*Dear Tourist,
I’m glad you decided to come to the museum today. I love sharing all of our treasures with you. However, you have some habits we should discuss.
See those sparkling-clean case windows? I didn’t spend a half an hour before you came in carefully Windexing them so your toddler would have a nice, clean surface to which to press his chocolate, catsup and snot-encrusted face. I beg leave to inform you that the glass is a solid and doesn’t dissapear, though I have to admit to being a bit amused when you forget its presence and stub your finger against it repeatedly as you reach out to touch the Bright, Shiny Thing therein.
It’s a wonderful thing to bring children to a museum and expose them to our rich history, but I have doubts that a two-year-old is going to appreciate spending two hours or more in a place where they can’t touch, can’t run, and can’t scream. Nor do I appreciate being delegated to trail around after your Little Darling to ensure he doesn’t do such things.
“Stay with your group” includes YOU. The rest of the people on the tour get a bit testy when I keep having to interrupt to go searching to see where you’ve wandered off to and fetch you back. Yes, I know you’re not going to break anything. I trust you explicitly, nylon-clad stranger, but there are these silly rules set up by people who don’t have such an intimate understanding of your amazingly oil-less hands or your complete confidence that you won’t drop that priceless object you so blithely grabbed.
Yes, I know it’s our mistake in assuming that ropes, barriers and an escort will be enough to keep you from grabbing things. But we’re poor, see? We don’t get much in the way of federal funds, and we’re encasing items as our budget allows. Until then, we hope that the normal signals such as a big fucking barrier and a huge sign that says DO NOT TOUCH will suggest that you should keep your grubby hands off, and failing that, a gentle reminder from your guide should suffice. (Despite my repeated requests, the board has not seen fit to equip me with a cattle prod.)
Dearest tourist, I have to wonder if you come from a place ignorant of indoor plumbing. You look like an American, and you posess our grating American accent. Your grandiose sense of entitlement practically screams that you’re an American, and you apparently have the means to travel. How is it that you are unaware of how a toilet functions?
I’ll give you some pointers. You pee inside the bowl. This is not a gas station rest-stop. There is no need to pee from a distance to ensure that your pristine bottom does not come in contact with any of our fixtures.
See that little silver handle? Should you depress it, your leavings will swirl away like magic. Perhaps you were proud of what you left floating in the bowl, or perhaps you are an environmentalist who is worried about excess water consumption. Nevertheless, no one wants to use a toilet brimming with your waste. It will be flushed, not left as a monument to your visit.
To the left of the sinks, you will see a tall, square receptical. This is known colloquially as a “trash can.” Into it, you deposit your paper towels, mint wrappers and personal hygiene products. It looks like you may have a vague notion of the item’s purpose, because you placed your trash in its general vicinity, or possibly made a feeble attempt to aim for its cavernous maw. My momma always said that if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. By this, I mean if your paper towel flutters to the floor, it’s considered to be the correct thing to do to pick it up and put it into the can.
Whilst touring the museum, it is not exactly enjoyable to delay the rest of the group with a long explanation of your geneology. Yes, your long line of farmers is fascinating to you, but the rest of us don’t give a flying fuck. Nor do I particularly care that your aunt has a butter churn just like that one. No, I don’t care where she got it, or where she decided to place it in her home. Listening to you expound on a chair “just like that” that your grandmother once had but was burned in a fire simply represents fifteen minutes of my life that I will never get back.
Please do not argue with me. I’m not making up these dates, facts and historical tales as I go along. I don’t care how many John Wayne movies you’ve watched-- it doesn’t make you an expert on history. We spent years with experts making sure our replica buildings and exhibits are accurate. We’re not about to change the building because of something you’re sure you saw on Little House on the Prairie.
Nor is the tour the time to share your political views. Lecturing to the group at large why blacks were better off under slavery doesn’t make you look smart. It makes you look like an asshole, and a stupid asshole at that. Nor should you ramble on and on about how things were better in the past because everyone had “Jesus in their hearts.”
Which brings me to another point: If you are a Young Earth Creationist, you’re likely not going to enjoy our prehistoric cultures and fossil exhibits. Neither will the rest of the group enjoy your protests that the dates on the lables are “wrong.” See those people over there, rolling their eyes and shifting uncomfrotably on their feet? It means they’re not interested. They just wanna see the fossils and stone tools, so shut up.
I enjoy questions. I like talking about history-- that’s why I work here. But it’s no fun answering a question I’ve just addressed, as in: “This is a car made in 1900.” “Wow! What year was it made?”
Thank you for your kind attention to these issues.
Your guide,
Lissa *
