Acting Out

I typically distrust most of the political talking heads on television. My feeling is that most of them are muppets who are speaking on behalf of their owners … you know who they are. Their donors. Additionally, when corporations own the media outlets it’s difficult not to question why something is or is not being reported. I give you Fox News and MSNBC as prime examples. My faith in the judicial and political system is on the very low end of the spectrum, but I am not just a whiner. I actually do call and write the people who “represent” me and I exercise my right to vote, boycott, etc.

As I watched the debate on the House floor regarding the Health Care Reform Bill it dawned on me that this may not be a very good bill. Not because of what the lobbyist had written for the people speaking but more because no one was really saying anything at all. It’s difficult to figure out what people are fighting for when they make no sense. There is one news channel I feel does a good job on actually reporting and that is Democracy Now. Yes, they tend to slant towards the Liberal’s but for the most part they are right on point. So, this morning Representative Dennis Kucinich was on discussing why he did NOT vote for this bill. The sum of it is that it seems to provide incentives for insurance companies AGAIN and it says women absolutely cannot have an abortion paid for by a plan they pay for. Some nut job from Michigan, Bart Stupak added an amendment to the bill prohibiting insurers from providing any plan to allow abortions that is subsidized with government money. WTF? There was no provision in there on how to pay for the unwanted child but they never talk about that do they.

This is disheartening people. Small groups of people with a gang load of money in the United States have swayed this bill while many of are sitting wondering what this bill is in the first place. It’s a load of crap and if you think President Obama did not have anything to do with turning this into a pile of doo-doo you are wrong. His administration was reportedly the prime suspects in taking out the single payer option and Speaker Pelosi who used to be a defender of women’s rights was the one who gave in to the douche bag from Michigan.

Way to go people. Way to mother effin go. Guess it’s time to get out my pen and paper so I can write some letters.

Oy Vey People … Oy Vey

Maine??? Seriously? Good grief. It just feels like a big ol blow to the gut and to the heart. I wish I understood the passion behind the rage against gay civil rights, but honestly I just do not. It perplexes me how in the name of God, Jesus Christ or whatever deity they are invoking they say that being a human is wrong. My first reaction to this ignorance is anger, followed by sadness and then confusion. I want to feel love for them but damn it … it’s hard to feel love for people who are hating your family. But, I will try. I will try because I refuse to be apart of their state of mind and because it is better to kill with kindness.

 

Writers clog

So, I keep starting the story and there is just no flow to it so I have to discard it. Maybe it is all the changes going on in my life or maybe my creative juices are refueling. Somehow I think it is where I left off. It was painful being away from my mother and yet I was terrified of her at the same time. Maybe a part of me is still processing that physical severance from her. Whatever it is, it is postponing the next part to the story.

So, I thought I would share a few memories until Chapter 4 comes to me that probably will not make it into the story but are vivid quick movie like memories I have nonetheless. These little tidbits have been demanding some air time.

As I have said, my aunt Anita (we called her Nita or Neeters) was someone I was very close to. She was my babysitter, actually she was everyone’s babysitter, and she was the person I saw most frequently from my mother’s family. She was the second youngest of my mom’s siblings and probably the funniest out of the bunch. She had a crass sense of humor, a big heart and an even bigger laugh. She stayed friends with my dad for the rest of her life. I believe she was 16 years old when I was born; she was definitely my protector. You see I have this belief that we all have a little ghetto in us. Ya know that “oh no you din’ent” part of you that only comes out when pushed into the right circumstances? Well, Nita’s was always kinda close to the surface. For some people their ghetto is under extreme duress but for Nita it was under the third layer of her skin. Nita could take care of business and God help anyone who hurt someone she loved. Anyways, my mom and dad had separated. My dad moved to an apartment complex where his new friends lived. My mom playing the part of scorned woman decided to move to the same complex. It freaked out my dad in a “am I being stalked by my baby momma?” way but he felt it was good nonetheless since he could be closer to me.

Nita was my babysitter. There were a lot of kids in this apartment complex and it was probably not the best area of town but not the worst. These kids were ratty scrappy lookin kids. They were grunge before people knew what grunge was. One kid in particular was a bully. I remember him clearly. Blond wavy hair, tan shorts, never had his shirt on, dark brown freckles and much bigger than my 2 year old self. He was the kinda kid who is probably in prison today and not ever getting out. He used to kick dogs and throw rocks at cats. He was a frightening child and unusually cruel. Some might say he was not hugged enough as a child.

Well, Nita had bought me a tricycle. A beautiful red tricycle that was my very own. I loved this new found freedom of riding in circles around my auntie and her laughing hysterically at my joy. One day… isn’t always one day? … Nita was inside watching television and I was outside. It was the morning time and the sun was just starting to heat up the concrete. I was cruising around in my “allowed” area of exploration on my tricycle (which was about 10 feet from the door) feeling happy and quite independent. Out comes the little blond 6 year old sociopath from the bushes which were just outside the fence that enclosed the pool. He had his Peanut gang following him. He walked in front of my joy ride and told me that if I did not get off his new tricycle he would push me off and beat me up. I started to cry. Tears burning my blue eyes as I reluctantly surrendered my new pride and joy. He hopped on it and off he went even though he was a little too big for this toy.

Defeated and distraught I went inside for some comfort from Nita. I was crying so hard she thought I had injured myself. She kept asking me “Where are you hurt? Where are you hurt? Are you bleeding?” I finally calmed down and told her what had happened. Hell hath no fury than a pissed off aunt who is watching her niece monumentally upset. Nita told me to wait by the front door for her. It was not long before she came back with the sociopath turned little boy. He had one cheek that was slightly more red than the other. Had she hit him? She held his arm as he pushed my tricycle toward me. He apologized to me, reluctantly. This set Nita off. And I mean off! Her hair lit on fire. Her eyes squinted with furor. She crouched down to his eye level and I will never forget what she said “This is my niece you little piece of shit. If you ever make her cry again, I will hurt you. I WILL FUCKING HURT YOU. You gonna try dat apology one mo’ time.” Oh yes she did. She threatened a 6 year old. Her eyes must have been blazing because he looked at me and said “I am really sorry I stole your tricycle.” She let go of his arm and he ran like the wind. Nita looked down and told me “No one will ever hurt you. I will make sure of that.”

No, his mother never came to confront my Nita and yes he resisted from screwin around with me again. My Nita forever became my protector after that. She had saved me from feeling anxious of the little blond boy after that incident. It could have been one of those personality shaping moments for me as a child, but I think that experience was saved for the little blond boy. He stayed away from me and our apartment after that. I saw him every now and then with his Peanut gang but they always kept their distance. Remember …. Nita was not too far away.

Enjoy this …. I did :) If you look closely you can see me

Older

To a 10 year old, I am old. To an 18 year old, I am old. Even to a 21 year old, I am old. But to someone who is 27, I am not that old. Want to know why? Because, they are getting closer to my age! Oh the cruelty of it for them. What they don’t know is what a relief getting older can be. And, what I have discovered as I get older (currently I am 34 years young) is that I care more for some things and much less for other things. For example, while I do care about my appearance when I go out in public I no longer care if someone snaps a photo of me that is not to my self criticizing standards (I ended up in a newspaper recently quite on accident with a very odd expression on my face – no my best photo but not my worst either). Who cares? It’s still me, yes? I try to look my best at all times, but quite frankly sometimes I just don’t wanna. At 34, I care less about what I think people are thinking about me and more about what I think of myself. I know I look good because I like who I see smiling back at me in the mirror. The point is this: I am more concerned with how my innards are feeling versus viewing myself through other people’s eyes. My “persona” is focused more often inward than outward.

Here are some other things I think are pretty awesome about getting older:

- Sundays. A day of reflection and no longer a day of recovering from the previous 2 nights. It is so nice to wake up with a clear head instead of a fog of stale alcohol.

- Underwear that cover your whole butt. Screw g-strings. They give your ass a rash and are entirely too uncomfortable. When I am worried about panty lines, I opt out of them completely.

- My parents are people too. No longer do I hold them responsible for what I did not have the voice to ask for nor do I fault them for making some mistakes along the way. All 3 of my parents are lovely wonderful people who tried really hard to make sure I knew I was loved. I see their beauty I could not see in the cloud of self depreciating 20’s.

- Friends. Quality v. Quantity baby. When you’re younger and less wise, it’s about how many people you know versus how well you know the people you know. What a hard lesson this is! I have about 3 – 5 people I can turn to at anytime versus 50 who will dart at the first notion of discomfort. Now, this is not to say that knowing a variety of people and keeping in touch with people you have met along the way is not important. It is. They remind you of your journey. I just don’t feel the need to make sure I connect with them everyday. Isn’t that what facebook is for anyways?

- People older than me. They are like my tour guides warning me about bumps in the road and things not to miss. While it can be uncomfortable to listen to someone who is in their 90’s talk about their hot sex life, you can still learn a thing or two.

- Libraries. They have real books! And they are free! I am old school when it comes to books which feels awkward to say anyways. I have tried digital which is great for traveling ….but it really gives you no point of reference. I love the feel of it. I love looking at the book. I love the smell of the book. Reading it is the cherry on top.

- Family. Oh how I love my family! The opinions. The advice. The laughter. The quirks! We are a loving group of people who have been through a roller coaster of challenges, but man when you need someone to ground you there is not a better group to turn to.

I am wishing to all of you a wonderful Sunday with no panty problems, spent with a wonderful friend/lover, cuddled up with a book from the library, a phone call from your favorite aunt/uncle/cousin who tells you a funny story about your parents and a great conversation with someone much older than you.

Outrage ….a fantastic film

I am so impressed with this film. It brings up so many emotions for me as a child of two wonderful fathers who were not always able to live their truth. And do you know why they were not able to live their truth? Because of bigotry in this country. I am sad to say that I have friends who fit into this category (that is a debate for another blog) and despite my complete love for my friends it is difficult to reconcile this. Although, I must say I remain hopeful that I can be a living example as to be a reason for them to review their views on gay civil rights.

This film is about how gay people in government who are in the closet repeatedly show hate towards themselves by supporting anti-gay legislation to prevent gay rights. When I hear people say “I don’t agree with the gay life style” it is like a dagger to my heart. You don’t agree with being a thinking feeling human being? You don’t agree with someone living their lives truthfully? Why do you think YOU can define what a gay life style is? Is there a “straight” life style? When someone says this to me or I hear this in the media it makes me feel like they hate my family. And ya know what? They do.

I encourage you to watch this film. It will touch your heart and your anger over how we can continue to show such hatred towards gay people.

Here is a link to one of the stars of the film:

http://www.blogactive.com/

Enjoy my friends.

Characters on Fawn Drive

* An email from a friend reminded me of how rich this daycare was with memories. No kidding, I could write a book just on this experience alone. Enjoy this small retrospective for now….

By the time I was 5 years old and integrated into Kindergarten I was used to the routine of my life. At 5:30 am I would hear Oliver walk past my room into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee and leave for work shortly after. At 6:00 am my dad would rouse me out of bed for breakfast. While I was eating and making sure my furry shepherd mix companion Karma was getting some under the table scraps as well, my dad would be in my room picking out an outfit for me (no dresses though! I was all pants being the follower of Allegra that I was) and making my bed. Did I mention I was a Princess? By 7:00 am my dad was dropping me off at Jackie’s and off to work.

Arriving at Jackie’s was always an event. Who was there? Was she in a good mood? Were we watching television or was it a music day? Were we allowed outside? Can we go down to the play ground at the school? I arrived always looking for one of my friends: Allegra, Helen, Farah, Sam, Lance or Lawrence. I was never particularly fond of Jackie’s kids. Matt was closer to my age being 3 years older than me, but something was off about him and I could sense that at a young age. He also seemed obsessed with Allegra’s older sister Arianna. While I wanted to be included with her kids because Jackie watched me over the summer and when Oliver and my dad went on vacation, I just did not want to be too close. Matt would later be found guilty of being inappropriate with young girls and is currently serving time in prison for this. Yes, even as a child I listened to my intuition and no he never touched me or anyone else I knew of at daycare.

Typically, Allegra and Arianna were late and this was due to their mom. Her clock is not like other people’s clocks by which I mean hers is always about 10 – 20 minutes behind. So, I would find Helen or Farah and off we would go. Helen and Farah were girly. They liked flowers, holding hands and all things dainty. They were a good balance from Allegra and Helen lived right down the street from me so she was available even after daycare. With these two friends we became a three-some and I learned that flowers in the hair were pretty, you could suck honey out of a  certain blue flower, chew on wild mint to make your breath smell different and that being affectionate with your friends is a wonderful bond. All of us had bright blue oceans in our eyes but I had white gold hair, Helen had spun wheat and Farah’s hair was the prettiest obsidian hair I had ever seen. We were totally Charlie’s Angels and laughing was our specialty.

Lance was a child who did not respond to punishment of any kind. He was a “bad boy” even at the age of 4. A blond kid with glasses who spoke like a true sailor. It was not uncommon to find him in the bathroom crying from the soap that was still burning his mouth courteous of Jackie. Nonetheless, “no” meant go at full speed and I have never seen someone in constant trouble. Lawrence was his older brother and while he had the same face he was taller with light brown hair. He was smarter, still devious and slightly more attractive. He had an air of creativity around him all the time, but unfortunately it was directed at how best to annoy Jackie. It was Lawrence that came up with the idea one summer to make water balloons out of plastic bags with their discarded ties left on the campus from summer camp lunchtime. It was Lawrence who thought to hide up on the hill with these bags and throw them at unsuspecting vehicles trying to make their way around an unforgiving steep curve on the hill to Jackie’s house. And it was Lawrence who taught Lance how to curse with emphasis. When we were beckoned back to Jackie’s because she somehow knew what were were doing all of the time if it involved trouble, it was Lawrence who never seemed to get punished because he would arrive separately from our guilty group. Lawrence was the small devil that sits on your shoulder telling you it is okay to commit this one small infraction.

Sam was the beautifully innocent child that everyone wanted to be around. After hormones invaded my body in junior high school, he would become the one boy who was my age that I truly thought I loved. At daycare it was no different only we were lacking the hormones. Everyone wanted to play with this kid, wanted him on his team or just wanted to be around him. He was shy but social. He was never too dominating and yet he was a gifted athlete even at a young age. If he was at Jackie’s, I was next to him and because he was such a good child he never pushed anyone away. I realize now, of course, that while I thought I was a special friend to him (both Allegra and I were convinced we were his favorite playmates) he was in actuality just a really gentle soul. We were no more special to him than anyone else, but he had that affect on people. Everyone thought you were his best friend. It is a wonder he did not get into politics or some profession assisting people. I am still convinced he has yet to locate his calling.

More to come………..

A lil dose of happy

Pensive Parsimony

As we age there is something that becomes constant, we have to face our own mortality by losing people we love. I strive to be more peaceful with people’s passings and know that this is a part of life. It is not an unfortunate part of life but a scary one. It is fearful because we do not know what happens except we no longer physically interact with those we love. I have said I do not think you ever get over the loss of a parent but you do get to a point where you forgive life for taking your parent away from you. Death does leave a gift though. It reminds you to treasure those around you while you are both still here.

Today I send my love and light to my cousin. Your family is here to help you and love you as you move this process.

And, today I will hug my partner a little harder, I will call my surviving parents to tell them I love them and I tell you through this blog how thankful I am to have your ear every once in a while.

Big Cousin Dave

Part 3 Chapter 3

Phone calls from my mother were infrequent. She was in an out of trouble which was not something I understood until I was much older, but what I recall feeling was abandoned. That sick empty feeling when followed by tears leads to the hyperventilation cry. The cry that is uncontrollable and animalistic. It is the feeling that nothing could be worse than that very moment no matter what age you practice it. I do not remember asking where she was or when I would see her, but I can vividly recall the feeling of needing her.

What I would discover 30 years later was that my mother did call. My father played interference until I was about 7 years old with my mother. He would not allow her to speak to me if he suspected she was high. Her tongue was sharp when she was feeling hurt and vulnerable; he did not want to risk this unpredictability when mixed with drugs with his daughter. A meeting was finally planned. My mother was coming to California to visit her little girl. I did not know this would be the last time I would see my mother alive. I was 5 years old and it was the only thing I cared about when I found out she was coming and the days following the short visit.

Oliver and my dad had a lengthy discussion on how this visit would transpire. They did not trust she would not take off with me. They did not trust she would not leave me somewhere while she looked for drugs. So, they told her the three of us would meet in Golden Gate Park. It was a central location, easy for her to find since she was not familiar with the City and sparse enough that they could linger while watching in the shadows. They allowed for a 3 hour visit that was not to leave the park. She decided she could only stay for one day.

Oliver, my dad and I walked through the park. And, then I saw her. It was a dream at first that my eyes needed adjusting to. I looked up at my dad for his approval and for his confirmation. “Go on and see your mother” he said. I ran. I ran fast as I could while her she slowly dropped her purse, knelt down to my height and enveloped me. My 5 year old arms were flung tightly around her neck while she cried.

We walked around a lot. She followed the rules and did not take me out of the park; she did not leave me; she held me as long as her arms would allow. We ate. We played. She chatted with me and she allowed me to feel like a little girl with her mother. I was as happy as I could remember and I did not want her to leave. She took me to get my face painted by a local artist in the park. I picked a rainbow with two clouds; it was very 80’s of me. The time moved by both slow and fast. When you are 5 everything seems to be in slow motion because things are still new. But, there is feeling of activities stopping too soon and my mother was getting ready to leave. I saw Oliver and my dad walk up. My mom told me it was time for her to go. I refused to let her go. A tantrum ensued and I could not breathe I was so upset. She kept telling me it was okay but she was crying too. My intuition though only 5 knew I would never see her again.

When we arrived home I was inconsolable. Actually, I was allowed to sit in the front with my parents because I was so upset and they did not know what to do. Pandora’s box of yearning for my mother had been opened and that emptiness would stay with me for 20 years.

After 3 days my dad finally would not take no for an answer on removing my cheek painted rainbow. I felt like if he washed it off my mother would be removed too. The wash rag stung but not nearly as bad as my heart ached.

Oliver and my father did the right thing in protecting me. My mother did the right thing in letting me go. But, how do you explain all of this to a child. The truth is that you don’t and you hope you provide enough for your child to understand when they get older.

To be continued……………