Fury

     I learned from an early age to be respectful of the police, not just because it was their job to help you, but also because things could go sour quickly with some officers if you didn't.  Now most cops are just trying to do their jobs and go home to their families, and in a lot of places, they're short on resources and training.  I think by now, though that it has become painfully obvious, unless you live under a rock, that depending on where you live, what color you are and your socio-economic status, we're not all getting the same level of service in this country.
     My father was a reserve police officer for a couple years when we lived in California.  I remember him being very proud of his uniform and his gun.  When I look back on that time, he was a prime example of someone who should never have been allowed on the police force in any capacity, but maybe the fact that he was a respected member of the military helped.  Although I was too little to know the truth, I'm guessing that the weekend his drinking led him to beat my mother for hours, holding us hostage in Navy housing until she was able to escape to the neighbors and call the police, was what led to him being excused from the police force.  He was out within 48 hours, after military command spoke to mom about the anger management training he would be encouraged to take and the AA meetings he would attend.  He took the training but didn't continue with the AA meetings, neither helped him anyway.
     Mom used to say that a lot of cops, and many men in positions of power, had "little man syndrome."  They needed to make up for some aspect of their lives where they were deficient by exploiting or seeking greater power over others in their professional lives.  I had a soccer coach who was a great example of this, maybe 5'5'' and a complete dick during practice.  And not in a "this tough talk will help you in your sporting life and you will grow as a human" way, but in a "I will make you suffer, because I am a sadistic fuck with all the power who never got to play soccer professionally due to an injury" way.
     We've seen lots of video taped examples recently of police behavior that was certainly not helpful; students being tossed across schoolrooms, knees in the backs of bikini clad teens, unsanctioned choke holds, etc.  I'm not going to debate these.  I don't need to.  I've already said the rules aren't the same for all of us for some cops.  It's wrong, and it should make you angry.  Today, I read this article and became even more furious:

http://www.addictinginfo.org/2015/01/18/detroits-untested-rape-kits-finally-tested-100-serial-rapists-identified-video/

     Seeing that it was from January, I started looking for updated information and found this from September:

http://www.freep.com/story/news/local/michigan/detroit/2015/09/02/rape-kit-testing/71561958/ 

     Protect and serve.  Protect and serve.  11,341 abandoned rape kits is a systemic decision to place the solving of rape cases in Detroit not on hold, but as unnecessary to solve.

          "Worthy said Detroit's kit-testing initiative has identified 2,616 suspects — including 477 serial rapists — and that 21 convictions have been secured. She said 106 cases are actively being   investigated and 1,350 cases are awaiting investigation ... Worthy said DNA in the rape kits            has been linked to suspects in 35 states, plus the District of Columbia."

     Think about the level of trauma for individuals, families, children that spreads out from this kind of decision, spreads out over our entire nation.

Blessings

     I read an article several years ago that referenced a study describing what kills men versus women.  It wasn't so much about diseases as life events, specific to heart attacks, suicide and dropping dead. The evidence suggests that it's big dramatic events - job loss, eviction, family tragedy, etc. - that kill men, and it's the steady accumulation of dozens of smaller shitty events - insert your million examples here - that kill women.
     As I am a woman, I have always been quite amused by this because, I don't want to brag here, but I can point to a bajillion smaller shitty events in my life that should have kicked the stool out from under my feet by now.  So I'm thinking that every time something marvelous has happened, the scale resets.
     Case in point, after a rough couple of weeks with my personal cup of crap filling up, one of my co-workers spent hours last night texting me back and forth about how late she was going to be this morning due to a family emergency.  We brainstormed solutions for three hours, until I had to tell her we'd just have to let it go and deal with it in the morning.  There would be emails, a delay, potential repercussions, extra paperwork ... the list goes on.  When I got to work, miracle of miracles, a very occasional teammate unexpectedly showed up to use an office, and we were saved.  No emails to write, no extra paperwork needed - we were still shorthanded and stressed, but what could have been terrible, wasn't.
     During a ten minute break, I figured out how to eat my yogurt with a lollipop since the spoon in my lunchbox went AWOL, another out of the box blessing (literally, since I found the lollipop in the bottom of a box in the break room).  Then finally home to the greatest babies on the planet, and my final blessing of the night:  

     And with this gesture, the scales are much closer to even.  Remember that best friend from high school that I mentioned a while back, the one person (aside from my mother) who was always on my side - these are from her.  I don't have enough time here to tell you how awesome she was and is to this day.  She taught me how to french braid my own hair, crocheted me afghans, wrote endless notes/letters/stories with me, told bawdy jokes with me, bemoaned all the boys that wouldn't look at me twice, drove hours to see me act in college.  She loved me and cared for me, and I hope with all my heart that I was able to give her even a tenth of the joy she brought me.  We lost contact with each other 20 years ago due to distance, life and my issues.  It's not something to be proud of, but thankfully, Scarlet was right and tomorrow is another day and another chance - and another blessing.
               

Rage

     I have a temper.  Oh, I hide it almost all of the time, and unless you've seen me let my guard down, you'd never know it.  I'd like to believe I got it from my father, but truth be told, after their divorce was finalized and he was thankfully gone from our lives, my mother's ire was quick.  She tended to express herself in biting commentary, which wasn't fun to be involved in, but did teach you how to think fast.  My father's temper can really best be described as explosive rage.  You learned how to hide and make yourself small, so as not to get the brunt of it.
     Throughout my life, I've often been worried that if I let my anger out, I might turn out to be like him.  There have been glimpses to what I could be.  I remember being in the back seat of the car when I was eight or nine when he was driving us somewhere. He was going on and on about how horrible Mom was, how ugly, how stupid, how this, how that.  And we had to sit there and take it, like she did.  His boots were in the back seat at my feet - big, heavy cowboy boots.  I remember looking at those boots and thinking about bashing his skull in.  I realized that a rock would do a better job.  Then I thought that we would drive off the road, and it might hurt Mom since she was in the front, and the moment passed.
     Later in life, when my brother would drive me out of my mind, as little brothers sometimes do, I worried about how I might hurt him if we started smacking each other.  We were entirely too rough with each other when we argued, which I know was related to the violence we were frequently witness to.  I would take my rage and shove it down inside me, because the thought of potentially hurting him made me sick to my stomach.  I've done that for decades, smush it down tighter and tighter.  You know that part in the Avengers movie where they're in a bind and Captain America suggests to Bruce Banner that it might be a good time for him to get angry (thereby turning into the Hulk for the 10 people reading this who don't know the connection).  And Dr. Banner says, "That's my secret, Captain. I'm always angry."  It might be dampened as so much in my life is by my mother's death seven years ago, but that may be my secret, too.
     I share this insight with you, to tell you this.  Someone I love with all my heart has recently been betrayed.  I'm so sad and worried about what the next few months will hold for them, the tremendous changes to their life and their routines.  We will help and love and comfort, because that's all we can do.
     Mixed in with my sadness is tremendous anger.  I can feel the heat rising up the sides of my neck and resting in my cheeks.  There's only so much intense cleaning that a person can do to work this rage out to an even keel.  I tell the children that I'm trying to find my creamy nougat zen center, but it's difficult.

Awareness

     When I kick around Facebook, I really enjoy reading people's thoughts and articles, clicking/liking on the babies - all the babies, and generally reveling in learning about my peeps.  I liked a picture tonight and was inadvertently entered into a fun little status game for Breast Cancer Awareness month.  My initial thought was "oh boy," I don't usually participate in these things, and if one of my friends "likes" what I say then the cycle will continue and I'll feel skeevy about it.  Then my brain said, well if the whole point is to further awareness, then why don't you keep the spirit of the intent.
     I don't have a history of breast cancer on my side of the family, other kinds of cancers, yes.  The disease is also very raw in my mind, as several family members on my husbands side are struggling currently.  I spoke about one of them recently three posts ago.  On my side of the family, breast cysts are common though, so I was raised with an awareness of the necessity of self exams so cysts could be caught early before something else developed.  You have to be taught to become familiar and comfortable with your body, to not ignore the clues you receive.
     Please share any or all of these sites with the people you love:

http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/breast-self-exam

http://www.breastcancer.org/symptoms/testing/types/self_exam/bse_steps

http://www.cancanhealth.org/
(they'll even send you a monthly email reminder, so you won't forget)

http://breastcancer.about.com/od/types/tp/male_bse.htm
(for all the men in your life - The American Cancer Society estimates there will be 2350 new cases of diagnosed breast cancer in men in the US this year, with 440 men dying from it.)

Johnny

     Today at work, while fighting a rather icky cold and trying to appear completely normal, I got to help a gentleman we'll call Johnny.  In his mid 70's, you'd never know it from looking at him.  During our conversation, he told me he regularly went to the gym and "worked it hard."  He was fit, funny and in full use of his faculties.  He was trying to solve a dilemma and was a bit disappointed in himself that he had had to come in for help.
     He told me that his wife used to take care of all this stuff, that he never wrote a check until he was 63.  In fact, if he tried to pay something, arrange a doctor appointment, she thought he was saying she couldn't do her job well.  One day, when he was 60, he and his children had stumbled across a shopping bag filled with bills and creditor letters, and that was when they figured out her secret - she had early onset dementia.  He'd had to take it all on and was glad to do so.  He told me that he'd met her in school when he was 17.  He knew right away she was his girl, and there was no going back. He said his friends had told him he was a sucker, but he didn't care.  They got married, had three children and a good life.  He did special things for her, not for her, but for himself, because to make her happy brought him joy.  She died 12 years ago, he told me.
     He told me that five years ago, he met another woman.  She's married though.  He said he follows her around like a puppy, drives her on errands, helps her weed her yard.  They've never done anything inappropriate, he told me.  He's not that kind of guy.  It's enough to be in her presence.  I said, forgive my question, but where's her husband during all these errands and weed pulling sessions.  He said that he stays inside or goes out with his friends or tells them to have a good time at church.  He's spent more time at church thanks to her, again just to be around her is enough, not because he's gotten religion.
     He told me that he'd never push the idea of divorce with her, because he didn't want to be the reason they broke up.  He also knows she'll never leave, because she has too much to lose.  He said that she talks about how they're going to move to Florida in a couple years, says it matter-of-fact to him.  He figures that he'll be sad when she leaves, but then it'll be done.  She tells him to find someone else, that she wants him to be happy, but he tells her he's happy the way things are.  He's a simple man.
     I kept openly weeping throughout his story, wiping my eyes and sniffling.  He'd say, oh did that part get you.  And then he'd chuckle a little.  Eventually I asked him what he wanted to do about his original problem, and he told me to let it go.  He said he'd never told anyone, even his children, what he'd just spent all this time telling me. Then he told me that he'd come back in a month and we could talk some more.

Sadness

     I'm struggling with the intensity of sadness around me right now.  I feel like it's thigh deep and murky, almost like I'm met with resistance with each footstep.  At work, there have been multiple stories of women in their late 50's to 60's coming in for help as they face divorce after 30-40 years of marriage.  One by one, they have no idea how to unravel a lifetime of joined finances, lawyer requests and lost certainty.  They've all been professionals, so it's not uncertainty at how they'll survive, but rather that their lives are undergoing such a massive change after being married for so long.  Three different times I heard, "Heather, I wouldn't wish this on anyone."
     Add to this the news today that the body of the little girl found on Deer Island, MA has been identified, and it's as horrible as we all feared.  Earlier this summer, when the not quite three year old unidentified girl, now we know her to be Bella Bond, was found in a trash bag on the beach, there was so much shock and surprise that no one knew who she was or where she came from.  There was speculation that maybe she was the child of an illegal immigrant, and that was why no one came forward. Or maybe she was from another part of the country, taken by a predator and dumped here. How could no one miss her ... a parent, a relative, a nosy neighbor.  When I was younger and the news would broadcast the mysterious death of a child or a parent holding a press conference to find a missing toddler, at some point during the broadcast my mother would say out loud that one or both of the parents were the culprits.  We'd look at her in horror at the matter-of-fact statement, shocked that it could be true.  She'd tell us, mark my words, it was either one of the parents or a relative or a neighbor.  It's almost always someone close to the situation.  Sometimes the bogeyman jumps out of the bushes, but most of the time they're down the hallway.
     Now we know that Bella's mother's boyfriend is being charged with murder and her mother with accessory after the fact.  She was killed, and her mother stuffed her tiny body in a trash bag and left her on the beach.  In my heart, I feared the mother was involved, as the baby's blanket was with her body.  We're going to find out that her family was fucked up in multiple ways, that the neighbors knew how bad it was but didn't want to get involved, that the state intervened as best they could but with lack of evidence and under staffing they did the best they could.  Meanwhile, there's still a dead child that I can only pray suffered as little as possible on the day she left this earth.  I can't even bear to spend time thinking otherwise.  As this plays out in the news, a thousand humans in the surrounding counties are praying to be parents for the first time or again, as they struggle with infertility or life circumstances that make it impossible for them to have a baby.
     Maybe that's why the sadness seems extra thick.  Our eldest child will be 18 soon.  I have wanted another child for so long, and each month that passes makes it achingly obvious that it's not going to happen.  Every story like Bella's rips at me, these unwanted little ones casually tossed to the side either in a moment of passion or in lengthy neglect.  I can't help but think about the dichotomy of refugee parents fleeing from Syria shrieking as their children are torn from them by the waves, while Bella lay crumpled in a trash bag while the waters off Massachusetts Bay washed over her.

For Him

     I want to tell you a story about someone I love very much.  Someone who is quite sick now.  I don't want to talk about the illness or eventuality, because my powers tend towards being a muse and not omniscience.  To tell you about him, I have to give you a little bit more about me.
     Like many, my childhood left a lot to be desired.  My father's alcoholism, constant beating, belittling and tormenting of our mother kept us all on eggshells and hiding the truth from those around us.  When I was 11, I reached a point where I decided it was all too much to take and I was done.  I went to the upstairs bathroom and decided to mix together several things from the medicine cabinet.  Looking back, I don't think ear wax remover, children's Tylenol and toothpaste would have killed me, but that was my intent.  I sat there thinking about my mother and how upset she would be, how I would be leaving her behind with him, what my little brother and sister would do.  Something told me to stop.  I knew that something was God.  That was my epiphany ... not on the road to Damascus, but on the edge of the tub in Cincinnati, Ohio.
     From that moment on, I knew I was here for a reason.  My mother had always told me that anyway; she wasn't supposed to survive childbirth, and yet, three of us showed up.  We had a purpose.  There was some more moving around after this, and then thankfully, my parent's divorce was finalized when I was 15.  Life was more free but still challenging, as we were quite poor.  Mom struggled all the time to provide, and we went without a lot.  Hunger was a constant.  But I had my faith, which I wore on my sleeve.  In fact, I was probably a little too vocal which made high school a challenge at times.  I had my best friend, who I could always count on, and a handful of dear friends who I was sure thought I was a gigantic dork.  The church we went to was filled with lovely people, but it was extremely conservative.  I did speak up, because I was a member, but I never really felt my opinions were actively considered since I was a woman.  Once during a serious talk with my pastor about going into the ministry, he told me I'd be able to help set a church up in a distant land, minister and lead ... until the church was established.  Then I'd have to make way for a man to truly lead the flock.  And when the day might come that I would have children of my own, if I had a son, by the time he was 11 or 12, I'd have to turn his religious instruction over to my husband.  I could continue to work with my daughters but not my sons.
     Needless to say, I was a spiritual mess. When I went off to college, it didn't get any better at first. The church I was given an entree to attend turned out to be even more conservative then the one back home. At dinner in the home of the pastor and his wife, I was reminded to wear a skirt to church and not the pants I had chosen that morning.  During the questioning about my major, which was initially journalism, he decided that it would be best after graduation for me to go work for a christian newspaper until I got married.  While he pontificated, his poor wife hustled the meal and her children.  She looked a lot older than she was.  After I left their house, I never went back to that church.
     A short while later, I met another guy, someone who listened to my ideas and liked my reasoning about life.  I knew within a short time that he was the one for me, and then he introduced me to his father.  And this is where the story gets good.
     I met a strong, hard working man with a quick smile and an even quicker laugh.  We joked, we teased, we laughed, we clicked.  This man got me.  And more than that we talked about everything under the sun.  He asked me my opinion and why.  He didn't let me get ever away without explaining my rationale thoroughly.  Every time I went to visit, we'd end up sitting around the kitchen table until all hours of the night ... husband, wife, son and me.  We talked about philosophy.  We talked about religion.  We talked about feminism and women's rights which really meant family's rights.  He never laughed at my ideas.  We didn't always agree, but we never stopped talking.  Then he started involving the family pastor, and that made it even more fun.  I had to stay sharp, stay focused.  I didn't want to let him down.  I learned so much during these talks; it honed my thought process, helped me see the error of some of my previous ideas and strengthened my resolve on others.  He treated me like my thoughts on God and life mattered.  Even now, almost 25 years later, he still treats me that way.  And I am blessed for it.  He called me daughter when he introduced me to people, long before it was settled, because in his mind it was already a done deal.
     I love you.  And a thousand years from now, I will still love you.  Long after we are both dust, forgotten afterthoughts on the genealogy chart, I will still love you.  And we will forever be able to talk long into the night.