My father did not walk me down the aisle at my wedding. He was unable to make it there.
The man I met at 19 years old was a father to me and due to circumstances outside of any illusion of control we think we have over our lives as we spin on this rock, he was not able to come to my big day.
Months before he passed, we had a long telephone conversation. He was sick but wasn't coming out and saying what he felt, what he feared and what he knew. How much pain he was in. What was keeping him from going to get medical attention. Instead, as he was wasting away, he told me he had lost some weight and would likely be able to fit into one of his vintage suits.
I walked while I talked with him, as I am prone to do. It was nice out and I walked all around my patio and backyard, where we were planning on holding our wedding initially. I told him about what I was planning to do, what it would look like, how I would have the tables set, and the parts I hadn't totally nailed down yet. We talked food and flowers and dresses and weather, colors and people and music. I put the vision in my head into words. I showed him my wedding exactly as I saw it.
This was a special moment in time. A conversation shared between just the two of us. I had no idea at the time how important that phone call was. For him it was a beautiful story, a visual of what was to come, a plan for the future, a wonderful distraction.
For me, it came to represent the way he would know that day. In his mind, he had seen everything. Neither of us knew he wouldn't see it with his own eyes.
In April of 2011, Barry was admitted to the hospital. I was called while at the table of a family dinner with my in laws, and I spoke to my sister who told me he had said he was in incredible pain. She went to him and he looked awful. We had not seen him very recently and while I had heard he wasn't feeling well, I also had been told he was seeing the doctor regularly. That was only part of the story.
Barry was taken to the hospital on a Sunday and I saw him Monday with my younger brother Chris. We walked into the room and saw a skeleton of our father. A frame with his features spoke to us. I brought him some books to read and offered to go get him anything he needed from his house. I had quit yet another shitty job and it was ok, I had the time, I told him.
We left that room and I looked straight ahead as we left the building. At the car, I told Chris, "I am no doctor, and I don't know what they are going to say, but I do know this. Barry is dying. Of cancer."
Chris asked if I was sure. I was sure. In the gravest way about the worst thing, I was sure. The books would never be opened. He barely had the energy to speak to us. We had left so he could go back to sleep. I would never hold a real conversation with him again.
He had a massive stroke before they could do the biopsy. We had already gotten in touch with his daughter in England. She spoke to us, the doctors, the passport office. Arrangements were made.
We were told that his body had started the process of dying. That he had maybe a week. Hospice was called, he was moved to a private facility and we moved in and out of that room for the next several days holding vigil. We lived in that room, ate, slept, made plans, laughed, lived and cried.
On one of my short visits to my house, I watched as my husband took a call from his mother. I saw his face fall, then crumble into a carved mask of pain. A man I never see cry was unable to speak through his tears. I couldn't understand what was happening. Then it came out. His cousin, a life long sufferer of a very serious mental health issue, had taken her own life. The air left the room. I couldn't understand what was happening or what to do next. Through my own exhaustion and grief, I did not see how we would ever find our way out of this.
Three days later, I started making calls of my own.
Barry passed away the day after his daughter arrived. When she was alone with him and I had gone to the store next to the hospice to get us something to eat. I believe he waited for her. We had kept telling him she was coming.
I walked into the facility with the bag of food in my hand and I knew. I've never felt anything like that. It is a somber place, unusually quiet on all occasions but this was different. I turned the hall to his room and every step was a thundering echo in my ears. I made myself open the door. Amanda turned and we both collapsed into tears as she nodded to me, as if to say, Yes. Yes. He is gone.
There were many tears shed. A life lost. A blurred week of time spent with Amanda to have things handled and to help her get home with what she wanted to take back.
We got married in the Spring of 2012.
It was a small backyard wedding at the nearby home of a friend. A mild March day. I had suggested that we have a moment of silence or some sort of remembrance to honor those who could not be in attendance. I think the pain was too raw and too real and no one wanted that pointed out on this, a happy day, so I was shot down. In hindsight, that may have not been a mistake. Maybe we were not there, in the place where we could acknowledge the pain of our losses on a day where we gained so much. I don't know if I am there even now.
My brother walked me down the aisle. I carried a bouquet that cost more than my off the rack dress from a clearance department store. We ate and drank and danced and sang and when I looked around throughout the night, I saw it. The vision I had painted with words. It was exactly as I had envisioned, and just as I told Barry it would be. Whether there is any 'looking down' from any other place after death or not, I know that I held true to my vision and I know now just how much that last phone call meant to both of us.
Wednesday, May 4, 2016
Wednesday, February 3, 2016
Socialist Assassin
I was in high school, I believe when the thought first occurred to me.
I am the kind of person who could be a paid assassin. I don't know how it came up, maybe watching a movie, or talking about that kind of thing with friends. Sorting out our personality quirks was one of the things high school kids did regularly.
The realization came quietly, like a banal statement about the weather or stock market, registering no real response from me. All the same, it was fully realized, a sure thing that I had just that moment come to see in myself.
Over the years, the thought has come up here and there. I realize that other people do not relish the thought of taking another human life (and I don't, either!) but I know that deep down I wouldn't have a problem with it in the right instance, either.
Here is how it plays out in my head:
1. Someone wants this person dead so badly as to relieve themselves of a lot of money to get it done.
2. This is most certainly a bad person. I would never be able to take contracts out for children, or innocent people being murdered for their life insurance policy. This is state level killing, of the type of murderous criminal who is going to cost far more people their lives if not removed from the earth.
3. The planet is overcrowded as it is. This stain of a human being needs to go.
4. Someone is going to get paid to do this. The mark is as good as dead already. That much we can be sure of. So why not take the money?
5. This is a transfer of wealth. The kind of government organizations that can pay the exorbitant sum to a trained assassin to rid the earth of such a person are surely in possession of too much cash, obviously gained under unequal circumstances to the average person, and I am a mere consultant of the masses. This is a subversive socialist action against capitalism while acting within its realm.
As far as I can tell, I do not harbor any other sociopathic or psychotic tendencies. I have real and warm attachments to many people and would never harm an animal (even if paid to do so). I do not have social or behavioral problems, I don't lie on my taxes, I drive at a lawful speed and I generally conform to the rules of society. Other than my leanings as a militant feminist and liberal, you might not ever know I am capable of such a thing. (This also makes for a great cover. Not that I've given it much thought.)
Alas, the opportunity has never arisen, and I never pursued it with military organizations, but suffice it to say- during the zombie apocalypse, I could easily deal with the hordes of the undead, and you better believe I am looting those bodies for cash or valuables.
A girl has to make a living, after all.
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
You Are Running Your Business Into The Ground
I have worked at the front desk of a real estate office, insurance office, after school workshop company, science and math kit sales company, college television station office, college disability services office, and many more temporary or part time office jobs in which I was charged with being the point of contact to the public for my organization.
I have learned many things doing the least respected of jobs, and one of them was how to make my life easier by making sure that communication flowed freely and that everyone knew what was happening and what to expect next. It really cuts down on the laser beam looks of hate while people are angry at someone or something beyond you.
Today was such a great example of how not to run a business, that I wish I could bottle it and send it out. This is a really important lesson for anyone who runs a business, particularly if you have placed a sentinel between you and the walk in traffic and appointments that frequent your corner of the world.
Hospitality is key. Never forget that. If someone feels unwelcome, it is nearly impossible to come back from that.
Here is how today played out and inspired this post:
Our dog needed his follow up x rays for his surgically repaired knee. This was one hell of an expensive surgery and the x rays are no different. We have been here several times, and it is always a hit to the pocketbook.
The surgeon came highly recommended by our regular vet and we are happy with the job she and her team did to repair our dog's leg. They even give us a copy of the x rays if you ask for them.
That said, we will not be back. Ever.
This morning, I took our heavily tranquilized 100+ pound dog to the office for his 10:00 appointment. We were acknowledged on our way in, the woman at the desk did not even need his name or my name, she said "Hi, I will get you checked in." Great. That is perfect. We are a couple minutes early and we will sit and wait.
10:10 rolls around. The front desk technician asks if anyone has come to talk to me or take him back. I say no, no one has been out yet. She disappears.
A few moments later, and she is giving furtive glances around the corner of her window while whispering with another tech. Ok, not my concern. Lots of other things going on here, I am sure.
Ten more minutes go by. I see our doctor. I smile, she smiles. She has a whispered conversation with the woman at the front desk. No one says anything to me, my dog is at my feet, we are going to keep waiting. For now.
Five more minutes go by. At this point, a woman and her dog come in, the first people to come or go from the facility in the time I have been there. She is greeted warmly, taken back to a room with her dog (which is the usual procedure with us as well) and still....no one talks to me. I text my husband and say that at 30 minutes I am going to have to ask them why they had me drug our dog and sit in the waiting room for a simple x ray that doesn't seem like it is going to happen. I will be furious if I drugged my dog only to sit and then have to reschedule. I won't do it to him.
35 minutes after our scheduled appointment, a technician comes out. I have met her before, nice lady...I look at my watch and say "uh, I thought our appointment was at 10?" She says, "yes, we have other appointments going on right now"... we can easily see through the glass front that almost all of the exam room doors are open to empty rooms, (except the one where the earlier mentioned woman and her dog are). I said "Yes, I'm sure but it would not have hurt to let me know that the appointment would be running late." She skips past that, going through her list of questions about how he is doing, etc. and then has me put a muzzle on him so she can take him back for x rays.
Uh....what? Why am in the lobby still? No exam room to speak with the doctor after she looks at the radiographs? All of those rooms appear open and clean, what is going on? The lady at the font disappears for a bit.
I wait a few moments and I go upfront to pay. The woman comes back, tells me she can take my payment, but that they may have to run it again if there is additional medicine prescribed etc. I said sure, that was fine, but he is not taking anything now and I don't anticipate that so I would like to pay while he is back there (since I have already been made to wait extensively without any indication of why or when we would be seen, I would like to leave as soon as possible).
She almost begrudgingly takes my payment and gives me my receipt. Wow. You just charged what 4 regular vet visits cost and you act like it is a personal affront to take my money? The doctor comes out, speaks to me in the lobby (???) about the x rays, says yeah we won't need another visit (which I knew) and there is no need for medicine or anything at this time so we should be all set, just let us know if there are any changes. Yep. Great. Let's leave.
Never, during all of this time, did anyone say a single word to me about what was going on, why I was waiting forever with an empty parking lot and empty rooms.... nothing. Several times the staff found a way to have hushed conversations with each other in full view of the lobby where I waited. I felt disrespected, kept in the lobby like a contagion, and hurried once they found the time to deal with my long standing appointment.
This is the worst type of customer service.
Do not let these people do this to your hard work.
If you have managed to start a business or go to veterinary school or get your CPA or start your own law practice, etc. DO NOT just hire someone with the "right experience" and post them at the front desk and hope that it all works out.
Because behind your hard work and the well crafted exterior and all of your thoughtfulness about how to keep your business booming and customers returning, a snake lurks.
This is how it happens. I am not calling a veterinary surgeon to complain about her front desk tech. I am not ever going to make it my problem to manage your employees. I will however, be taking my money elsewhere for future needs of this type and me and my cash will never darken your doorway again, but you will have no idea why.
Everyone has a bad day once in a while. But if you make it a policy to ignore paying customers who are patiently waiting for a time you set with them, time they are not at their job, not able to get their errands run because they wanted to honor your time.... you will notice that many of those customers don't have great things to say. They don't come and rave about you on Yelp. They may never speak your name at all.
And even though they don't drag you through the mud, it won't matter. Because the person they saw first and last already pulled you down there. All while you did your level best to provide the service you promised. That they are happy with. It just won't matter.
Be very careful. I say this as someone who has held numerable intolerable jobs for complete narcissists....Learn what your front desk person does. Get to know them. Spend time with them and your customers. It could be all the difference.
I have learned many things doing the least respected of jobs, and one of them was how to make my life easier by making sure that communication flowed freely and that everyone knew what was happening and what to expect next. It really cuts down on the laser beam looks of hate while people are angry at someone or something beyond you.
Today was such a great example of how not to run a business, that I wish I could bottle it and send it out. This is a really important lesson for anyone who runs a business, particularly if you have placed a sentinel between you and the walk in traffic and appointments that frequent your corner of the world.
Hospitality is key. Never forget that. If someone feels unwelcome, it is nearly impossible to come back from that.
Here is how today played out and inspired this post:
Our dog needed his follow up x rays for his surgically repaired knee. This was one hell of an expensive surgery and the x rays are no different. We have been here several times, and it is always a hit to the pocketbook.
The surgeon came highly recommended by our regular vet and we are happy with the job she and her team did to repair our dog's leg. They even give us a copy of the x rays if you ask for them.
That said, we will not be back. Ever.
This morning, I took our heavily tranquilized 100+ pound dog to the office for his 10:00 appointment. We were acknowledged on our way in, the woman at the desk did not even need his name or my name, she said "Hi, I will get you checked in." Great. That is perfect. We are a couple minutes early and we will sit and wait.
10:10 rolls around. The front desk technician asks if anyone has come to talk to me or take him back. I say no, no one has been out yet. She disappears.
A few moments later, and she is giving furtive glances around the corner of her window while whispering with another tech. Ok, not my concern. Lots of other things going on here, I am sure.
Ten more minutes go by. I see our doctor. I smile, she smiles. She has a whispered conversation with the woman at the front desk. No one says anything to me, my dog is at my feet, we are going to keep waiting. For now.
Five more minutes go by. At this point, a woman and her dog come in, the first people to come or go from the facility in the time I have been there. She is greeted warmly, taken back to a room with her dog (which is the usual procedure with us as well) and still....no one talks to me. I text my husband and say that at 30 minutes I am going to have to ask them why they had me drug our dog and sit in the waiting room for a simple x ray that doesn't seem like it is going to happen. I will be furious if I drugged my dog only to sit and then have to reschedule. I won't do it to him.
35 minutes after our scheduled appointment, a technician comes out. I have met her before, nice lady...I look at my watch and say "uh, I thought our appointment was at 10?" She says, "yes, we have other appointments going on right now"... we can easily see through the glass front that almost all of the exam room doors are open to empty rooms, (except the one where the earlier mentioned woman and her dog are). I said "Yes, I'm sure but it would not have hurt to let me know that the appointment would be running late." She skips past that, going through her list of questions about how he is doing, etc. and then has me put a muzzle on him so she can take him back for x rays.
Uh....what? Why am in the lobby still? No exam room to speak with the doctor after she looks at the radiographs? All of those rooms appear open and clean, what is going on? The lady at the font disappears for a bit.
I wait a few moments and I go upfront to pay. The woman comes back, tells me she can take my payment, but that they may have to run it again if there is additional medicine prescribed etc. I said sure, that was fine, but he is not taking anything now and I don't anticipate that so I would like to pay while he is back there (since I have already been made to wait extensively without any indication of why or when we would be seen, I would like to leave as soon as possible).
She almost begrudgingly takes my payment and gives me my receipt. Wow. You just charged what 4 regular vet visits cost and you act like it is a personal affront to take my money? The doctor comes out, speaks to me in the lobby (???) about the x rays, says yeah we won't need another visit (which I knew) and there is no need for medicine or anything at this time so we should be all set, just let us know if there are any changes. Yep. Great. Let's leave.
Never, during all of this time, did anyone say a single word to me about what was going on, why I was waiting forever with an empty parking lot and empty rooms.... nothing. Several times the staff found a way to have hushed conversations with each other in full view of the lobby where I waited. I felt disrespected, kept in the lobby like a contagion, and hurried once they found the time to deal with my long standing appointment.
This is the worst type of customer service.
Do not let these people do this to your hard work.
If you have managed to start a business or go to veterinary school or get your CPA or start your own law practice, etc. DO NOT just hire someone with the "right experience" and post them at the front desk and hope that it all works out.
Because behind your hard work and the well crafted exterior and all of your thoughtfulness about how to keep your business booming and customers returning, a snake lurks.
This is how it happens. I am not calling a veterinary surgeon to complain about her front desk tech. I am not ever going to make it my problem to manage your employees. I will however, be taking my money elsewhere for future needs of this type and me and my cash will never darken your doorway again, but you will have no idea why.
Everyone has a bad day once in a while. But if you make it a policy to ignore paying customers who are patiently waiting for a time you set with them, time they are not at their job, not able to get their errands run because they wanted to honor your time.... you will notice that many of those customers don't have great things to say. They don't come and rave about you on Yelp. They may never speak your name at all.
And even though they don't drag you through the mud, it won't matter. Because the person they saw first and last already pulled you down there. All while you did your level best to provide the service you promised. That they are happy with. It just won't matter.
Be very careful. I say this as someone who has held numerable intolerable jobs for complete narcissists....Learn what your front desk person does. Get to know them. Spend time with them and your customers. It could be all the difference.
Thursday, July 30, 2015
What Are Your Braces?
I grew up poor, the third of six children to uneducated parents that divorced when I was eight. My father wasn't participating in the raising of children when they were married, and he didn't change anything when they split. We did better without him, and he never paid a dime of child support. Lots of people claim poor. What I grew up in can only be described as poverty.
I know- we're off to a very big start on this, but there is no point in hiding who we are...I've learned not to be ashamed of other people's decisions. I have stories to tell, and this is only one of them, so let's get moving.
My mother worked very, very hard. Harder than I have ever worked for anything in my life. She worked two and three jobs to keep a roof over our heads, because she had no education or formal training to trade for more money. All she had was the fire at her back, the risk of losing the electricity and a nest full of hungry mouths to think about.
She had no role models on which to base her decisions. She found out that she could get a job working as a nursing assistant and make more than the terrible minimum wage, so she took the exam and went about breaking her back for the next couple of decades. We had no family to turn to for help. There were no living grandparents, she had no siblings, no one was coming to save the day.
Most times we didn't have health insurance and somehow we got by without public assistance, though surely she would have qualified. She went without to give us food and when she could afford it- clothing, school supplies and whatever she could save up for Christmas. There were no vacations or nice clothes. We were just getting from one day to the next.
One thing my mother was able to do for us, which is nearly unthinkable given the circumstances, is that 4 of her surviving 5 children needed braces, and we each got them.
There are so many things I can look back on in my life and attempt to place blame on for my failings as an adult; I didn't have a stable home life. We moved a lot. I was not well supervised. There was never enough of anything. I didn't have anyone to take an interest when I was in high school and mentor me. No one helped me to apply for scholarships that would have sent me to college for free and I wouldn't be paying off loans now. I could do that all day, but I'd still be sitting right here.
For years now, I have reflected on what made my siblings and I turn out the way we did, though. Despite the hardships in our youth, we have all gone on to attend college and/or find valuable work, becoming productive members of society despite the roads we could have taken. No one is a drug addict or abuses alcohol. No one is (or has been) in jail. We are a statistical anomaly.
My younger brother and I had a conversation years ago, where we talked about this. We all knew how tenuous the situation was growing up. We were well aware of how thin the line was that kept us together and not split up into foster homes. We kept track of each other and we didn't want to put any more stress on our mother than she already had.
When thinking about how we became the people we are, I related that I felt that our braces were the greatest gift our mother gave us in those dark times. So many things change in your life, and therefore shape who you become. Braces made a huge change, and much like the very forces that make them work, we just couldn't see the results until later.
The reality is, that with straight teeth- we could pretend. We could join the ranks of people whose lives weren't a total shit show. We were able to play a role until it became our reality. Braces made it possible for us to outlive our situation and see what it would be like for people to accept us as one of them.
Orthodontics were truly life changing for my siblings and I. Not only for the enormous sacrifice they required, nor the way they affected how others saw us, but mostly for the way they changed how we saw ourselves. Braces increased my sense of self worth, and my belief in my own abilities. I believed that I deserved a college education and that I could do what it took to get it. We were given a gift that was much more valuable than we ever could have appreciated. We were given the chance to be judged on our own merit, the effort we were willing to put forth.
Having braces didn't make me who I am, but they definitely gave me the self confidence I didn't even know I would have lacked. The world is a difficult place, and you never know what tools you will need until you are already in the fight. I needed to be taken seriously for the words I have inside of me. I need to be heard in a way that will give someone else what they need for their own fight. I needed braces for so much more than to correct crooked teeth. In time, they helped me to see that I was more than my struggle. So are you.
I know- we're off to a very big start on this, but there is no point in hiding who we are...I've learned not to be ashamed of other people's decisions. I have stories to tell, and this is only one of them, so let's get moving.
My mother worked very, very hard. Harder than I have ever worked for anything in my life. She worked two and three jobs to keep a roof over our heads, because she had no education or formal training to trade for more money. All she had was the fire at her back, the risk of losing the electricity and a nest full of hungry mouths to think about.
She had no role models on which to base her decisions. She found out that she could get a job working as a nursing assistant and make more than the terrible minimum wage, so she took the exam and went about breaking her back for the next couple of decades. We had no family to turn to for help. There were no living grandparents, she had no siblings, no one was coming to save the day.
Most times we didn't have health insurance and somehow we got by without public assistance, though surely she would have qualified. She went without to give us food and when she could afford it- clothing, school supplies and whatever she could save up for Christmas. There were no vacations or nice clothes. We were just getting from one day to the next.
One thing my mother was able to do for us, which is nearly unthinkable given the circumstances, is that 4 of her surviving 5 children needed braces, and we each got them.
There are so many things I can look back on in my life and attempt to place blame on for my failings as an adult; I didn't have a stable home life. We moved a lot. I was not well supervised. There was never enough of anything. I didn't have anyone to take an interest when I was in high school and mentor me. No one helped me to apply for scholarships that would have sent me to college for free and I wouldn't be paying off loans now. I could do that all day, but I'd still be sitting right here.
For years now, I have reflected on what made my siblings and I turn out the way we did, though. Despite the hardships in our youth, we have all gone on to attend college and/or find valuable work, becoming productive members of society despite the roads we could have taken. No one is a drug addict or abuses alcohol. No one is (or has been) in jail. We are a statistical anomaly.
My younger brother and I had a conversation years ago, where we talked about this. We all knew how tenuous the situation was growing up. We were well aware of how thin the line was that kept us together and not split up into foster homes. We kept track of each other and we didn't want to put any more stress on our mother than she already had.
When thinking about how we became the people we are, I related that I felt that our braces were the greatest gift our mother gave us in those dark times. So many things change in your life, and therefore shape who you become. Braces made a huge change, and much like the very forces that make them work, we just couldn't see the results until later.
The reality is, that with straight teeth- we could pretend. We could join the ranks of people whose lives weren't a total shit show. We were able to play a role until it became our reality. Braces made it possible for us to outlive our situation and see what it would be like for people to accept us as one of them.
Orthodontics were truly life changing for my siblings and I. Not only for the enormous sacrifice they required, nor the way they affected how others saw us, but mostly for the way they changed how we saw ourselves. Braces increased my sense of self worth, and my belief in my own abilities. I believed that I deserved a college education and that I could do what it took to get it. We were given a gift that was much more valuable than we ever could have appreciated. We were given the chance to be judged on our own merit, the effort we were willing to put forth.
Having braces didn't make me who I am, but they definitely gave me the self confidence I didn't even know I would have lacked. The world is a difficult place, and you never know what tools you will need until you are already in the fight. I needed to be taken seriously for the words I have inside of me. I need to be heard in a way that will give someone else what they need for their own fight. I needed braces for so much more than to correct crooked teeth. In time, they helped me to see that I was more than my struggle. So are you.
Monday, July 27, 2015
Junior Assembly and the Girls That Wear Makeup
A while back, I wrote about how I was forcing a 12 year old out of a mental crib and into her real age as a productive member of society. Those days are not long gone, but they are definitely fading in favor of the ones on the horizon. Instead of being horrified at what lies beyond that thin line, I am as giddy as a small child on Christmas Eve. This is where the fun really starts. I actually wrote most of this post nearly a full year ago, so this is even more fun to read / write now.
You see, my lovely daughter is (was when I started this) 13 years old. 13 and 1/2 if truth be told. She is amazing. Smart and articulate, opinionated, a wonderful friend, thoughtful and kind. She is in love with kitten videos and You Tubers and just hung Christmas lights in her bedroom for the first time. She is spectacular.
In the process of being at awkward stages one comes across life's little hurdles and speed bumps, social affairs and obligations. In the nouveau-prep archetype that her charter school models itself after, middle school dances are known as "Junior Assembly".
Sit back and let the privilege hit you.
We asked her about a school dance - it seems to me that by the time I was in 8th grade, I had attended no less than half of dozen of these messes, starting with the ''promotion" dance at the end of 6th grade. In fact, looking back on it, those were not only the social highlight of my middle school life, but they were sanctioned and held by the school. There was one for every holiday, and some made up ones on top of that. It was as if they couldn't wait to get us paired up and dating...
hmmm..that might be a topic for research...anyways...
She casually says, "oh yeah, they had something a while ago, but I didn't sign up for it". Sign up for it? What? You buy tickets at the door, with your wadded up cash in your sweaty hand while wearing a borrowed dress and slingbacks, right?
When we asked why she didn't want to go to this dance, she said without missing a beat: "Only the girls that wear makeup go to those things." Oh. Is that so? The 'girls that wear makeup' sounded too much like 'he who shall not be named' and I snickered. Then I looked up this little affair to see what it was about, since we had not received any information on the event, and who knows? There might be another and she might change her mind.
Oh how the times have changed.
These affairs are no less than practice debutante balls. Sure, the dresses are made out of slightly better fabrics, and the boys have moved from Drakkar Noir to the despicable toxin that is Axe body spray, but these little 'dances' are not the public events for pubescent early teens to attempt vertical dry humping to hip hop music that you and I attended. Nope.
The Junior Assembly is a chance to learn etiquette and show it off to your other clumsy friends and their eager parents. Ahead of these events, students register for their etiquette classes to learn how to behave in a formal setting (BLEH!) The room is filled with anticipation and expectation, all of the fears and desires of upper middle class white parents hoping that this will connect their spawn to the right people and that their fates will be sealed.
No wonder she had no interest. These are not her people. She watches superhero movies and is a major fangirl of the Doctor Who/Sherlock variety. These girls already have an account at Sephora. I for one, am glad to have gotten out of yet another shopping trip wherein I drag her around to try on dresses she has zero interest in, so no skin off my teeth.
And a 14 year old who still doesn't wear makeup? You just don't really understand the gifts that the universe is throwing at you until you have them, do you? She can keep reading and watching Minecraft videos on YouTube for as long as she wants. She's not missing anything.
You see, my lovely daughter is (was when I started this) 13 years old. 13 and 1/2 if truth be told. She is amazing. Smart and articulate, opinionated, a wonderful friend, thoughtful and kind. She is in love with kitten videos and You Tubers and just hung Christmas lights in her bedroom for the first time. She is spectacular.
In the process of being at awkward stages one comes across life's little hurdles and speed bumps, social affairs and obligations. In the nouveau-prep archetype that her charter school models itself after, middle school dances are known as "Junior Assembly".
Sit back and let the privilege hit you.
We asked her about a school dance - it seems to me that by the time I was in 8th grade, I had attended no less than half of dozen of these messes, starting with the ''promotion" dance at the end of 6th grade. In fact, looking back on it, those were not only the social highlight of my middle school life, but they were sanctioned and held by the school. There was one for every holiday, and some made up ones on top of that. It was as if they couldn't wait to get us paired up and dating...
hmmm..that might be a topic for research...anyways...
She casually says, "oh yeah, they had something a while ago, but I didn't sign up for it". Sign up for it? What? You buy tickets at the door, with your wadded up cash in your sweaty hand while wearing a borrowed dress and slingbacks, right?
When we asked why she didn't want to go to this dance, she said without missing a beat: "Only the girls that wear makeup go to those things." Oh. Is that so? The 'girls that wear makeup' sounded too much like 'he who shall not be named' and I snickered. Then I looked up this little affair to see what it was about, since we had not received any information on the event, and who knows? There might be another and she might change her mind.
Oh how the times have changed.
These affairs are no less than practice debutante balls. Sure, the dresses are made out of slightly better fabrics, and the boys have moved from Drakkar Noir to the despicable toxin that is Axe body spray, but these little 'dances' are not the public events for pubescent early teens to attempt vertical dry humping to hip hop music that you and I attended. Nope.
The Junior Assembly is a chance to learn etiquette and show it off to your other clumsy friends and their eager parents. Ahead of these events, students register for their etiquette classes to learn how to behave in a formal setting (BLEH!) The room is filled with anticipation and expectation, all of the fears and desires of upper middle class white parents hoping that this will connect their spawn to the right people and that their fates will be sealed.
No wonder she had no interest. These are not her people. She watches superhero movies and is a major fangirl of the Doctor Who/Sherlock variety. These girls already have an account at Sephora. I for one, am glad to have gotten out of yet another shopping trip wherein I drag her around to try on dresses she has zero interest in, so no skin off my teeth.
And a 14 year old who still doesn't wear makeup? You just don't really understand the gifts that the universe is throwing at you until you have them, do you? She can keep reading and watching Minecraft videos on YouTube for as long as she wants. She's not missing anything.
Saturday, July 25, 2015
Horoscopes and the Levity of Hope
I have an app on my phone to check my horoscope every day. Seriously. I own a set of tarot cards given to me by my mother. I played the Ouija board at sleepovers in middle school.
My numerology life path number is 9, and in the Chinese Zodiac, I am the Sheep. Or the Ram. Or the Goat. That has to be the most difficult language to translate, because all of those animals are for the same year. Also- can you imagine? All people born in the same year share the same traits!?!?
It's ok if you're going to pretend you have no interest in what your life holds or think that there is no secret to the magnificent universe and you have no interest in this. If you plan to continue that way though, this is your trigger warning. Its about to get interesting and I wouldn't want you to waste time here when you could be glowering in a corner, knowing everything. Everyone else- take off your shoes and grab a velour floor cushion. I just lit some patchouli incense and candles to set the mood.
We all want to know what will happen to us, we want to be able to prepare for the tough times and we want something to look forward to. In a way, we also like the idea at times that there are other forces at work, so as to absolve us of all of the responsibility of making our lives great on our own. Why do you think so many people believe that there is an omniscient being who has pre planned their lives for them?
Don't put down my superstition by using your own. Just sayin'...
Sometimes I read my horoscope every day. Then I don't read it for a month. Then I'm back again. The tarot cards are carefully encased in plastic, in case I get really desperate. Or drunk. Doing someone's tarot cards is a fun party trick, I don't care who you are.
The reality is that human brains love a pattern and we try to find them everywhere. That is why we see shapes in clouds and in the texture of the bathroom wall when we take a crap. Yeah...you might not know your numerology life path, but you do see the little scenes in the wall, don't you? Me too.
I don't think it is any coincidence that humans do this. In fact, I think it's a sign of advanced life forms. We are trying to make sense of the world around us. Man has done this since time immemorial. We attach meaning to anything that happens, good or bad. The moon creates the tides, so why couldn't the time you were born affect your mind? And who cares if it is wrong? So one day you were advised to keep a lid on your opinions when you could have spouted them off more freely? Hmm..maybe that's not such a problem, is it?
Many of us just need something outside ourselves to get along. Many days it is a good red wine. Some days I am practically pulled along by my faith in the capacity of human beings and the fascination with the vastness of the universe in which I don't register as large as a speck. But some days we all want to know that someone knows more. That there are secrets we could tap into that would expose the "right" way to live our life, the timing that would make it all work out the way we envision it.
We need hope. Something to believe in. And an excuse for days we feel like being an asshole. So much easier to blame that on the stars. As for me, I know it might all be for nothing. Even so, I leave myself open to the possibility- that there is more than I know, that we are all connected in some way, and that those lucky numbers might be my ticket to riches.
Don't ask me my sign at a bar, though. I'll lie to you and make up a persona to match your preconceived notions about that sign. I might be interested in this stuff, but that is a tired line for anyone not wearing a mock turtleneck. What a weirdo, amirite?
My numerology life path number is 9, and in the Chinese Zodiac, I am the Sheep. Or the Ram. Or the Goat. That has to be the most difficult language to translate, because all of those animals are for the same year. Also- can you imagine? All people born in the same year share the same traits!?!?
It's ok if you're going to pretend you have no interest in what your life holds or think that there is no secret to the magnificent universe and you have no interest in this. If you plan to continue that way though, this is your trigger warning. Its about to get interesting and I wouldn't want you to waste time here when you could be glowering in a corner, knowing everything. Everyone else- take off your shoes and grab a velour floor cushion. I just lit some patchouli incense and candles to set the mood.
We all want to know what will happen to us, we want to be able to prepare for the tough times and we want something to look forward to. In a way, we also like the idea at times that there are other forces at work, so as to absolve us of all of the responsibility of making our lives great on our own. Why do you think so many people believe that there is an omniscient being who has pre planned their lives for them?
Don't put down my superstition by using your own. Just sayin'...
Sometimes I read my horoscope every day. Then I don't read it for a month. Then I'm back again. The tarot cards are carefully encased in plastic, in case I get really desperate. Or drunk. Doing someone's tarot cards is a fun party trick, I don't care who you are.
The reality is that human brains love a pattern and we try to find them everywhere. That is why we see shapes in clouds and in the texture of the bathroom wall when we take a crap. Yeah...you might not know your numerology life path, but you do see the little scenes in the wall, don't you? Me too.
I don't think it is any coincidence that humans do this. In fact, I think it's a sign of advanced life forms. We are trying to make sense of the world around us. Man has done this since time immemorial. We attach meaning to anything that happens, good or bad. The moon creates the tides, so why couldn't the time you were born affect your mind? And who cares if it is wrong? So one day you were advised to keep a lid on your opinions when you could have spouted them off more freely? Hmm..maybe that's not such a problem, is it?
Many of us just need something outside ourselves to get along. Many days it is a good red wine. Some days I am practically pulled along by my faith in the capacity of human beings and the fascination with the vastness of the universe in which I don't register as large as a speck. But some days we all want to know that someone knows more. That there are secrets we could tap into that would expose the "right" way to live our life, the timing that would make it all work out the way we envision it.
We need hope. Something to believe in. And an excuse for days we feel like being an asshole. So much easier to blame that on the stars. As for me, I know it might all be for nothing. Even so, I leave myself open to the possibility- that there is more than I know, that we are all connected in some way, and that those lucky numbers might be my ticket to riches.
Don't ask me my sign at a bar, though. I'll lie to you and make up a persona to match your preconceived notions about that sign. I might be interested in this stuff, but that is a tired line for anyone not wearing a mock turtleneck. What a weirdo, amirite?
Friday, July 24, 2015
I QUIT!
It has been a while since I posted here. I've got tons of posts in draft form, some quite old now... that I never finished. Ideas I started, then let languish in the beating sun of my intolerable existence at work. Things have been weird. And amazing. Please, come in.
One month ago today was my last day at work. June 25, 2015 was the last day I worked.
Not just my last day at my job. This is an important distinction. It was my last day "at work". I quit my very last job. The last time I will trade my hours for the currency determined by others so I can make them more money, or make them look better. If we're using my time and talents, I'll be the one making the decisions, thank you.
Let me back up a bit. It really has been a while. When I read this later, I might not even be able to make sense of what happened without a record of it...
About 5 years ago I was looking for a job. That was the intention I put out into the universe. I hated my employer and left to save my soul - and had nothing lined up. So I was desperately looking for a job. I said it over and over...a job, a job, a job.
I only put one small caveat around 'a job' and that was that I knew I needed some sort of meaning to my work so I wanted to go to work for the public university or community college system where I live. I got my education there and I knew how important it was to find someone who knew what they were doing to help you on your journey. I wanted to be that person for others. To democratize higher education. Just because you don't come from money shouldn't mean you don't get the same chance to do something with your life, right? Right! So that was my thinking...
As the universe does, it provided. I was hired to the community college system. Day 1 was a nightmare and the next 3 years were just compounding layers of terrible. I met the worst boss I have come across in all my years of working. Things went from bad to worse. Not only was I not doing anything meaningful to help students, I could not afford to quit. Depression set in and got comfortable. I fought the good fight. Then one day, a manager threw something at me in his frustration with another manager....I was quickly transferred to another campus. Mostly so I wouldn't sue.
This seemed to be a great change. A period of wonderful things ensued. I met an incredible boss who gave me the first look I have ever had at leadership without dictatorship. THE.FIRST.ONE.EVER.
Nearly a year into this, when I was unsure of my future, toeing the waters of maybe going to graduate school again and putting that idea and message out, the universe provided again. Somehow all of the "gifts" bestowed upon me have seemed more like an anvil dropped from a cliff, but hindsight is 20/20 and I know now what a present this one was.
The college decided that I was doing such a good job, that I was so competent, that they would see what I was really made of. A dean who had successfully sued the system several times for discrimination (and had a long history of people working for her who would leave in tears,) was dropped into my lap after her secretary walked out.
Already overworked and without authority to change what was happening, I started calling out for help from underneath the weight of this new development. I used the tools I had been given, the path promised to employees to rectify situations like these. I was not hired to babysit this incompetent dinosaur. I had 500 students to be responsible to, for federally mandated disability accommodations. That cannot go unnoticed, right?
I learned a few things in this effort; namely, that people will do anything to stifle the screams of someone hurt by their own actions. Also, that being right was not the same as being vindicated. I learned that you can go to work every day, do your absolute best, be loved by coworkers, supervisors and students, and none of it matters if the rock dropped on you screams louder than you do. A number of changes took place at a level I could not see and the path evaporated....people suddenly left or retired with no notice. I was alone.
I spent months in a strange place. I loved my students, I was proud of my work, I was abandoned by my leaders. I let the college know I was planning to leave in the summer to attend graduate school. Truly, if this person had not been dropped in my path, I would have stayed longer. Too long. I needed the push to get me out of my complacency. Since things weren't as terrible as before, I would have continued on. An object in motion and all of that...
Another amazing thing happened. My boss, the one shining light throughout the tunnel of bureaucratic bullshit, put in her notice. I knew I couldn't stay without the buffer zone she created, and I made my last day the same as hers. That forced me to put a date to the end and stick with it. Together, we walked out, leaving a vacuum to fill where two dedicated, competent and overworked people had been. Not only had I gotten the anvil off my chest, I had the distinct pleasure of dropping it off right back where it belonged, onto the laps of people who pretended I wasn't crushed underneath it, begging for their help.
During the darkness, I discovered things about myself with clarity I cannot ever expect to have again, so I made the most of it. I am not a worker bee. I never have been. I spent years fighting that, because I believed that I had to just work harder at it and I would BECOME a better worker bee. It is alright, there are hundreds of people who need the jobs I have left. I don't feel guilty. The students will get the help they need or they will go elsewhere, like every other consumer. If the school doesn't do the right thing by students with disabilities, the government will shut their doors. The institutional problems that plagued my time at the college system I so admired are not mine. I did not make them, I did nothing but try to help and I know I left things a damn sight better than I found them. I take comfort in that and I sleep very well.
I cannot take orders from someone who is being floated along. It does not make me an asshole that I can't make a daisy out of a pile of shit everyone refuses to pick up and throw away. That is the work of earthworms and I am not one of those either.
To be honest, I don't know what I am. I've been searching for years to find myself. There have been so many things in the way of me, that I couldn't get a clear vision. Some of the things I put there myself. I just found that out. Again...even more this time...
I quit my job and I'm not looking for another one. I have not determined what I am doing about graduate school yet either. That's right. No job, no plan. I spent a year doing the only thing I could control and that was figuring the money part out so that I could walk away. From the job, and from the version of myself that was taught to sit there and take it, so I could exchange my pride and intelligence for a measly paycheck.
That was the hardest step and the first step. So often they are the same.
I spent a year reading personal finance blogs and inspiration pieces and listening to meditative music on YouTube to quell the panic attacks. I wrote and rewrote our household budget, over and over and over again. I knew I needed out and I was looking for permission. No wonder I haven't figured out my life yet- I just realized that I am the one in control.
So I gave myself permission. I changed some things in my life so I could change everything in my life. Maybe, just maybe, with enough perseverance, the clarity of space and time to figure out who I am, and the passion to create a better existence for others- I can change a lot more than that.
One month ago today was my last day at work. June 25, 2015 was the last day I worked.
Not just my last day at my job. This is an important distinction. It was my last day "at work". I quit my very last job. The last time I will trade my hours for the currency determined by others so I can make them more money, or make them look better. If we're using my time and talents, I'll be the one making the decisions, thank you.
Let me back up a bit. It really has been a while. When I read this later, I might not even be able to make sense of what happened without a record of it...
About 5 years ago I was looking for a job. That was the intention I put out into the universe. I hated my employer and left to save my soul - and had nothing lined up. So I was desperately looking for a job. I said it over and over...a job, a job, a job.
I only put one small caveat around 'a job' and that was that I knew I needed some sort of meaning to my work so I wanted to go to work for the public university or community college system where I live. I got my education there and I knew how important it was to find someone who knew what they were doing to help you on your journey. I wanted to be that person for others. To democratize higher education. Just because you don't come from money shouldn't mean you don't get the same chance to do something with your life, right? Right! So that was my thinking...
As the universe does, it provided. I was hired to the community college system. Day 1 was a nightmare and the next 3 years were just compounding layers of terrible. I met the worst boss I have come across in all my years of working. Things went from bad to worse. Not only was I not doing anything meaningful to help students, I could not afford to quit. Depression set in and got comfortable. I fought the good fight. Then one day, a manager threw something at me in his frustration with another manager....I was quickly transferred to another campus. Mostly so I wouldn't sue.
This seemed to be a great change. A period of wonderful things ensued. I met an incredible boss who gave me the first look I have ever had at leadership without dictatorship. THE.FIRST.ONE.EVER.
Nearly a year into this, when I was unsure of my future, toeing the waters of maybe going to graduate school again and putting that idea and message out, the universe provided again. Somehow all of the "gifts" bestowed upon me have seemed more like an anvil dropped from a cliff, but hindsight is 20/20 and I know now what a present this one was.
The college decided that I was doing such a good job, that I was so competent, that they would see what I was really made of. A dean who had successfully sued the system several times for discrimination (and had a long history of people working for her who would leave in tears,) was dropped into my lap after her secretary walked out.
Already overworked and without authority to change what was happening, I started calling out for help from underneath the weight of this new development. I used the tools I had been given, the path promised to employees to rectify situations like these. I was not hired to babysit this incompetent dinosaur. I had 500 students to be responsible to, for federally mandated disability accommodations. That cannot go unnoticed, right?
I learned a few things in this effort; namely, that people will do anything to stifle the screams of someone hurt by their own actions. Also, that being right was not the same as being vindicated. I learned that you can go to work every day, do your absolute best, be loved by coworkers, supervisors and students, and none of it matters if the rock dropped on you screams louder than you do. A number of changes took place at a level I could not see and the path evaporated....people suddenly left or retired with no notice. I was alone.
I spent months in a strange place. I loved my students, I was proud of my work, I was abandoned by my leaders. I let the college know I was planning to leave in the summer to attend graduate school. Truly, if this person had not been dropped in my path, I would have stayed longer. Too long. I needed the push to get me out of my complacency. Since things weren't as terrible as before, I would have continued on. An object in motion and all of that...
Another amazing thing happened. My boss, the one shining light throughout the tunnel of bureaucratic bullshit, put in her notice. I knew I couldn't stay without the buffer zone she created, and I made my last day the same as hers. That forced me to put a date to the end and stick with it. Together, we walked out, leaving a vacuum to fill where two dedicated, competent and overworked people had been. Not only had I gotten the anvil off my chest, I had the distinct pleasure of dropping it off right back where it belonged, onto the laps of people who pretended I wasn't crushed underneath it, begging for their help.
During the darkness, I discovered things about myself with clarity I cannot ever expect to have again, so I made the most of it. I am not a worker bee. I never have been. I spent years fighting that, because I believed that I had to just work harder at it and I would BECOME a better worker bee. It is alright, there are hundreds of people who need the jobs I have left. I don't feel guilty. The students will get the help they need or they will go elsewhere, like every other consumer. If the school doesn't do the right thing by students with disabilities, the government will shut their doors. The institutional problems that plagued my time at the college system I so admired are not mine. I did not make them, I did nothing but try to help and I know I left things a damn sight better than I found them. I take comfort in that and I sleep very well.
I cannot take orders from someone who is being floated along. It does not make me an asshole that I can't make a daisy out of a pile of shit everyone refuses to pick up and throw away. That is the work of earthworms and I am not one of those either.
To be honest, I don't know what I am. I've been searching for years to find myself. There have been so many things in the way of me, that I couldn't get a clear vision. Some of the things I put there myself. I just found that out. Again...even more this time...
I quit my job and I'm not looking for another one. I have not determined what I am doing about graduate school yet either. That's right. No job, no plan. I spent a year doing the only thing I could control and that was figuring the money part out so that I could walk away. From the job, and from the version of myself that was taught to sit there and take it, so I could exchange my pride and intelligence for a measly paycheck.
That was the hardest step and the first step. So often they are the same.
I spent a year reading personal finance blogs and inspiration pieces and listening to meditative music on YouTube to quell the panic attacks. I wrote and rewrote our household budget, over and over and over again. I knew I needed out and I was looking for permission. No wonder I haven't figured out my life yet- I just realized that I am the one in control.
So I gave myself permission. I changed some things in my life so I could change everything in my life. Maybe, just maybe, with enough perseverance, the clarity of space and time to figure out who I am, and the passion to create a better existence for others- I can change a lot more than that.
Tuesday, April 14, 2015
Life Is Precious
JANUARY 7, 2015.
That was the day as the Charlie Hebdo attack in Paris. I was so sad that day for Paris, for humanity, for freedom of speech. I did not realize that I wasn't even seeing the bodies at my feet.
Research led me to find out that the same day as that attack, merely one week into this year; January 7th- the 20th person killed by police in the United States this year had died.
Today, April 14, 2015 that number is 328. That is people killed by police during this year in the United States. You read that right. This is slaughter.
And it has me thinking. Particularly about the conservative pro life stance.
If all life is precious, and we must enact legislation to protect all life,
1. Why do we have the death penalty?
2. Why do we have lax gun laws and allow corporate interest to trump science?
3. Why don't we do more to stop companies who allow hazardous workplaces?
4. Why don't we fund health care, pre-natal care, palliative care and nutrition at full levels?
5. Why do we send young men to war to protect a democracy that is not in place or to support our efforts to control the economy of another country? Why not spend that human talent and ability saving the people who need us? The ones who are starving? Dying of preventable illness?
6. Why don't we do more to educate people about religious and ethnic diversity and the value that brings to all of our lives rather than let them mow people down with military weapons for their differences?
7. Why don't we make high school mandatory and not allow students to drop out at 16, knowing that they don't have the ability to make long range decisions yet?
8. Why do we talk about life being precious when we allow citizens to be killed by our own local security forces? Before they are charged? Before they are given a day in court?
9. Why do we shoot first and ask questions (or plant evidence) later?
10. Whose lives are really all that precious that we would change?
IF all life is precious
If ALL life is precious
If all LIFE is precious
If all life IS precious
If all life is PRECIOUS
When you look at it with your eyes open, only certain lives are precious. Only those that meet the criteria of worthy. We've been down this road before, America. I'm looking at you, too Europe, Asia, South America, Africa! Don't try to hide, India! I'm talking about women's lives too! Don't get proud, America! I mean Poor people! Brown and black people!
ALL PEOPLE, right?
Isn't that what you meant? That is what you said. All life is precious. That's what you keep saying.
Put your money, your merit, your heart, your effort, your votes, your special interests and your taxes where your mouth is. Or is it so full of hate and misogyny for the freedom of women that you got caught up in a battle to save every embryonic life form ever begotten in the U.S.? Because we have ourselves a quandary.
Where will you put all these bodies?
How will you explain yourselves at the jury table of history with this blood on your hands?
I've Missed You
It has been over 3 months.
Gone, but not forgotten. Hidden in a drawer, the edge of you peeking out at me when I grab my keys and run out the door.
I have thought of you everyday.
There are 8 pieces of evidence looking at me every time I open this door. They are unfinished. Much like this.
I have a lot to say. We can't talk here. Soon.
I give you a longing look. You touch my hand and beg me to stay for one more minute. I would stay a lifetime. I will come back. I always come back, don't I?
This affair is not only a pleasure for me, but a guilty one. I do this best when I should be doing something else. When I have the time I cannot seem to connect the dots. I can't focus on you.
I won't make the time for myself. I won't give that gift to me. I don't think I deserve you. Or this. I'm not good enough. Not yet.
Soon I will brush away the last of what is keeping me. I can do it. I have to.
You believe me, don't you? I never give up on you. Don't give up on me.
Gone, but not forgotten. Hidden in a drawer, the edge of you peeking out at me when I grab my keys and run out the door.
I have thought of you everyday.
There are 8 pieces of evidence looking at me every time I open this door. They are unfinished. Much like this.
I have a lot to say. We can't talk here. Soon.
I give you a longing look. You touch my hand and beg me to stay for one more minute. I would stay a lifetime. I will come back. I always come back, don't I?
This affair is not only a pleasure for me, but a guilty one. I do this best when I should be doing something else. When I have the time I cannot seem to connect the dots. I can't focus on you.
I won't make the time for myself. I won't give that gift to me. I don't think I deserve you. Or this. I'm not good enough. Not yet.
Soon I will brush away the last of what is keeping me. I can do it. I have to.
You believe me, don't you? I never give up on you. Don't give up on me.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Privilege is a Struggle
You are living the struggle.
No, seriously.
You are in your own version of the struggle.
Maybe you have to work to live, instead of lazing about reading and writing all whilst being famous and broody and thin.
Maybe you have to get up at 5:00 in the dark morning just to get yourself anywhere near ready to go to your hateful job before you start waking and readying small children.
By yourself.
In the cold.
With a cold.
Maybe you can only dream of having a hateful job.
Whatever your daily grind or worry or strain, it is the struggle. Your struggle.
I have mine too.
I often straddle a very thin and uncomfortable line... It balances between two vastly different worlds:
One in which I am grateful for all that I have; my health, my family, the love of a wonderful husband, the chance to be part of raising an incredible, talented, beautiful, sweet child. The companionship of quirky, fun pets. Amazing people that I get to call friends. The ability to earn a living. An education. Freedom of speech. Feminism.
In this world, I live in a nation that thinks I am good because my skin is light. Because I am a woman married to a man. The awareness to even realize what a huge stack of gifts I have been granted. The sick feeling in my gut that I deserve none of it. That I have earned what I have only on the basis of what I had to work with from the start.
The other world is one in which I am bitter and angry that I am not free of the constraints of meaningless work, able to be having fun and meaningful conversations with people, choosing what to do with my time and making important changes to improve the lives of everyone on earth. The only thing that really separates the worlds is choice. A choice I actually have.
I know how good I have it. I do. It's just that I want it to be different. And that makes me like everyone else. The things that connect us are so often the conflicts we share. If you are reading this, you have it good. You may or may not agree with my definition of good. you may not even realize how large your stack of gifts really is. You live in a developed nation. You have likely never known the oppression of a dictatorship. Or the hell of war. You are literate. You have either sight or hearing or both. You most likely have a bed to sleep in tonight.
You almost certainly want to improve your life.
I want even more than that. The act of wanting in itself is privilege.
What I want is monumental. So large I cannot see the edges of it, only some spot in the middle that I fix my eyes on when I feel brave enough to even look. It is in the background all the time, like a mountain when you live in the foothills. It is nothing, when I want to hide in the anonymity of a mediocre life. It is everything when I look up for a moment and see the sun hidden by the sheer size of it.
I want to take my privilege to its logical conclusion. I want to make others aware, to show them how things are framed to make them believe that they live in a white male world where everyone is middle class. Where products and services will make you clean and shiny and fulfill your every need. I want to strip down the edges of the blue sky and show you the machine that runs underneath.
Most of all I want you to look. I want to see you lift your hand to cover your mouth, to stifle your screams, to hide your absolute horror. I want you to feel your pulse quicken, your anger rise, and your hands get sweaty. I want you to know.
The privilege I often joke about is the result of money and class. Of capitalism and education. Now I want to pull back the entire curtain. I want to show you the ugly face of imperialism and religious dogma that controls your every single day. That determines who is right, good, worthy, and yes- alive.
Look around you- you live in a mansion. One built of ideas and social constructs that keep you sheltered, warm, safe. You can't even see the mountain. Go for a drive sometime. Get far enough away from your reality that you can turn and see the edges. Know that what you think you know was taught to you by people who have never seen it either.
Then you can struggle with your privilege. If you win your struggle, maybe you can help me with mine.
No, seriously.
You are in your own version of the struggle.
Maybe you have to work to live, instead of lazing about reading and writing all whilst being famous and broody and thin.
Maybe you have to get up at 5:00 in the dark morning just to get yourself anywhere near ready to go to your hateful job before you start waking and readying small children.
By yourself.
In the cold.
With a cold.
Maybe you can only dream of having a hateful job.
Whatever your daily grind or worry or strain, it is the struggle. Your struggle.
I have mine too.
I often straddle a very thin and uncomfortable line... It balances between two vastly different worlds:
One in which I am grateful for all that I have; my health, my family, the love of a wonderful husband, the chance to be part of raising an incredible, talented, beautiful, sweet child. The companionship of quirky, fun pets. Amazing people that I get to call friends. The ability to earn a living. An education. Freedom of speech. Feminism.
In this world, I live in a nation that thinks I am good because my skin is light. Because I am a woman married to a man. The awareness to even realize what a huge stack of gifts I have been granted. The sick feeling in my gut that I deserve none of it. That I have earned what I have only on the basis of what I had to work with from the start.
The other world is one in which I am bitter and angry that I am not free of the constraints of meaningless work, able to be having fun and meaningful conversations with people, choosing what to do with my time and making important changes to improve the lives of everyone on earth. The only thing that really separates the worlds is choice. A choice I actually have.
I know how good I have it. I do. It's just that I want it to be different. And that makes me like everyone else. The things that connect us are so often the conflicts we share. If you are reading this, you have it good. You may or may not agree with my definition of good. you may not even realize how large your stack of gifts really is. You live in a developed nation. You have likely never known the oppression of a dictatorship. Or the hell of war. You are literate. You have either sight or hearing or both. You most likely have a bed to sleep in tonight.
You almost certainly want to improve your life.
I want even more than that. The act of wanting in itself is privilege.
What I want is monumental. So large I cannot see the edges of it, only some spot in the middle that I fix my eyes on when I feel brave enough to even look. It is in the background all the time, like a mountain when you live in the foothills. It is nothing, when I want to hide in the anonymity of a mediocre life. It is everything when I look up for a moment and see the sun hidden by the sheer size of it.
I want to take my privilege to its logical conclusion. I want to make others aware, to show them how things are framed to make them believe that they live in a white male world where everyone is middle class. Where products and services will make you clean and shiny and fulfill your every need. I want to strip down the edges of the blue sky and show you the machine that runs underneath.
Most of all I want you to look. I want to see you lift your hand to cover your mouth, to stifle your screams, to hide your absolute horror. I want you to feel your pulse quicken, your anger rise, and your hands get sweaty. I want you to know.
The privilege I often joke about is the result of money and class. Of capitalism and education. Now I want to pull back the entire curtain. I want to show you the ugly face of imperialism and religious dogma that controls your every single day. That determines who is right, good, worthy, and yes- alive.
Look around you- you live in a mansion. One built of ideas and social constructs that keep you sheltered, warm, safe. You can't even see the mountain. Go for a drive sometime. Get far enough away from your reality that you can turn and see the edges. Know that what you think you know was taught to you by people who have never seen it either.
Then you can struggle with your privilege. If you win your struggle, maybe you can help me with mine.
Friday, September 26, 2014
When You Grow Up
I never had the super clear vision.
I always thought that everyone knew what they wanted to be when they grew up. Everyone except me. It seemed like lots of people had it figured out well ahead of time. The rest bopped along, falling backwards into amazing opportunities at every turn. I didn't really know what I was heading towards, I just kept moving. At least I felt like I was moving. Then one day I realized I'd been standing still for a decade.
From early childhood, I would get glimpses of what I wanted to do, what I would "BE", as if one day you became something merely through the effort of wishing it to be so. By declaring it to the well meaning people who bent down to ask me.
"I want to be a teacher!" I would say. They would smile approvingly. I knew that you needed to have an answer to the question. And we all understood what kind of answer it had to be.
It was preferable if you desired to mold yourself into something mirrored by a smiling Barbie "I Can Be" career doll. One of those was ok. Just not the one where she is a rock star. That is fantasy, not career.
I suppose that is a safe thing to do, to reign in the expectations.
One time I decided I wanted to be a stand up comedian. I was ten years old. My mother did not approve of this decision and she let me know that it was a ridiculous notion. More than anything she let me know that it was not a real job. What? What is "real" and what is "not real"? You mean fun and interesting or boring and predictable?
The dichotomy of real/not real options said so much.
She also told me that to be a comedian, I would have to live on a bus. I'll never forget that. In that moment, I was transfixed. You get to live on a bus? What an adventure!
Unfortunately, I had not yet learned how to hear those subtle noises about "real" in the way they were meant to be heard. In truth, it tells us more about the person drawing the line than it does about our own abilities, opportunities, interests, etc. It tells us about their own fears, their failed journeys into fantasy and how hard the realities were when they hit.
It's not their fault. Someone did it to them too. They are just passing on the shared experience and generational discontent. It is difficult to teach something you have never learned. Like hope.
I realize now that all of my visions of how it would look to be a working adult were a result of what happens when you take what I watched, both from my household point of view and that of school, friends, church, and people I saw socially and mashed them together with television, unrealistic dreams, ambition and the hope I inherited from a long lost relative somewhere.
I thought I would work as a teacher, or maybe in an office somewhere. Maybe I would have my own office. Maybe I'd work in a high rise building, or as a police officer someday? They were all things I thought of to have easy answers to the questions people loved to pose. I had no idea what I was doing that minute, let alone twenty years down the road. I still don't.
One day, in a fit of desperation and hatred for a disdainful human being that held the title of my boss, I dug deep. Really really deep. Deeper than my own self preservation and deeper than the fear that held the tight grip on my mother's sense of reality. Deeper than doubt and indecision, further down than the inertia and self loathing of office work than I had ever gone before. I knew where I was heading. I had heaped lots of garbage and responsibility on top of it, hoping it would not ever rear its ugly and demanding head.
Down there I found a little girl with a journal. A carefully guarded tiny notebook that she clutched tightly, writing a few lines or a dozen pages, depending on the kind of day it was. A book that was a prized possession, a best friend, and a source of solace in the storm. The little girl looks up at me and whispered; "write".
Writing is all I have ever done. When I was happy, when I was sad, when I needed to work things out and when I needed to speak my mind. I used writing to convey thoughts when I had to communicate with someone without letting my own fears block the way, and when I knew they would not listen without interrupting. I've written to remind myself of what I am and I've written to tell someone else that I cannot be what they need. Writing is how I live.
When I grow up I will be a writer? No. I was born a writer. I will grow up to get paid in the currency we exchange, giving my writing the cultural credit for being more than just thoughts on paper or words on screens. I will exchange a tiny dream, chunks of my soul, the essence of myself and any hope of getting to live on a bus, for the monetary validation of what I already am. We don't grow up to BE anything. We peel off the shell of expectation to reveal what was there all along.
I always thought that everyone knew what they wanted to be when they grew up. Everyone except me. It seemed like lots of people had it figured out well ahead of time. The rest bopped along, falling backwards into amazing opportunities at every turn. I didn't really know what I was heading towards, I just kept moving. At least I felt like I was moving. Then one day I realized I'd been standing still for a decade.
From early childhood, I would get glimpses of what I wanted to do, what I would "BE", as if one day you became something merely through the effort of wishing it to be so. By declaring it to the well meaning people who bent down to ask me.
"I want to be a teacher!" I would say. They would smile approvingly. I knew that you needed to have an answer to the question. And we all understood what kind of answer it had to be.
It was preferable if you desired to mold yourself into something mirrored by a smiling Barbie "I Can Be" career doll. One of those was ok. Just not the one where she is a rock star. That is fantasy, not career.
I suppose that is a safe thing to do, to reign in the expectations.
One time I decided I wanted to be a stand up comedian. I was ten years old. My mother did not approve of this decision and she let me know that it was a ridiculous notion. More than anything she let me know that it was not a real job. What? What is "real" and what is "not real"? You mean fun and interesting or boring and predictable?
The dichotomy of real/not real options said so much.
She also told me that to be a comedian, I would have to live on a bus. I'll never forget that. In that moment, I was transfixed. You get to live on a bus? What an adventure!
Unfortunately, I had not yet learned how to hear those subtle noises about "real" in the way they were meant to be heard. In truth, it tells us more about the person drawing the line than it does about our own abilities, opportunities, interests, etc. It tells us about their own fears, their failed journeys into fantasy and how hard the realities were when they hit.
It's not their fault. Someone did it to them too. They are just passing on the shared experience and generational discontent. It is difficult to teach something you have never learned. Like hope.
I realize now that all of my visions of how it would look to be a working adult were a result of what happens when you take what I watched, both from my household point of view and that of school, friends, church, and people I saw socially and mashed them together with television, unrealistic dreams, ambition and the hope I inherited from a long lost relative somewhere.
I thought I would work as a teacher, or maybe in an office somewhere. Maybe I would have my own office. Maybe I'd work in a high rise building, or as a police officer someday? They were all things I thought of to have easy answers to the questions people loved to pose. I had no idea what I was doing that minute, let alone twenty years down the road. I still don't.
One day, in a fit of desperation and hatred for a disdainful human being that held the title of my boss, I dug deep. Really really deep. Deeper than my own self preservation and deeper than the fear that held the tight grip on my mother's sense of reality. Deeper than doubt and indecision, further down than the inertia and self loathing of office work than I had ever gone before. I knew where I was heading. I had heaped lots of garbage and responsibility on top of it, hoping it would not ever rear its ugly and demanding head.
Down there I found a little girl with a journal. A carefully guarded tiny notebook that she clutched tightly, writing a few lines or a dozen pages, depending on the kind of day it was. A book that was a prized possession, a best friend, and a source of solace in the storm. The little girl looks up at me and whispered; "write".
Writing is all I have ever done. When I was happy, when I was sad, when I needed to work things out and when I needed to speak my mind. I used writing to convey thoughts when I had to communicate with someone without letting my own fears block the way, and when I knew they would not listen without interrupting. I've written to remind myself of what I am and I've written to tell someone else that I cannot be what they need. Writing is how I live.
When I grow up I will be a writer? No. I was born a writer. I will grow up to get paid in the currency we exchange, giving my writing the cultural credit for being more than just thoughts on paper or words on screens. I will exchange a tiny dream, chunks of my soul, the essence of myself and any hope of getting to live on a bus, for the monetary validation of what I already am. We don't grow up to BE anything. We peel off the shell of expectation to reveal what was there all along.
Friday, August 15, 2014
Bitches Be Communicatin'
Like all of my blog posts, you are just going to have to hear me out on this one. Today I am thinking about how women "dog" each other. By which I mean, we communicate in a way that is similar to how dogs communicate. Its interesting. Yes it is.
I did say hear me out, yes? Ok then.
So here is what I'm noticing. Women have a couple of forms of communication with other women in which they display classic canine behavior. One such example we'll call the Appeasement.
The Appeasement is typically found in the form of a flattering compliment about another woman's outfit, shoes, hair, jewelry, general overall style, sunglasses, you name it. This is our IN. This tactic is used when we want to make another woman feel relaxed and at ease, and even when we want to lift her status in reference to our own. We want her to know that she is looking good, that we approve of how she has styled herself, or that it appears she is losing weight.
We do this for the same reason that dogs display appeasing or calming behaviors. It is a signal that we come in peace, that we are friendly, and sometimes even a display of discomfort and looking for a way to start conversation with someone we aren't as familiar with. Luckily we don't run over and sniff, then lick the other woman's mouth. So there is that. Score one for the chicks.
Another interesting communication behavior I notice with some women is the subtle notification that you are on shaky ground, and she would like to keep you there. This form of communication we will call the Warning.
The Warning can be expressed a number of ways, both verbally and non verbally. A common form of the Warning is one woman making a remark about another woman that is neither outright negative, but not positive either. It is a comment meant to make the other woman unsure, as the speaker herself is unsure and wants to convey that message. It can take the form of something like, "Oh, Darla, I didn't know you were into comics..thats...interesting." Accompanied by non verbals such as raised eyebrows and a body posture that moves away from the other woman, this is clearly a sign that she is not included and separate of the speaker. Moreover, the speaker is keeping her there. The signal is usually received and understood, creating a new relationship structure between the women.
Again, while this is better than baring our teeth, raising our head and ears and giving a low growl, it is not as obvious but just as effective. Our way of doing it bites underneath the skin, though. We are able to inject a sort of suspicious unease into the situation and therefore, into the other person, with the smooth movements of a practiced hater.
We can let you know you are about to cross an invisible line into your own personal hell and yet we are also able to diffuse a situation or put ourselves in good graces with people without even warming up a single neuron.
Is this inherent? Did we learn it? Perhaps watching, like when we saw our mothers putting on makeup, we imitated the behavior, not even understanding what we were doing. Can we teach other things the same way? I don't know about you, but this has me thinking. I want to see how I can change other people's behaviors by enacting rituals in their presence. I wonder how long it will be before I can get a man to scratch at his upper chest/shoulder like he is adjusting a bra strap, because I do that shit all the time.
I did say hear me out, yes? Ok then.
So here is what I'm noticing. Women have a couple of forms of communication with other women in which they display classic canine behavior. One such example we'll call the Appeasement.
The Appeasement is typically found in the form of a flattering compliment about another woman's outfit, shoes, hair, jewelry, general overall style, sunglasses, you name it. This is our IN. This tactic is used when we want to make another woman feel relaxed and at ease, and even when we want to lift her status in reference to our own. We want her to know that she is looking good, that we approve of how she has styled herself, or that it appears she is losing weight.
We do this for the same reason that dogs display appeasing or calming behaviors. It is a signal that we come in peace, that we are friendly, and sometimes even a display of discomfort and looking for a way to start conversation with someone we aren't as familiar with. Luckily we don't run over and sniff, then lick the other woman's mouth. So there is that. Score one for the chicks.
Another interesting communication behavior I notice with some women is the subtle notification that you are on shaky ground, and she would like to keep you there. This form of communication we will call the Warning.
The Warning can be expressed a number of ways, both verbally and non verbally. A common form of the Warning is one woman making a remark about another woman that is neither outright negative, but not positive either. It is a comment meant to make the other woman unsure, as the speaker herself is unsure and wants to convey that message. It can take the form of something like, "Oh, Darla, I didn't know you were into comics..thats...interesting." Accompanied by non verbals such as raised eyebrows and a body posture that moves away from the other woman, this is clearly a sign that she is not included and separate of the speaker. Moreover, the speaker is keeping her there. The signal is usually received and understood, creating a new relationship structure between the women.
Again, while this is better than baring our teeth, raising our head and ears and giving a low growl, it is not as obvious but just as effective. Our way of doing it bites underneath the skin, though. We are able to inject a sort of suspicious unease into the situation and therefore, into the other person, with the smooth movements of a practiced hater.
We can let you know you are about to cross an invisible line into your own personal hell and yet we are also able to diffuse a situation or put ourselves in good graces with people without even warming up a single neuron.
Is this inherent? Did we learn it? Perhaps watching, like when we saw our mothers putting on makeup, we imitated the behavior, not even understanding what we were doing. Can we teach other things the same way? I don't know about you, but this has me thinking. I want to see how I can change other people's behaviors by enacting rituals in their presence. I wonder how long it will be before I can get a man to scratch at his upper chest/shoulder like he is adjusting a bra strap, because I do that shit all the time.
Brimming with Shit
You GUYS!
I need a shrink. Or whatever politically correct version of a person who can hold the bowl and scrape the sides while I empty the contents of my bullshit addled brain into a bundt pan so we can eat my pineapple upside down crazy together.
Like today.
If you know someone good, feel free to pass along their info. I prefer to meet in person, as I believe my showered, gelled, manicured visage helps people to believe that the things falling out of my mouth like cows from the sky in a trailer park tornado are totally normal and then they will tell me that I can continue to express all of that to them. But you know, clinically, in a licensed therapist sort of way.
I can't share all of my insanity with people I know. First of all, they have put my station on their first button of the car radio and they know to tune me out as soon as this static starts up. Secondly, they have all heard different versions of my shit and they aren't even sure what to make of it anymore. They helpfully offer their time and companionship, solace and booze, but I need the real deal. With the booze. Do they have shrinks like that? Or is that only in 60's television shows? I'll get my bouffant hair and short dress on if you hand out whiskey. Ok that sounds like a different kind of show. But you understand.
I need someone with the capacity to own my very full brain for a moment, even if it is in pieces. I need a place to dump off all of my insecurity about how lame I am, my neurotic fears about strange distant people and places, and the fascination I have with string theory and the connectedness of all beings. And that person needs to LISTEN and not give me a 'diagnosis' or pills. I just need two hands that belong to another rational person who is used to listening to crap like this and will find my brand of it utterly charming.
At $200 an hour, I hope you can find me charming. Shit, for that kind of scratch I would wear that mini dress and listen to your bullshit.
Let's make this happen.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
I Had No Idea
I had no idea...
That when I stood outside that salon, calling you over and over again desperate to figure out what just what had happened and to patch it back up with my kit...
The one I had built in haste long ago, the one made of half truths and bandages and sweet words of salve that I knew just how to apply in the way that they had always soothed your insecurities....
of what was to come after that.
I had no idea in that moment what was being ripped away from me, no idea of what I had lost, no idea how my life would go on without the crushing weight of your broken soul to carry.
I had no idea what went wrong ... I knew it was something I had said. It always was. Or the way I said it, of course. You had read into it that I was hesitant about a life with you. For once you were right.
I had no idea how far away you had gotten. I knew you moved to another state, but I couldn't see the divide that had happened in front of me. So I tried to keep driving up the hill that you created- all piled high out of self preservation tactics and the worst of you. I had a well worn road on that hill. This time there was no horizon in sight.
I had no idea how hard it would be to accept the end of you. To believe in a time and place that I had not allowed myself to look at, to expect more from life than what was left after pleasing you. To ask myself the hard questions about how this ever happened in the first place, who I was, what I wanted and how to get away.
I had no earthly way to conceive of both how easy and hard you would be to get over. Of all that I would have to appreciate ... simple things like having time to myself and not having to account for every action I took, not holding my breath when a bad mood would befall you and leave our house in shadows. Ones that were shaped like the independent person I used to be.
I had no idea how hard it would be to get sleep to return - to just lay down and let go. I had no idea how tight of a grip your memory still had around my neck. I chased the beautiful sleep back with my charms instead of wasting them anymore on you.
I had no idea what I lost that day. If I had known I would have laid it down long before. I had two hands full of my past and none left to welcome my future.
I had no idea what was to be gained. Returning to myself, I found more than I remembered and strength I didn't know I had left behind. I had been waiting for me all along.
I had no clue whatsoever that someone else's life was patiently waiting to come face to face with mine. I didn't know that their heartache and loss, their disillusion and pain, their confusion and rebuilding - was all being done to get them ready for who I was going to be for them and what they needed to be for me.
I had no idea that two shattered pieces of glass could be made into a beautiful diamond and that I would live in a place of both windows and mirrors, able to see out to what was and back to what had been.
I had no idea how great it would be when you came running to me for escape- wanting to go back to where things were, feeling unloved and sad, alone with your wife and child and your hollow heart. How wonderful the rush of vindication after so many years to tell you what you needed to hear for a long time, to remind you that your life was a result of your decisions and expressions of how you felt about yourself. That the reflection you saw was one you had made. That I wanted no part of what you were suggesting. That your wife undoubtedly deserved better.
I had no idea you would have the nerve to call again. Especially after she found you out. You wanted closure. You wanted to say nice things. You wanted me to think kindly upon my memories with you. I wanted to get off the phone, I had better things to do.
I had no idea how well I would sleep after that. I had no idea how much I would appreciate my life after I saw it through your eyes. I had no idea how important you would be to my life. I had no idea that the day I stood there frantically trying to fix you and you shut me out was the day my life truly began.
That when I stood outside that salon, calling you over and over again desperate to figure out what just what had happened and to patch it back up with my kit...
The one I had built in haste long ago, the one made of half truths and bandages and sweet words of salve that I knew just how to apply in the way that they had always soothed your insecurities....
of what was to come after that.
I had no idea in that moment what was being ripped away from me, no idea of what I had lost, no idea how my life would go on without the crushing weight of your broken soul to carry.
I had no idea what went wrong ... I knew it was something I had said. It always was. Or the way I said it, of course. You had read into it that I was hesitant about a life with you. For once you were right.
I had no idea how far away you had gotten. I knew you moved to another state, but I couldn't see the divide that had happened in front of me. So I tried to keep driving up the hill that you created- all piled high out of self preservation tactics and the worst of you. I had a well worn road on that hill. This time there was no horizon in sight.
I had no idea how hard it would be to accept the end of you. To believe in a time and place that I had not allowed myself to look at, to expect more from life than what was left after pleasing you. To ask myself the hard questions about how this ever happened in the first place, who I was, what I wanted and how to get away.
I had no earthly way to conceive of both how easy and hard you would be to get over. Of all that I would have to appreciate ... simple things like having time to myself and not having to account for every action I took, not holding my breath when a bad mood would befall you and leave our house in shadows. Ones that were shaped like the independent person I used to be.
I had no idea how hard it would be to get sleep to return - to just lay down and let go. I had no idea how tight of a grip your memory still had around my neck. I chased the beautiful sleep back with my charms instead of wasting them anymore on you.
I had no idea what I lost that day. If I had known I would have laid it down long before. I had two hands full of my past and none left to welcome my future.
I had no idea what was to be gained. Returning to myself, I found more than I remembered and strength I didn't know I had left behind. I had been waiting for me all along.
I had no clue whatsoever that someone else's life was patiently waiting to come face to face with mine. I didn't know that their heartache and loss, their disillusion and pain, their confusion and rebuilding - was all being done to get them ready for who I was going to be for them and what they needed to be for me.
I had no idea that two shattered pieces of glass could be made into a beautiful diamond and that I would live in a place of both windows and mirrors, able to see out to what was and back to what had been.
I had no idea how great it would be when you came running to me for escape- wanting to go back to where things were, feeling unloved and sad, alone with your wife and child and your hollow heart. How wonderful the rush of vindication after so many years to tell you what you needed to hear for a long time, to remind you that your life was a result of your decisions and expressions of how you felt about yourself. That the reflection you saw was one you had made. That I wanted no part of what you were suggesting. That your wife undoubtedly deserved better.
I had no idea you would have the nerve to call again. Especially after she found you out. You wanted closure. You wanted to say nice things. You wanted me to think kindly upon my memories with you. I wanted to get off the phone, I had better things to do.
I had no idea how well I would sleep after that. I had no idea how much I would appreciate my life after I saw it through your eyes. I had no idea how important you would be to my life. I had no idea that the day I stood there frantically trying to fix you and you shut me out was the day my life truly began.
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
You Are Most Welcome
I try to keep things at an even keel as much as possible. Lately I am on a teeter totter with my hands gripping my side of it, white knuckles bared against the barrage of bullshit that is getting piled on and off of the other side.
I have decided not to ride the wave that moves with the whims of incompetent and unintelligent people. I threw a written Molotov cocktail into the situation, bringing fire to what was already simmering. Fire can be good. Fire can be cleansing. I feel better already.
There was just one thing I didn't include in the world's longest email to the world's most oblivious person: You are most welcome. Maybe it was that I had rage fueled vision and wasn't feeling magnanimous. Maybe I just had too many other things to say and couldn't fit it in. Or I just couldn't slip the words over the furious lump in my chest.
Today, they move like liquid fire.
You are welcome for the years of my life I altered without looking back. You are welcome for the daily care of your precious cargo. You are so welcome for each breakfast made, dish washed, shirt folded, blanket tucked, lunch packed, carpool driven, girl scout meeting held, craft created, hair brushed, appointment made, bill paid and dollar stretched.
Because you never had to.
You are welcome for each rule set, each tantrum settled, each fight with a grandmother who didn't see the need for grounding. You are welcome for each sports uniform, school clothes, camp payment, sleeping bag, bug spray, whistle, and worried last look when she would walk away, even if only for a few hours.
Because you never wanted to.
You are welcome for sleepless nights, fitful dreams, fear of strangers, palpitation of the heart in a near-miss crash, glance to the backseat to see that she was still there, smiling, unaware. You are welcome for the embrace that held a crying child, scared, upset, unsure...when she didn't understand where you were. How to reach you. Why you wouldn't answer. You are welcome for the tears wiped, the ones she is careful to never show to you.
Because you had better things to do.
You are welcome for the vision I keep, the one of a 4 year old girl, playing with her dolls, acting out a comic book scene. Only in all of hers, there is a mother missing. One that will come and save the princess. Or that needs saving and the superhero always finds her to reunite with her little girl. You are welcome for the heart I broke watching that scene play out over and over.
You are welcome for the tears I held back when she asked if I would come play the game along with her. Of course I did, as I knew the script and I knew my part. I was always two people in the scene- the villain and the hero. I had to play those two so that her little voice could be both mother and daughter, one in peril and one desperate to help. I took the role of both the person who would do such a thing as take the mother away, and the one who would help to bring her back. She took the role of a little girl trying to come to terms with her life, and deciding that something dangerous and awful must be the only reason you couldn't be with her. I've always said how smart she is.
Because you were in a danger of your own making.
You are welcome for my cordial manner, my professionalism and my lack of emotion when in your presence. You are even more welcome for the fact that I have never spoken ill of you, I do not answer for your decisions, and I have covered for you this last nine years. You are welcome for the distraction we have provided from your antics, situations, lies and inconsistency. But the veil has fallen and my mouth has dropped open. Likely in awe of how stupid you must be and how stupid you must think I am. Uterine cancer? Just stop already.
Because you don't seem to know who you are dealing with.
You are welcome for my protection, my intelligence and power. You are welcome for my education, my ideals and my income. You are welcome for my health, my sense of self and my standards.
Because I will use them to protect what I love. And to keep you firmly in your place.
I have decided not to ride the wave that moves with the whims of incompetent and unintelligent people. I threw a written Molotov cocktail into the situation, bringing fire to what was already simmering. Fire can be good. Fire can be cleansing. I feel better already.
There was just one thing I didn't include in the world's longest email to the world's most oblivious person: You are most welcome. Maybe it was that I had rage fueled vision and wasn't feeling magnanimous. Maybe I just had too many other things to say and couldn't fit it in. Or I just couldn't slip the words over the furious lump in my chest.
Today, they move like liquid fire.
You are welcome for the years of my life I altered without looking back. You are welcome for the daily care of your precious cargo. You are so welcome for each breakfast made, dish washed, shirt folded, blanket tucked, lunch packed, carpool driven, girl scout meeting held, craft created, hair brushed, appointment made, bill paid and dollar stretched.
Because you never had to.
You are welcome for each rule set, each tantrum settled, each fight with a grandmother who didn't see the need for grounding. You are welcome for each sports uniform, school clothes, camp payment, sleeping bag, bug spray, whistle, and worried last look when she would walk away, even if only for a few hours.
Because you never wanted to.
You are welcome for sleepless nights, fitful dreams, fear of strangers, palpitation of the heart in a near-miss crash, glance to the backseat to see that she was still there, smiling, unaware. You are welcome for the embrace that held a crying child, scared, upset, unsure...when she didn't understand where you were. How to reach you. Why you wouldn't answer. You are welcome for the tears wiped, the ones she is careful to never show to you.
Because you had better things to do.
You are welcome for the vision I keep, the one of a 4 year old girl, playing with her dolls, acting out a comic book scene. Only in all of hers, there is a mother missing. One that will come and save the princess. Or that needs saving and the superhero always finds her to reunite with her little girl. You are welcome for the heart I broke watching that scene play out over and over.
You are welcome for the tears I held back when she asked if I would come play the game along with her. Of course I did, as I knew the script and I knew my part. I was always two people in the scene- the villain and the hero. I had to play those two so that her little voice could be both mother and daughter, one in peril and one desperate to help. I took the role of both the person who would do such a thing as take the mother away, and the one who would help to bring her back. She took the role of a little girl trying to come to terms with her life, and deciding that something dangerous and awful must be the only reason you couldn't be with her. I've always said how smart she is.
Because you were in a danger of your own making.
You are welcome for my cordial manner, my professionalism and my lack of emotion when in your presence. You are even more welcome for the fact that I have never spoken ill of you, I do not answer for your decisions, and I have covered for you this last nine years. You are welcome for the distraction we have provided from your antics, situations, lies and inconsistency. But the veil has fallen and my mouth has dropped open. Likely in awe of how stupid you must be and how stupid you must think I am. Uterine cancer? Just stop already.
Because you don't seem to know who you are dealing with.
You are welcome for my protection, my intelligence and power. You are welcome for my education, my ideals and my income. You are welcome for my health, my sense of self and my standards.
Because I will use them to protect what I love. And to keep you firmly in your place.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)