Impatient children scowl as they bow their heads, eyes firmly fixed on the piece of pizza that will be claimed as soon as the interminable prayer is over. O give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good
In India, a three-year-old girl squats in a shanty. Her tiny fingers are stitching together the six-sided pieces of leather that will ultimately become a soccer ball. She earns six cents an hour for her work. Her hands are too small to manipulate scissors, so her older sister does the cutting for her. At the end of her labors, approximately sixty cents and ten hours later, the shiny new soccer ball will be ready to be shipped to the USA. There, with a major name brand proudly emblazoned on its skin, it will command a price of $30 to $50.
In Pakistan alone, an estimated eleven million children work for similar wages, in equally squalid conditions. The median age of children entering this dead-end workforce is seven. Stitching sheds dot the countryside, filled with children workers who have been sold by their poverty-stricken parents for as little as $15 each. O give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good, for his mercy endureth.
In a luxury apartment overlooking Central Park, an enraged matron screams at her maid for spilling coffee on the hall carpet. Tiffany jewelry jangling with her furious movements, the outraged employer asks the terrified employee if she knows how much that imported carpet cost. The maid stares at the floor, silently shaking her head to indicate no. At the end of the tirade, the maid is directed to fetch cold water and towels, with the full understanding that her employment ends at the precise moment that the coffee stain is deemed permanent.
Sputtering with impatience, the matron flips open her cell phone and calls the caterer. Just how many calls, she is wondering, will it take to arrange for a simple ice sculpture and food and drink for two hundred people? Her daughter's wedding is only two weeks away, and none of the plans has been finalized yet. The florist caused her most recent ulcer flare-up. Why should she suffer just because there was a killer frost in some God-forsaken backwater? She wanted orchids and roses to be an exact shade of pink, and she knew that's why hot houses had been invented. So what was the problem?
Now she slammed her phone closed while the caterer was still trying to explain about some sort of warm spell in Minnesota that made the orange caviar unavailable this season. Warm, cold, this wedding was going to be the death of her. She took two Valium and began to calm down.
The calm was short-lived, however, as she watched the maid's futile attempts on the hall carpet. She had paid $2,000 for that damn rug! Too late to buy another one before the wedding. She had her firing speech all prepared, but decided to postpone it. She needed the maid for the wedding. Afterwards, she would fire her, deducting carpet cleaning charges from the severance pay. There would be no references, of course.
At last, though, the glorious wedding day arrived, sunny and beautiful. As she watched her lovely daughter affirming her marriage vows, she closed her tear-glistened eyes briefly and offered a silent prayer of thanks. Her twenty-year-old daughter had her whole life in front of her, with her handsome, pre-law bridegroom. A flicker of a smile crossed her face as she added an addendum to her short prayer. She thanked God that the stain had been removed from her precious carpet after all-and for only $250. There was no doubt in her mind at all. God had truly blessed her.
Half way around the world, in a gloomy, airless room, a ten-year-old boy squats in front of a carpet loom, tying knots. He will stay in this position for twelve to thirteen hours daily, six days a week. He will earn about two dollars for a week's work, the results of which will be an exquisite carpet that will sell for $2,000 in the USA. He is coughing and hacking as his lungs fill up with carpet lint. His spine is becoming deformed from his perpetual squat. Like many of the boys around him, he will not live to see his twentieth birthday . . . .
O give thanks unto the Lord; for he is good; for his mercy endureth for ever.
I Chronicles 16:34.
From http://www.thehappyheretic.com/
On the other side of the field, equally coiffured heads tilt sideways, lazily, as huge smiles greet the announced foul. These manicured nails delicately encircle bottles of imported mineral water. Dainty sips are taken. An occasional male belly-laugh is heard in response to the truly impressive invective echoing from across the field.
Later the winners, with their children in tow (the actual players who won the game for these ecstatic adults) celebrate the victory at a pizza palace. Silence is called for, and someone proposes a prayer of thanksgiving. Impatient children scowl as they bow their heads, eyes firmly fixed on the piece of pizza that will be claimed as soon as the interminable prayer is over. O give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good
In India, a three-year-old girl squats in a shanty. Her tiny fingers are stitching together the six-sided pieces of leather that will ultimately become a soccer ball. She earns six cents an hour for her work. Her hands are too small to manipulate scissors, so her older sister does the cutting for her. At the end of her labors, approximately sixty cents and ten hours later, the shiny new soccer ball will be ready to be shipped to the USA. There, with a major name brand proudly emblazoned on its skin, it will command a price of $30 to $50.
In Pakistan alone, an estimated eleven million children work for similar wages, in equally squalid conditions. The median age of children entering this dead-end workforce is seven. Stitching sheds dot the countryside, filled with children workers who have been sold by their poverty-stricken parents for as little as $15 each. O give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good, for his mercy endureth.
In a luxury apartment overlooking Central Park, an enraged matron screams at her maid for spilling coffee on the hall carpet. Tiffany jewelry jangling with her furious movements, the outraged employer asks the terrified employee if she knows how much that imported carpet cost. The maid stares at the floor, silently shaking her head to indicate no. At the end of the tirade, the maid is directed to fetch cold water and towels, with the full understanding that her employment ends at the precise moment that the coffee stain is deemed permanent.
Sputtering with impatience, the matron flips open her cell phone and calls the caterer. Just how many calls, she is wondering, will it take to arrange for a simple ice sculpture and food and drink for two hundred people? Her daughter's wedding is only two weeks away, and none of the plans has been finalized yet. The florist caused her most recent ulcer flare-up. Why should she suffer just because there was a killer frost in some God-forsaken backwater? She wanted orchids and roses to be an exact shade of pink, and she knew that's why hot houses had been invented. So what was the problem?
Now she slammed her phone closed while the caterer was still trying to explain about some sort of warm spell in Minnesota that made the orange caviar unavailable this season. Warm, cold, this wedding was going to be the death of her. She took two Valium and began to calm down.
The calm was short-lived, however, as she watched the maid's futile attempts on the hall carpet. She had paid $2,000 for that damn rug! Too late to buy another one before the wedding. She had her firing speech all prepared, but decided to postpone it. She needed the maid for the wedding. Afterwards, she would fire her, deducting carpet cleaning charges from the severance pay. There would be no references, of course.
At last, though, the glorious wedding day arrived, sunny and beautiful. As she watched her lovely daughter affirming her marriage vows, she closed her tear-glistened eyes briefly and offered a silent prayer of thanks. Her twenty-year-old daughter had her whole life in front of her, with her handsome, pre-law bridegroom. A flicker of a smile crossed her face as she added an addendum to her short prayer. She thanked God that the stain had been removed from her precious carpet after all-and for only $250. There was no doubt in her mind at all. God had truly blessed her.
Half way around the world, in a gloomy, airless room, a ten-year-old boy squats in front of a carpet loom, tying knots. He will stay in this position for twelve to thirteen hours daily, six days a week. He will earn about two dollars for a week's work, the results of which will be an exquisite carpet that will sell for $2,000 in the USA. He is coughing and hacking as his lungs fill up with carpet lint. His spine is becoming deformed from his perpetual squat. Like many of the boys around him, he will not live to see his twentieth birthday . . . .
O give thanks unto the Lord; for he is good; for his mercy endureth for ever.
I Chronicles 16:34.
From http://www.thehappyheretic.com/
I'd knock on wood, but my desk is particle board.