A couple days ago, I got a rather fat letter in the mail from the County Sheriff's office where Mom used to live, the town of my formative teenage hood. It was a lengthy obtuse legal document. I found her name a couple pages back amid notes about taxes and liens and such.
My beloved grandfather used to live in said county on a small piece of land with a trailer. It was set off from the road a smidge and surrounded by trees. He had a window behind the couch that looked out on a backyard that was more trees than yard. He'd watch the deer come and go. During one particularly difficult summer, we spent several months there after we were evicted from a house we were renting that was suddenly sold on us. We slept in Grandpa's living room on the foldout couch and an easy chair - my mom and three kids. That summer I also tried to have a romantic picnic in the woods there with a boy I was sweet for; all I succeeded in doing was getting us eaten alive by mosquitoes ... a story for another time.
Anyway, one year a man bought the property next to my grandfather and literally built his gaudy house right up to the property line. He would push my grandfather trying to get him to sell, so he could expand. It pissed my grandfather off, because he told my mother, who told me, but Grandpa stood his ground. This was his land. He died very unexpectedly in 1994. We had barely finished burying him, when the next-door neighbor started in on Mom. Now this land was tiny. It just fit his trailer, a small shed, enough space to park two cars and trees all around. And although it was tiny, it was agreed upon between her and my uncle that the land was hers to live on. She couldn't build anything on it, 1. because it was too small to do so and 2. she didn't have any money. But this was hers. The word land is magical when you've never owned anything of substance. She didn't have the money to have the trailer removed, so it sat there.
That next-door neighbor continued to push at her. She kept declining, but it got harder and harder. She had to pay the property taxes on a place where she couldn't live and still pay her rent, and as I've mentioned previously there was never enough money. I had graduated from college just a couple weeks before my grandfather died and then moved halfway across the country. I wasn't really a mouth to feed, nor was my brother who was living on his own, that left my little sister at home. She tried to keep up with the taxes. She even had to ask me for help a couple times, which I was glad to do - this was hers. Unfortunately, she couldn't keep it up, and the time came where she had to make a very hard choice, and that next door neighbor dick was right there to seize the opportunity. He was visibly pleased with his success.
Fast forward to that letter I received. I called the Sheriff's office to see if they'd be willing to explain it to me. I was nervous that they were coming after me for money owed by an estate that never existed. When Mom died, she left us barely enough money in her account to cremate her, and a beat up Volkswagen Jetta that sat in our driveway until two Hispanic guys in the neighborhood asked if they could give us $100 for it. All those other expenses that come up when someone dies, from final bills to official death certificates to God knows what else can come up, my sister and I paid for. There was more that my sister took care of on the sly, but she kept that to herself. Mom had requested that one of us be there when she was cremated. Mom was desperately afraid of being burned alive. We were to make sure that she was really gone. My sister took on that responsibility, and that is a debt that I will never be able to repay her. Never.
A very nice lady at the Sheriff's office explained that I was being informed in the letter that the property, along with a lot of other property that the next-door dick owned, was being sold off for taxes and such. In case I had a lien against the property or some other arrangement, this would be my chance to let it be known. I'll admit, I started to cry a bit on the phone with her. I said, Ma'am, forgive me. This was my grandfather's land and then my mother's. It was all she had. All we had. This man had bullied my grandfather to sell and then my mother. My dear grandfather wasn't even cold in the ground before this man started to ask her about selling. I said, I'm sorry but I'm not really sorry that he's losing his property. Then she told me, that he was a huge jerk and a really bad man, and if this news had in any way made my day better, she was very happy. I thanked her immensely, and we said our goodbyes.
When we were younger and someone would do something really bad to one of us or her, an underhanded boss or cheating boyfriend/girlfriend, Mom would say, "God will get them. I may not be there when it happens, but God knows what they've done." If I close my eyes, I can hear her saying it even now.
Wednesday, March 2, 2016
Wednesday, February 24, 2016
Oh, Bother
A new co-worker joined us this week. She's lovely and rather young, but I've never really paid much mind to how old anyone is who works with me. For most of my career, I've often been the youngest or one of the youngest managers on the team. But just as the basketball players I watch all seem to be getting younger, this too shall pass.
The new woman already knows one of the members of the team. They were remembering some once shared humor about how she was born the same year that the other one was married. She was born in 1994. Then we all started to giggle about items in our homes that are older than this woman. For example, I am 100% sure that I have towels older than her. She's three years older than my first child.
No big whoop, I said to myself. Who cares.
Later this afternoon, she needed to chat in my office about some scheduling needs. She has a vacation coming up to attend to family concerns due to her grandfather's recent death. She told me that her mother, who is battling uterine cancer, wants to get the whole family together to celebrate her father's life and get away from the sadness and the rough year they've had. She told me that her mother was a young woman, and the prognosis was pretty good.
Her mother is 43.
I'm 43.
Your mother is a really young woman, I said, really young.
Fuck.
The new woman already knows one of the members of the team. They were remembering some once shared humor about how she was born the same year that the other one was married. She was born in 1994. Then we all started to giggle about items in our homes that are older than this woman. For example, I am 100% sure that I have towels older than her. She's three years older than my first child.
No big whoop, I said to myself. Who cares.
Later this afternoon, she needed to chat in my office about some scheduling needs. She has a vacation coming up to attend to family concerns due to her grandfather's recent death. She told me that her mother, who is battling uterine cancer, wants to get the whole family together to celebrate her father's life and get away from the sadness and the rough year they've had. She told me that her mother was a young woman, and the prognosis was pretty good.
Her mother is 43.
I'm 43.
Your mother is a really young woman, I said, really young.
Fuck.
Saturday, February 13, 2016
Food Insecurity
A dear friend pointed me in the direction of a fascinating article in The Washington Post online that posits how food insecurity in childhood due to poverty affects your eating patterns in adulthood, whether or not you are poor later in life. Here's the article:
https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonk/wp/2016/02/12/the-crippling-thing-about-growing-up-poor-that-stays-with-you-forever/?postshare=7251455375433309&tid=ss_fb-bottom
Much of this article rang true for me. When I was a child, we would probably have been classified as lower middle class. There were presents on holidays and new school clothes at the start of the year. If our father hadn't drunk half his paycheck away with some frequency, we would have been better off. Mom tried to strictly manage bills, balance our needs and not piss him off. She worked odd jobs and had a newspaper route to be able to pay for extras. Everything changed when he left.
We didn't have to worry about him beating her anymore or demoralizing us, which was an immense positive, but we also lost his semi-regular paycheck. She always had a full-time job, but they never paid enough. My father got away with paying $200 a month in child support for three children in the divorce decree - something the pro bono lawyer from the women's shelter helped secure in exchange for him giving up custody. A necessary evil, as he moved back to Ohio and threatened her with mandatory summer visits where he might just "forget" to let us come back to her. Bills were frequently late or overdue, and she would sometimes have to turn to our Grandfather for help. She tried welfare and food stamps for a couple months, but they told her to turn over the child support check for roughly the same amount in stamps, so she opted to stop them and the humiliation of going to get them. Every once in a while someone from the church would drop off a box of food, but otherwise it was slim pickings for the four of us. I remember being hungry all the time. Breakfast would be a bowl of cereal with milk. She would buy a gallon of real milk and then cut it over the next two weeks with powdered milk. She would drink a cup of instant coffee and eat a piece of bread. Lunch was at school, which I remember being cheaper than buying the individual parts to make up a lunch box. Before the divorce, she packed it every day for us, and we always had fruit. Dinner might be a package of hot dogs, a can of vegetables and four servings of rice or instant potatoes.
Mom wasn't a very good cook, and she wasn't ashamed to tell you that. She used to say that it was because she could operate a can opener or open a box that she could keep us alive. She ate very little, in order to save more for us. Soda was for special occasions, dessert was rare - that's why a birthday cake and ice cream is such a big deal to me to this day. There was rarely fresh fruits, vegetables or juice and usually white bread was a filler. Fried bologna balloons up in the pan, unless you cut an X in the middle.
After I moved out, these lessons stayed with me. In college, I put 15 pounds on when I suddenly had access to the cafeteria and repeat trips to the buffet line. Honestly, I probably ended up closer to the weight I should have been. When my husband and I started a life together, we were quite poor. It was back to infrequent fruits and vegetables in the house, lots of pasta and processed food. It's cheaper than eating healthy. I learned how to cook, quite well if I can take a moment to brag, because I had to figure out how to reuse any left-overs and work with very little. Even now, years later and doing much better financially, I've got food stocked all over the house in case we run into a problem, backups on backups. The idea of the children being hungry bothers me deeply.
If I go to a meeting and there are snacks on the table, I almost always help myself even if I'm not hungry. It's free, I rationalize and what if you don't have access to food later. The kids have never had to worry about food the same way, so they don't react the way I do. I do take umbrage with one of the theories in the article, that poorer households are often less educated and therefore less aware of their body needs. My mother was quite aware that we needed fresh fruits and vegetables; she just couldn't afford them. She was aware that Hamburger Helper was filled with salt and gave her terrible migraines, but it stretched a pound of ground beef out to feed three teenagers. She was very aware that she was starving herself. Thank God I don't have to.
https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/wonk/wp/2016/02/12/the-crippling-thing-about-growing-up-poor-that-stays-with-you-forever/?postshare=7251455375433309&tid=ss_fb-bottom
Much of this article rang true for me. When I was a child, we would probably have been classified as lower middle class. There were presents on holidays and new school clothes at the start of the year. If our father hadn't drunk half his paycheck away with some frequency, we would have been better off. Mom tried to strictly manage bills, balance our needs and not piss him off. She worked odd jobs and had a newspaper route to be able to pay for extras. Everything changed when he left.
We didn't have to worry about him beating her anymore or demoralizing us, which was an immense positive, but we also lost his semi-regular paycheck. She always had a full-time job, but they never paid enough. My father got away with paying $200 a month in child support for three children in the divorce decree - something the pro bono lawyer from the women's shelter helped secure in exchange for him giving up custody. A necessary evil, as he moved back to Ohio and threatened her with mandatory summer visits where he might just "forget" to let us come back to her. Bills were frequently late or overdue, and she would sometimes have to turn to our Grandfather for help. She tried welfare and food stamps for a couple months, but they told her to turn over the child support check for roughly the same amount in stamps, so she opted to stop them and the humiliation of going to get them. Every once in a while someone from the church would drop off a box of food, but otherwise it was slim pickings for the four of us. I remember being hungry all the time. Breakfast would be a bowl of cereal with milk. She would buy a gallon of real milk and then cut it over the next two weeks with powdered milk. She would drink a cup of instant coffee and eat a piece of bread. Lunch was at school, which I remember being cheaper than buying the individual parts to make up a lunch box. Before the divorce, she packed it every day for us, and we always had fruit. Dinner might be a package of hot dogs, a can of vegetables and four servings of rice or instant potatoes.
Mom wasn't a very good cook, and she wasn't ashamed to tell you that. She used to say that it was because she could operate a can opener or open a box that she could keep us alive. She ate very little, in order to save more for us. Soda was for special occasions, dessert was rare - that's why a birthday cake and ice cream is such a big deal to me to this day. There was rarely fresh fruits, vegetables or juice and usually white bread was a filler. Fried bologna balloons up in the pan, unless you cut an X in the middle.
After I moved out, these lessons stayed with me. In college, I put 15 pounds on when I suddenly had access to the cafeteria and repeat trips to the buffet line. Honestly, I probably ended up closer to the weight I should have been. When my husband and I started a life together, we were quite poor. It was back to infrequent fruits and vegetables in the house, lots of pasta and processed food. It's cheaper than eating healthy. I learned how to cook, quite well if I can take a moment to brag, because I had to figure out how to reuse any left-overs and work with very little. Even now, years later and doing much better financially, I've got food stocked all over the house in case we run into a problem, backups on backups. The idea of the children being hungry bothers me deeply.
If I go to a meeting and there are snacks on the table, I almost always help myself even if I'm not hungry. It's free, I rationalize and what if you don't have access to food later. The kids have never had to worry about food the same way, so they don't react the way I do. I do take umbrage with one of the theories in the article, that poorer households are often less educated and therefore less aware of their body needs. My mother was quite aware that we needed fresh fruits and vegetables; she just couldn't afford them. She was aware that Hamburger Helper was filled with salt and gave her terrible migraines, but it stretched a pound of ground beef out to feed three teenagers. She was very aware that she was starving herself. Thank God I don't have to.
Saturday, January 16, 2016
Milo
There's been so much loss this week ...poet C.D. Wright, David Bowie, actors Alan Rickman, David Margulies, Brian Bedford, Dan Haggerty and Noreen Corcoran. The list is enormous. In fact, I thought I would do a little research and found this wikipedia page created just for January 2016:
I'm saddened by each loss, but Alan Rickman touched me the most. To watch him was to respect his sincerity and his dedication. You'd think, it must be lovely to work with him, to get to play together.
Yesterday, I learned of another death this week. Our client Roger came in to run a couple questions by me, and he didn't seem quite like himself. In his late 60's, you'd never know it from looking at him. He's trim, full of energy and quick with a sly smile. We met several months ago when he needed a little help, and through the course of a visit or two he talked about his life, his late partner Jane and his beloved Cockapoo, Milo. He and Jane had been together for almost 25 years. She died unexpectedly seven years ago and the loneliness was unbearable. A friend of Roger's introduced him to a rescued tawny Cockapoo named Milo, and they saved each other.
Fast forward to yesterday. While we were talking, Roger asked me if I had any animals, and I told him about our cats, our boys Rhett, Murry and Bagheera. Then he told me that he had had to put Milo to sleep on Sunday. I was shocked and asked what happened. He said on Friday when he came home from work, the neighbor woman who watched Milo during the day told him that he wasn't acting normally. He was lethargic and wouldn't eat. When she walked him, she noticed his urine was cloudy. Roger got him to eat a little that night, but on Saturday it was more of the same. When Sunday morning came, Milo wouldn't or couldn't get up. Roger rushed him to a local animal hospital that is extremely helpful and kind, having used their services myself. Roger told me that after blood work and an exam, the vet gave him the news. Milo had a heart murmur and autoimmune hemolytic anemia. The vet said that he could treat Milo, and it would be very expensive, but more than that there would be no guarantee it would work for very long, if at all. He said Milo would have no quality of life when he got him home - vomiting, urinating on himself, possible seizures. He said, Roger, if you love your dog, you'll put him to sleep.
Deciding that he didn't want Milo to suffer, he took the vet's advice. He said that there was a couch in the room where they had been waiting. Milo was laying across his lap, and Roger laid a hand on his back to keep him still. The vet had two syringes, and Milo didn't stir through either shot, didn't make a sound and within a few moments he was gone. Roger didn't look at me throughout the story, just stared down into his hands. At this point, he looked up and said, Heather, I wish the vet had taken what was left in those syringes and given it to me. We looked at each other, and I told him that Jane and Milo wouldn't have wanted that for him, how sorry I was for his loss. We chatted briefly after that, then said our goodbyes. We hugged, and as he left he told me to keep an eye on my boys.
Friday, January 8, 2016
Broken
Number one child and I were having a conversation last night about life and change. I was explaining to her that I wasn't the same person before children as I am now, specifically referencing her as she is the aforementioned number one child. She immediately got upset, thinking that she had somehow negatively impacted my being. She is a tender and anxious child who wants to take care of everybody's feelings. So, I tried to explain my philosophy that after many events in a person's life you become someone new - sometimes it's good and sometimes it's not. I believe that once it happens, you can't ever go back. Think of when you found out about where babies come from ... there's no coming back to childhood once you get that little nugget of knowledge. I remember the day my Mom sat me down to explain the mechanics involved. First I laughed, thinking that she was pulling my leg, then I was thoroughly disgusted - you have got to be kidding me, I told her. Why on God's green earth would you let one of those things (i.e. a penis) near your sacred private parts (i.e. the holy grotto). Trust me, she said, it's messy and not any fun anyway. That's a mother supplied nugget of information that changes you forever, too.
The big things do it - births, deaths, buying a house, moving, school, a new job, new people in your life. The little things do it, too - the first time you taste pork cooked the right way, a marvelous book, a new song by your favorite artist, the first kiss, a perfect cup of tea. There's no going back to the person you were before those experiences. Problems come when you think you're the same after the event, like those people who have a child and want to live without fully embracing the change and the responsibility that comes with your new roommate. In this example, I'm not saying you're supposed to stop having fun, but you have to put their needs first and figure out how to work yours into the equation. Otherwise, you're making a future ax murderer or at the very least someone who will ship you off to the old person's home when you slow down. Think "Cat's in the Cradle," my friends, and you'll know where my mind is going.
As I mentioned, sometimes these events will not change you for the good. For me, most obviously to you gentle reader and the people I live with, my Mom's death was a major diversion through the yellow wood. My sister and I have discussed this ad nauseum. We're broken, rent. Time most certainly does not heal all wounds, and I don't know if it's supposed to. The passage of time might make it easier to provide the illusion of distance and repair, but only if you think of time as linear - onward and upward. Good on you, if you have that skill set. It's not one of mine. I feel like I'm corkscrewing back and forth through a sine and cosine wave. And maybe that's what a traumatic change does to a human. I'm sure therapy helps some people, and medication helps others. And if I couldn't get up and go to work, or pay the bills, ensure the trains are running on time, then maybe I would and should exhaust those options. My doctor, who refuses to provide pain medication for relief from my consistent back pain, is more than happy to write me a prescription for an anti-depressant. Will it make the world colorful again, less gray, I asked? No, she said, it'll help you deal with the sadness. I declined. Maybe I'm supposed to experience the sadness, find out who I am after I get to the other side. Maybe it's an ocean away.
The big things do it - births, deaths, buying a house, moving, school, a new job, new people in your life. The little things do it, too - the first time you taste pork cooked the right way, a marvelous book, a new song by your favorite artist, the first kiss, a perfect cup of tea. There's no going back to the person you were before those experiences. Problems come when you think you're the same after the event, like those people who have a child and want to live without fully embracing the change and the responsibility that comes with your new roommate. In this example, I'm not saying you're supposed to stop having fun, but you have to put their needs first and figure out how to work yours into the equation. Otherwise, you're making a future ax murderer or at the very least someone who will ship you off to the old person's home when you slow down. Think "Cat's in the Cradle," my friends, and you'll know where my mind is going.
As I mentioned, sometimes these events will not change you for the good. For me, most obviously to you gentle reader and the people I live with, my Mom's death was a major diversion through the yellow wood. My sister and I have discussed this ad nauseum. We're broken, rent. Time most certainly does not heal all wounds, and I don't know if it's supposed to. The passage of time might make it easier to provide the illusion of distance and repair, but only if you think of time as linear - onward and upward. Good on you, if you have that skill set. It's not one of mine. I feel like I'm corkscrewing back and forth through a sine and cosine wave. And maybe that's what a traumatic change does to a human. I'm sure therapy helps some people, and medication helps others. And if I couldn't get up and go to work, or pay the bills, ensure the trains are running on time, then maybe I would and should exhaust those options. My doctor, who refuses to provide pain medication for relief from my consistent back pain, is more than happy to write me a prescription for an anti-depressant. Will it make the world colorful again, less gray, I asked? No, she said, it'll help you deal with the sadness. I declined. Maybe I'm supposed to experience the sadness, find out who I am after I get to the other side. Maybe it's an ocean away.
Thursday, December 24, 2015
Yule
There have been so many profound stories to share from the last several weeks at work. It has been very tiring as the holidays have approached, as well. There is so much beauty in this world - wonderful children, good poetry, dear friends, rock music and the sweet anger release of a well strung together litany of curse words. Even with all this though, it's a tough time of the year. From my birthday in October through New Year's day, the progression of special days that trumpet ever more loudly my mother's absence in my ears. We all have something, right.
There's Edith, who at 83 lost her youngest son, husband and home in the last year. Her son died unexpectedly, meanwhile her husband who she was the primary caretaker for, took a turn for the worse and died six months later. Edith and her husband had the first floor in her two family, and her son and daughter-in-law had the second floor. With both men gone, the decision was made by the remaining children that it would be for the best to sell the house - after all, it was too much house for two older women. Edith lives in a three room apartment now in a nice part of town, but she doesn't know any of her neighbors. They're all so busy. We sat for a while and talked about her husband, her son, her grandchildren, how hard it is to cook for one person, what life was like when she was a nurse and in charge of the medical unit at the airport. She talked about how hard it is at the grocery store, and I suggested that they could deliver for her - or maybe one of those children or grandchildren could go with her, walk arm in arm and listen to her wonderful stories while they carried her milk. She patted my hair when she left.
There's Russell, not my Russell, but I told him he had the same name as my husband, and he got a kick out of that. Three months ago he came into my office and was unsteady on his pins. He almost fell over, but somehow I kept him off the floor and we've been friends since then. He came in recently to find out how fast I could make a very large check clear. It turns out he doesn't have much time left here on this planet, and he wants to make sure he can give it to his girlfriend. I was like, Russell, you didn't tell me you were that sick? How well do you know this woman? He laughed me off and said they'd been together for 25 years. This check was the least he could do for her considering all the shit he puts her through. He said goodbye and shook my hand like it was the last time we would see each other.
There's Gary who stopped by to go over some recent transactions. Then he asked me if I had my holiday shopping done, and when I said not quite yet, produced six watch and pen sets from a bag he had at his feet. They were $45 a piece, but I could have two for $80 or three for $90 and how many sets would I like. That was fun to delicately extricate myself from. There's Georgia that wants to adopt me, and/or introduce me to nice young man she knows. I'm happily married Georgia, I always say. He's got a really good job, she says with a smile. Oh Georgia, I say - you are too much. Then we laugh, and I smile until I can get her the fuck out of my office. There's so many stories and so little time to give them all the justice they deserve.
Tonight, we'll sit in our living room and read the story of Jesus' birth to the children, just as my mother did every single Christmas Eve when we were children. My sister is with us for the first time in a very long time. She's making block towers with the baby while I write this. We'll keep trying to get the 18 year old cat to stop eating the artificial tree. We'll hang our stockings later after everyone showers and puts on beddy-bye clothes. And after I kiss them goodnight, after my sister goes to bed and my husband goes to sleep, I will touch my mother's tiny urn on my dresser and wish her a Merry Christmas.
There's Edith, who at 83 lost her youngest son, husband and home in the last year. Her son died unexpectedly, meanwhile her husband who she was the primary caretaker for, took a turn for the worse and died six months later. Edith and her husband had the first floor in her two family, and her son and daughter-in-law had the second floor. With both men gone, the decision was made by the remaining children that it would be for the best to sell the house - after all, it was too much house for two older women. Edith lives in a three room apartment now in a nice part of town, but she doesn't know any of her neighbors. They're all so busy. We sat for a while and talked about her husband, her son, her grandchildren, how hard it is to cook for one person, what life was like when she was a nurse and in charge of the medical unit at the airport. She talked about how hard it is at the grocery store, and I suggested that they could deliver for her - or maybe one of those children or grandchildren could go with her, walk arm in arm and listen to her wonderful stories while they carried her milk. She patted my hair when she left.
There's Russell, not my Russell, but I told him he had the same name as my husband, and he got a kick out of that. Three months ago he came into my office and was unsteady on his pins. He almost fell over, but somehow I kept him off the floor and we've been friends since then. He came in recently to find out how fast I could make a very large check clear. It turns out he doesn't have much time left here on this planet, and he wants to make sure he can give it to his girlfriend. I was like, Russell, you didn't tell me you were that sick? How well do you know this woman? He laughed me off and said they'd been together for 25 years. This check was the least he could do for her considering all the shit he puts her through. He said goodbye and shook my hand like it was the last time we would see each other.
There's Gary who stopped by to go over some recent transactions. Then he asked me if I had my holiday shopping done, and when I said not quite yet, produced six watch and pen sets from a bag he had at his feet. They were $45 a piece, but I could have two for $80 or three for $90 and how many sets would I like. That was fun to delicately extricate myself from. There's Georgia that wants to adopt me, and/or introduce me to nice young man she knows. I'm happily married Georgia, I always say. He's got a really good job, she says with a smile. Oh Georgia, I say - you are too much. Then we laugh, and I smile until I can get her the fuck out of my office. There's so many stories and so little time to give them all the justice they deserve.
Tonight, we'll sit in our living room and read the story of Jesus' birth to the children, just as my mother did every single Christmas Eve when we were children. My sister is with us for the first time in a very long time. She's making block towers with the baby while I write this. We'll keep trying to get the 18 year old cat to stop eating the artificial tree. We'll hang our stockings later after everyone showers and puts on beddy-bye clothes. And after I kiss them goodnight, after my sister goes to bed and my husband goes to sleep, I will touch my mother's tiny urn on my dresser and wish her a Merry Christmas.
Monday, December 7, 2015
Fake Prophet
I realize that anyone who is reading my thoughts is, in all likelihood, probably in agreement with some of my arguments - otherwise you would have bid me and my little rants adieu some time ago. I am unabashedly a liberal in my ideology and belief systems. I support and defend a woman's right to her body and to be equal with men. I believe that we have an obligation to come to the aid of those less fortunate. As Uncle Ben teaches us, with great power comes great responsibility.
I also believe that the system, "the man" shall we say, succeeds when we are kept like sheep - fat and sassy, debating the television/media flavor of the month, the hyped hoopla that allows us to think we're having real debate. Let's get indignant over a red cup at Starbucks. Let's pretend there's a war on Christmas and Christians because somebody suggested we say Happy Holidays and you think godless liberals don't want you to say Merry Christmas anymore - it's not like there aren't ten or eleven religious holidays from roughly Thanksgiving to New Year's Day, and maybe wishing everyone you meet a Happy Holiday might be a nice thing to do. Let's get angry about Caitlyn Jenner being a real woman or not and deserving of fake awards or not. Let's talk about who's fucking who on The Voice, The Real Housewives of X town and The Fake Ass Duggar Prophets.
They want us to focus on this pablum and allow the real issues to pass from our memory. Suck all the crap in and stare into Kaa's eyes ... Forget the refugees ... Turn from an honest dialogue on gun control ... Pay no attention to the squeezing of equal healthcare access for poor women and men ... Ignore the economic caste system that is becoming written in stone.
And then into the mix, toss Donald Trump and his ever increasingly divisive rhetoric. Months ago, I mentioned I was concerned about him and what he might foment. Don't worry, friends and family told me. He's a joke; no one really believes what he has to say. Each day he struts and preens in front of the cameras, spouting off unimaginable soundbites:
- Today's campaign press release, "Donald J. Trump is calling for a total and complete shutdown of Muslims entering the United States until our country's representatives can figure out what is going on."
- If he's elected President he would deport Syrian refugees who are here, including children. “They’re going to be gone. They will go back. … I’ve said it before, in fact, and everyone hears what I say, including them, believe it or not,” Trump said of the refugees.
- When he was asked about all Muslims here being issued ID cards: He said, “we’re going to have to look at a lot of things very closely.”
- On the families of terrorists: "The other thing with the terrorists is you have to take out their families, when you get these terrorists, you have to take out their families. They care about their lives, don't kid yourself. When they say they don't care about their lives, you have to take out their families," Trump said.
- A protester at his rally who was punched and kicked by Trump supporters, "maybe he should have been roughed up."
He is still ahead in the polls. Clients I know think he's great - "he's just saying what most of us think already." They were having a lively discussion in the lobby about how Trump would turn this country around. It reminded me of Hitler's Willing Executioners, by Daniel Goldhagen. I hope I don't give Goldhagen's thesis a disservice by summing it up thus; the German people were not only aware of what was going on under the Nazi regime, but were willing participants and in multiple instances, participated in a culture of cruelty and murder. The prevailing thought prior to this had been that the majority of the German public was indifferent to what the regime was doing and more disliked the Jews than hated them.
Are Trump and his supporters Nazis - certainly not, but he is riling up his supporters with comments that make a lot of people very uncomfortable. Apparently, not uncomfortable enough for the Republican party or the other candidates on the stage with him to disavow him and all he stands. It's as though they've become indifferent. We must not go down that path.
I also believe that the system, "the man" shall we say, succeeds when we are kept like sheep - fat and sassy, debating the television/media flavor of the month, the hyped hoopla that allows us to think we're having real debate. Let's get indignant over a red cup at Starbucks. Let's pretend there's a war on Christmas and Christians because somebody suggested we say Happy Holidays and you think godless liberals don't want you to say Merry Christmas anymore - it's not like there aren't ten or eleven religious holidays from roughly Thanksgiving to New Year's Day, and maybe wishing everyone you meet a Happy Holiday might be a nice thing to do. Let's get angry about Caitlyn Jenner being a real woman or not and deserving of fake awards or not. Let's talk about who's fucking who on The Voice, The Real Housewives of X town and The Fake Ass Duggar Prophets.
They want us to focus on this pablum and allow the real issues to pass from our memory. Suck all the crap in and stare into Kaa's eyes ... Forget the refugees ... Turn from an honest dialogue on gun control ... Pay no attention to the squeezing of equal healthcare access for poor women and men ... Ignore the economic caste system that is becoming written in stone.
And then into the mix, toss Donald Trump and his ever increasingly divisive rhetoric. Months ago, I mentioned I was concerned about him and what he might foment. Don't worry, friends and family told me. He's a joke; no one really believes what he has to say. Each day he struts and preens in front of the cameras, spouting off unimaginable soundbites:
- Today's campaign press release, "Donald J. Trump is calling for a total and complete shutdown of Muslims entering the United States until our country's representatives can figure out what is going on."
- If he's elected President he would deport Syrian refugees who are here, including children. “They’re going to be gone. They will go back. … I’ve said it before, in fact, and everyone hears what I say, including them, believe it or not,” Trump said of the refugees.
- When he was asked about all Muslims here being issued ID cards: He said, “we’re going to have to look at a lot of things very closely.”
- On the families of terrorists: "The other thing with the terrorists is you have to take out their families, when you get these terrorists, you have to take out their families. They care about their lives, don't kid yourself. When they say they don't care about their lives, you have to take out their families," Trump said.
- A protester at his rally who was punched and kicked by Trump supporters, "maybe he should have been roughed up."
He is still ahead in the polls. Clients I know think he's great - "he's just saying what most of us think already." They were having a lively discussion in the lobby about how Trump would turn this country around. It reminded me of Hitler's Willing Executioners, by Daniel Goldhagen. I hope I don't give Goldhagen's thesis a disservice by summing it up thus; the German people were not only aware of what was going on under the Nazi regime, but were willing participants and in multiple instances, participated in a culture of cruelty and murder. The prevailing thought prior to this had been that the majority of the German public was indifferent to what the regime was doing and more disliked the Jews than hated them.
Are Trump and his supporters Nazis - certainly not, but he is riling up his supporters with comments that make a lot of people very uncomfortable. Apparently, not uncomfortable enough for the Republican party or the other candidates on the stage with him to disavow him and all he stands. It's as though they've become indifferent. We must not go down that path.
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