Persephone's sister- Tallulah

    Tallulah had dark hair, sometimes chestnut,  sometimes mousy;  all depending on her mood. Sometimes Tallulah was stunning.  Other times, shhe was chubby and smooshy. She was usually always a creature that looked like she tasted like apple butter and roses. She wore clothes that blew in the breeze. She walked like a birch tree, arms swaying,  hair full of birds' nests. She smiled at strangers making them believe that butterflies and puddles deserved the same reverence.
     She lived between worlds of great love and great loss. There was never just a day that flatlined. Her joy on good days spilled over filling fountains and watering the flowers.  Her bad days brought the darkest clouds and most heart breaking sobs. She was blessed with feelings. She was cursed. When she wasn't loved, she was broken pieces of concrete.  When she was loved, she was a ferris wheel.
      Tallulah was born curious about the world. She wanted to name each bug, follow every ant, and poke every bear. Nothing in the natural world intimidated her. She was the youngest of the three sisters and the most feral.  She was concoction of silky innocence and wild rage.
     

Persephone's sister -the unnamed

She wakes up to a stinging sensation.  Her pale chunky legs are exposed to the air, outside the protection of the blanket.  He is sitting beside of her, hairbrush poised above her calf. You're awake,  he says. And he smiles. Genuinely happy to see her. He brings the hairbrush down on her thigh this time. The feeling is like a thousand ants biting her, but at least it is a feeling.  He smiles.  There is one thin strand of hair the has landed on her face. He reaches down and tugs it out of her scalp. He smirks at her, his crooked grin. His eyes are bright and happy. He uses the hairbrush to trace her thigh, then tosses it down. He stares at her fir a moment without speaking then silently stands and leaves

Persephone's sister - the unnamed

He said he was coming. She stared out the window,  her dress was clean and flowing, although ripped in a few spots.   She was ready to put on her makeup as soon as she heard from him. But the day drew on and he ignored her. She began to sob. The same shaking ridiculous cry she did each time he didn't show up. She believed that one day he would.  One day he would miss her and crave her touch.  One day she would be important enough.
    The demon appeared and stood over her. Shut up, she said. The demon was beautiful.  Nothing like her. The demon had golden hair and a long braid down her back. She dressed in the best blue velvet and had deep eyes that saw into forever.  The demon pulled out her belt. I said shut up! She screamed and flailed the belt towards the open window. The pain matched the pain on the inside. I told you to stop being selfish.  I am so tired of your constant whining. You are so needy! Why can't you just SHUT UP? The belt flashed again. This time when it landed, the demon turned into him, her love. He stood above her shaking his head. Its unattractive to constantly beg for attention.  It only pushes me away. You're too needy, no fun. You know I can only take you in small increments.  The sound of your voice is like a tree branch that cant decide whether or not to crack.  The rolls of fat you have make eating anywhere near you impossible.  Maybe if you cut off some of that belly, I might like you more... he pulled an axe from thin air and suddenly swung. The laughter that filled the room was that of a woman. The demon took her original shape and smirked. Go die, you stupid cow. And dont wake me up again with that sniveling. The axe landed above he her head
    She laid by the window,  snot and tears mixing down her face.  I'm nothing,  she said.  I'm nothing to him. Not to anyone.  I never have been.
   The purple bruises started to appear already.  She pulled the ax down from the wall and pulled it across her leg. The blood ran. She pulled the axe to her chest and laid her head on her pillow and cried herself to sleep

Persephone's sister -the unnamed

He approaches her like a prison guard approaches a wounded inmate.  He is slow and cautious but posturing,  believing that she is faking. He is  ready to break his baton over  her  pale exposed neck if she moves the wrong way.
   He tells her that he is sorry for the way he treated her the day before.  He kneels and pushes her hair away from her face. Strands are stuck to her cheek from her inability to stop crying.  He puts an arm around her and she melts into him. Hey, he whispers, I don't want  for this to happen. It's just easy because you're worthless.  I wish I could make you something more than nothing,  but I cant.  I wish I could pretend that you're worth loving,  but you...I cant even bring myself to talk to you. You know how stupid you are right, babe? Do you understand, babe?
    She nods her head yes.
     Okay, he says. He removes her clothes and covers her mouth.  You have to be quiet he reminds her. No one can know. No one would understand why I'm with you, okay.
      She nods her head yes.
      I'm going to keep you right here okay, he asks her. That way I can come see you when I'm free. You stay here. You'll be safe here.  Nobody on the outside wants you. They'll only hurt you. So you stay right here, and I'll come see you and I'll be your whole world. Well pretend you're pretty, okay? Okay, babe? We'll pretend you're smart. And you can be important for a few minutes with me , okay?
     She nods her head yes

Persephone's sister -the unnamed

She is hideous. Her insides have slowly bled and seeped to inhabit her physical traits.  She is ugly beyond measure.  A disfigured alien face that could have only evolved from ignorance. A body in the shape of a blob. A soupy  gross figure that grew out of greed. A soulless stupid disposable thing that can't be considered female.  Unlovable and unloved.  Unwanted by men, made fun of by women.  She is paying for her sins through her physical molting. Karma will keep her crying and alone. Death will not have her. She cannot be hit hard enough to enjoy  touch. She cannot be cut deep enough to bleed. No mirror will stand her. No reasonable life will tolerate her. She is worthless.  No kindness can be found in her heart, no empathy exists in her fingertips.  She is bitter and lonely,  and those things have consumed her. She is a reflection of trash and roadkill.  She is a waste. She is nothing.  She brings bile to men's throats and causes children to stare. She is a walking self inflicted scar.

I am breaking I am broken I am shaking I am worthless I am woman
I am golden I am harmful I am aching I am charmful I am breathing
I am tired I am wired I am glistening Full of child I am holding
I am longing I am frozen I am cherished I am brazen I am  solid
She is falling, she has fallen, she is never ending sorrow. She is happy.

quantum love

      And so they meet. The universe deciding that she needs to be reminded of who she is, fast tracks him into her life. They barely shake hands and "nice to meet you" before he kisses her. He has kissed her so many times before. He doesn't ask for permission. She belonged to him many years ago. She is Bathsheba. She is  Isolde.  She fits into him like a puzzle piece, no uncomfortable position. They rekindle the love that they lost even before the pyramids were built. Their entanglement not even a mystery. Just a bond. In their past life together, she would sit at his feet as he would read aloud to her. He would kiss her forehead as she sweated through childbirth. He was more than a lover. More than a husband. The atoms that they share pull like magnets. Her shadow. She is his sin. He is her church. The universe ponders the power. The fireworks, the neediness, the forgiving. The couple reemerging.
   And in parting, a black hole is ripped through her torso. A heavy ache that results in a spewing of hot tears. Desperate tears. Begging tears. And he is empty. And she is purging.  And the universe, although aching with her, knows that time is everlasting. If only lovers understood how soon they will meet again. Funny how  they commit acts of suicide in an effort to speed up their next meeting; desperate to be given a chance at a new beginning.
   He will see her soon enough. Maybe not next week when she falls down the stairs. Maybe not next year when she is walking through Soho and a man with a gun steps out of the shadows. Maybe not in 20 years when her kids sit around her eating ice cream while she slips into the ether....but he will see her. They will stand on another battlefield as she lobs arrows and insults. He will read her a different book by a different fireplace. She will melt into him each night and be made whole again.  Her Porthos, holder of her atoms.

Devil absolute

There are some of us that turn to the devil for absolution. The woman made of flesh, whose needs are never  met, hates the golden white spotless wings of light and purity. She doesn't trust them. Her wants burn her so far beneath the surface that she feels as if the fire will scorch the walls around her. Her body wants to be held down. Her body aches to be enveloped while her soul rises to power.  A perfect moment of greed. Bring the ropes and tie her down while her soul vanishes into the air to collect all of your dripping sweat. Your blood. Your energy. She keeps it. She inhales the smell of your heartbeat and she keeps it. She goes home letting you feel victory, but she owns you. While she sits in her darkened tomb, her shrine to loneliness, she can feel you moving. She knows when you think of her. She has a part of you. She holds the power to watch you. In the darkness she can still feel you. It is what keeps her sane. Her wants scratch her insides until she feels as if she must be bleeding. So she makes herself bleed. She makes herself ache. Her feet pound the pavement until her breath is gone and the tears finally drop. The pavement has mercy. A reliable friend who pounds against her every bone,  reminding her that she is breakable. And how she wants to be broken. So enter the devil. A beautiful creature that is ambivalent to the pain. She wraps herself in him because she has already been through hell. What's he going to do kill her? She would go willingly with him. He would break her. Break her so hard that she becomes numb. Finally a man that can make her quiet. A man that can keep her quiet.A man who reads her sins like poetry.  He sees them all now as she lay filleted on the pavement. She stares at the sun as her sins flow.  The secrets run down her legs. The shame drips off of her fingernails. The blood that she took which never belonged to her, rises in a holy display of love. And the devil stands. And the devil kneels. And the devil holds. And the devil forgives. Because those who live without sin can never see the unfilled chasm in a woman. Those without sin can never judge, and without judgement, she is just another water filled, vile, grotesque idea in someone else's head. Sometimes the only way back to G-d is the path that the devil  used when he left. A well worn path. Perfect and clear. Shiny and sunny. He takes more souls back to G-d than any street preacher, and right now she needs led back. So she prays to the dark one. She feels his fingers wrapped in her hair. So unlike any man. Able to read her thoughts, and her wants. And he pulls her hair and he breathes in her heartbeat, and she belongs to him. He can feel her move. He can watch her in the dark. He keeps her. He bandages her. He owns her. She is put back together. Sewn shut. Scars showing. Unashamed because she lived. And life is about nothing but the blood and the feelings. So she comes into her new self with a little more light and a little more laughter. He watches. He hates this part. Watching the fallen rise. It's his only job. He takes the blame of dragging her down and raping her. He takes the blame for her self harm. He takes the blame for the drugs that she has to take to keep from letting her exhausted body gently fly off of a bridge. Her choices. Her sins. And he will carry them now for her. He will walk her up the path to the gates. He will look G-d in the face as co-workers do. He will deliver the broken goods and collect a bill of sale for a soul that is worn and vibrant and cloaked in the darkest red armor he could find for her.

And he will sleep at the gate. And he will hold her memory. He will feel her last breathes. He will write her name on his arm alongside the others.  Only the dark can see in the dark. Only the hurt can offset the hurt. Only the wicked can can dive deep enough into the pool to rescue the ones who just want to die. Only the devil knows the path back to the gate. And the devil will let me do it

How to (never) get over your rape

   I was raped. I was actually drugged and raped. He was a pastor. We had met, become friends, and started hanging out in the evenings. One night he offered me a Coke. I drank it. I was paralyzed. I lay there unable to move as he raped me. The saddest part? He was only the second man I had ever been with. The worst part? The part that hurt my soul? I would have gladly slept with him, willingly. I liked him. He never asked me to kiss him. He never asked me to spend the night. He never hinted. We were friends hanging out. He even did Bible study with me. He was not a part of my community. He did not live in the same county as me- before anyone lets their minds run wild.
      I was really confused and did not understand. I was young and I did not know about being drugged. I never knew that was a  thing.The part  that confounded me was that I liked him and willingly would have spent the night. I did not call it rape for a long time because I felt like maybe I would have given consent. Maybe my crush on him kept me from acknowledging how badly a violation this was. I blamed the victim. The victim was me. It took me a long time to figure out men drug women. It took me a long time to come to terms with why it happened.    I did not give consent. I do not do drugs. I do not drink alcohol. I did not deserve to be violated. It took a long time to say the words.
     I was more upset about him not "liking" me. I was upset that he would have me and then leave never to be seen again. I assumed we were building a real friendship. We were not. He left the next morning. He was in the middle of moving back home. Fun fact: he had a wife. I found this out years later. Yes, children, I cyber stalked my rapist. I was older and so very curious. I was still so very hurt. I don't think anger ever entered the picture. I was just hurt.  Months before,  I had left a marriage of pain. A marriage of anger and fear. How did I wind up being used? The hurt was unbearable. That's when I realised my real worth. That's when I let it all sink in. I was worthless. I was ugly. I was gross. I was less than nothing. Stupid. And that is where I lived for years. A psychic once told me that my parents had been good to me. She stated, "They let you live." It was the nail in my coffin. People who allow me to live are good to me. The husband was good to me. My rapist was good to me. The boys that hit me were good to me. Look at the long list of people that let me live.
     I lived for a long time. Lonely, depressed, fearful.
     I met someone. He looked at me. He looked me in my face. This was new. He spoke to me. On purpose....he must have a special mental disorder. Or maybe he's a serial killer. Maybe he's just making fun of me. Whatever. I ran away. I ran away so fast. Why  would he even be near someone like me? He must be confused.
     I met him again. And again. He was nice. He was funny. He was sarcastic. He looked at me. He looked at me one night and held my hand. He didn't stop holding my hand. In that moment I willingly chose to lie down beside of him. I willingly accepted his touch. He was so gentle. So quiet. There was no awkwardness or fear. There was no mirror reminding me that I was ugly. There was only me allowing myself to melt.
    Did I  cry afterward? Sure. Did I spend the next week living in fear of what I had done? No. I let myself trust a man. Completely. And nothing bad happened.
     Rape convinces you that even if a man makes love to you on your terms that something bad is going to happen afterward. Rape convinces you that you will never be touched gently again. Rape convinces you that men can't just touch you, they have no reason to touch you. You are ugly. You aren't worth touching. You are worth raping.
   Do I romanticize what happened that night that a man wanted me? YES. It was wonderful. And a little of my pain subsided. Not because a man found me worthy, but because I got through a whole night not thinking badly of myself. I spent a whole night allowing my body to be touched. It was mutual. I was given a choice. And I said yes. And yes...he did ask my permission.
     I will probably always see myself in a poor light. I allow a mirror in the bathroom of my home, but nowhere else. I won't have one in the bedroom. I put my makeup on without a mirror. I rarely brush my hair. I don't look at myself. I don't like it. I deal with body issues. I binge eat, I throw up. I cut. I am everything that a good mom is not.
     For one instant I was treated so badly. For one instant I was treated so well. I have to weigh out these things. And because one man was so willing to look at me, I got a little bit of myself back. Not because I got the approval of a man, no; but because I allowed myself to receive kindness without looking for an ulterior motive. I allowed myself to say yes. I allowed sex to be mutual.
     I allowed myself the freedom not to punish a man or fear him just because of what another man had done. I allowed myself to heal a little, because I allowed myself to see myself the same way he did if only for a little while. And it was worth it. Being vulnerable, not just in the bedroom, was worth it. Rape causes very large walls to be put up. I allowed a little of myself to trust another human. What happens after that is a reemergence of this thing called emotion. Emotions are horrible wonderful hateful beautiful things.
   We have a choice. We can see ourselves as our rapist sees us or as our lovers see us. Trying to navigate that  is the challenge  a lot of women face.
   
 

The invisible best worst friend

    Depression is a real entity. Do you know how when you lie in bed and you hear the front door open, you know who walks in? You know who is home. Your mom, your spouse. You know if it's a stranger. Depression walks in the same way. It does not announce itself. He walks in and looks at you and you know that "it's time". And you hate him. You know him and he is comfortable. You long for him in those moments when you have writer's block. You long for him in those moments when you are not strong enough to pull the knife across your own wrist.

 You hate him when he tells you what people say behind your back.  You hate him when he dangles the gun in front of your face at 2 a.m.  And you know it is a fleeting moment, but you know all it takes is him being right. What if he is right? You already have blood on your hands. You already know that all he says is true. You know you are worthless, but when he is there... dear G-d; you sink but what a beautiful empty hole you sink into. What a lovely emptiness. In the arms of something that lets you be broken and understands your pain. He lets you paint your hurt. he lets your write your fears. he doesn't judge. he lives just so that you can get to that dark place. That place where no one can touch you. He eats lunch with you when no one else wants to. he sleeps at night beside you while the TV is on and you watch BBC until the alarm goes off. He waits while you figure out if you can go to work. He tells you that it's okay if you don't go. He will sit in bed with you and he will remind you why they don't want you there anyway. He sits with you while you cry, and he explains that if you cry it out then you will feel better... but there's no end to it. There's never an end.You should go for a walk. Thankfully it's raining so you don't have to. You should eat. Oh look, the stove is unplugged. Too bad. You should do something. Who the fuck are these people who do shit?? How do they get up every day? I DON"T KNOW!!!

He leaves. And you are again boring and somewhat sane. He had his fun. If he loses you, he loses his best friend too. He walked you right up the line where the thoughts just swirl. You literally cannot hear other people talking because he won't let you out of your own head. But he can't afford to lose you. Not this time. Suicides are up, and that's not what he really wants. he just wants a toy. You are his distraction. You are what creates his greatest art. He can't do it. He can't write or draw. he can't build. He just walks around in rags all day begging for a little life. He is a parasite. A beautiful haunting parasite that is your best friend. And you hate him. And when he leaves, you become the person who travels, who laughs, who spends all her money on food and dinners, and life because all you really want is to hold onto a life. The color. The sound. The laughter. And all you really want is the good best friend who will let you sleep. Let you eat. Let you not bleed.

But you too are a cancer and a parasite. He tattooed that on your brain years ago. 

The Man I Just Read

     Yesterday I was given the honor of reading a story written by someone I have just met. He is an 8 year old trapped inside of an adult's body. He is loving and kind and funny and flirts like a pro. His story read like this..."Ydhst jhfeur anift police officer hsdt." There were pages. A short story involving dogs and doves. I stood and part of me crumbled. Words. His heart on a page. His love for life expressed. Unreadable, but painstakingly written.
   
    How do we measure a man's soul? Well, I measure through his writings. How do I tell this man that words are sails? They direct us. They take us to places, sometimes by accident. Yesterday was a happy accident. My soul was moved to a different place. As a writer I know that if words do not come out, bad things happen. The imploding, out of control force that sweeps over a person is dangerous. My life needs to be on a page. Without the page, I am not at all alive.  It was nice to meet someone who needs to express himself through words. His caregiver said he stayed up "all night writing".
  I get it, dude. The respect I have for him right now is actually breaking me.
 

the dance

    O, I was out walking today and watched as a man noticed a woman coming toward him on the sidewalk. She looked up and recognized him and smiled. Their eyes met and I was enthralled in their story instantly. He began to slow his gait almost 20 feet before he reached her. It was obvious he was meaning to stop ...if she wanted him  to. She slowed and soon they were in the midst of a "Hey,  how are you? How are the kids?" conversation. It was amicable. Well, they both sure did smile a lot.
    It made me realize that all men do this. And it is so charming.

    Imagine if there were some soft music playing. He is walking across the dance hall and he sees her. He is unsure if she wants to dance, especially unsure if she would dare be seen dancing with him, but he slows to catch her eye and say a word in passing. He realizes that she is not only stopping to  talk but smiling and giving him her full attention. He is enamored. Perhaps he is enamored with his own skills, but enamored nonetheless.

   The brief dance that the couple does: smiling, chatting, exchanging pleasantries; all of this is intimate whether on the city street or on the dance floor. It is a funny and often lovely thing to watch.  It reminded me today that a man's smile (his genuine smile) is irreplaceable. It is soothing and warm, welcoming and inviting, boyish and happy. I saw today that no matter how old a man may get or how serious his occupation there is always a wanting for a dance...and I was glad to have stopped at that light today to be able to see it first hand.

You Put the Sugar in my Lollipop

   I was hanging out last night with my girlfriends. We were laughing and making fun of each other when I made a statement that I often make: My family may not be mentally adept, but we are awesome physical specimens. We live a lot longer than we actually need to! It's funny because we really don't know the ages of some of my aunts and uncles. They just keep on living. It makes me smile, but I also found myself thinking some deep thoughts about life on the drive home. So as the song goes, "This one's for the girls".

    There is this urban legend that I'm sure you have heard. The rumor is that girls always judge themselves then look around a room full of strangers to see who is "like" them, minus a point or two, and go make friends accordingly. In other words, women like to be around other women who are (almost) as pretty as they are. Evolutionarily speaking women want to be the prettiest so they can get first choice of mate. So I began thinking about my girlfriends...oh my. Okay, so I am their ugly duckling. I can handle this....maybe...okay in truth let's look at my good points. I can outrun them when I insult them and I can totally walk and chew gum at the same time. I know the best authors and can hold conversations about major rock bands of the 1980's. I also have good jewelry.
    I, believe it or not,  was in the car alone so I had 15 minutes of free thinking time. How my mind wandered. It wandered to the girls who have had to read things to me when my brain just couldn't make out the words. It wandered to the girls who call me late at night when I was already in bed but couldn't sleep because the anxiety of being alone was just too much. It wandered to the girls who trust me with their kids.
   I began to consider what I got out of all these relationships. I will gladly be the ugly duckling if I get to create this beautiful web of friendship that will one day catch my own girls. My girls grow up with great thinkers, artists, environmental educators, health care providers, teachers, musicians, and charity workers. Not all of my girlfriend have babies, but you'd never guess it by how they treat my girls. It just comes naturally to them. My girls have movie dates with my friends. They get ready for prom with my friends. They lunch with my friends. The real lesson that my girls learn is that girlfriends are so much more important than sleep, boys, or even food.
   
   I have no idea how long I am here for, I have no idea if that 'outlive your expiration date' curse will have and hold me, but I know that if I have to leave my girls tomorrow that they have people who love them and who will catch them in this beautiful web. Thank you to all those girls.

2 Women Gave Birth to the Same Baby

    Two babies are born.
One is born into poverty.
The second is born into a royal family.
Both are dependent upon the state for their food, clothing, and shelter.

    The mother who brings home a child that will grow up in poverty hears things like this:

"You should have aborted him rather than make me pay for his Oreos and your beer"
"You should have given him up for adoption rather than making him suffer."
"If my tax dollars are raising him then you better raise him right."
"Stupid bitch, ever heard of contraception?"
" How many kids does that make for you?"

   The mother living in a lavish home hears this:

"I hope he's ugly and mentally retarded."
"Don't you have to have an heir and a spare? "
"I am entitled to know and actually SEE what is being done with that child, he belongs to all of us."
"Oh, poor baby has how many nannies? Does he even know his own mother?"
"Thank G-d the first was a boy. Now you can stop worrying."

There will be moments when both moms have a private moment with their children. A beautiful quiet night of cuddling together and bonding. A night of promises and hand holding. Moms may come in all shapes and sizes and economic status, but today I hold both moms up in the light and hope that both may know peace and love. I hope both have kids that have few hospital visits and even less dental bills. Tonight I hope for a world that will know both children as only "human"- capable of love and capable of teaching us something.
   If you have to look down on women who live in poverty to make you feel self-righteous then you are the reason that they still live in poverty. You could always get up and help.  Jesus called the little children TO him. And with kids, comes parents with baggage. You either accept them or admit that you don't know love. If you look down on the royals because they have everything and have never worked for their castle, then jealousy is a mighty lover. You may need to find love for the children, all the children of the world, and recognize that their parents also come with baggage.

Tonight I hope that both moms get to know their kids, and that both kids will grow up to be wonderful human beings who don't hear the negative and won't allow themselves to be put down, hated, and called names.    You can always tell the people who hate themselves- they hate everybody else and make lots of excuses as to why. Here's to hoping both kids are color blind and have no interest in war. Here's to hoping for education and the yearning for knowledge.

Here's to love.

I am not a Mower

   There is a lot to say about how our lives have changed since the fire. The one thing that I have focused on has been the yard. The front yard was just empty and sterile after we moved back. Today it would seem to any passing motorist that I am trying to make the house disappear. There is what can only be called "a lot" of green. I think  that after losing so much of my privacy and feeling so vulnerable that maybe I am seeking refuge now behind wood and leaf.
    When I purchased the house I did so because of the big back yard. I thought of the hours that my boys would spend out there. They have too. There have been ballgames and potato wars and sword fights.  The back yard has become a shelter for one of the kids. A place where he can be surrounded by the woods and become lost in his thoughts. I still mow part of the backyard, but since moving home and seeing how the woods grew without our constant mowing and care, I have given up the weed eater for good. The hill on the right side of our property no longer runs brown when it rains. The bushes have grown up and erosion is no longer a problem. The woods have left the back 8 feet of our property and have crawled down the right hand side of the property. Perhaps soon I will no longer look up and  see the neighbor's house.
    Michael still has his fruit trees, his blackberries, and his grapes. What I now have includes bunnies, frogs, and an assortment of birds. I also have the funniest caterpillars that I have ever seen. Letting part of the woods go wild means that I can hear birds even in the dead of night. I can see all sorts of spiders and bugs. The fireflies  have a dark place where they can seek out mates. I even saw a groundhog in the neighbor's yard and I am taking full credit for that. Lynn Cherry taught me that if you do nothing more than put a hula hoop out in your yard and refuse to mow that small space you will see lots of bugs and may be lucky enough to get a new variety of plant. I have a dogwood that I didn't have to buy. I have lilies that I didn't have to buy.
   Even though we live in town there are moments when I can forget. I can forget about a lot. Nature heals.

be careful little ears what you hear

    I have issue with people who say that those who sit on these pews "deserve" what they get. As one who sat on a pew in a similar church and was raised by people who were just as aggressive, but without the hugging; I am telling you that the people who sit in these special pews in these special churches really believe that most churches conduct themselves this very way. The people, especially the children,  who grow up in these very special churches really have no idea that they are worthy or special or loved or talented or useful. They have ingested the ideology that they are sick and bad and that they live in a sick and bad world. They cannot "walk away". The brain has been wired to believe that guilt and shame is a way of normal life.
   I don't know if you believe in G-d, and that's not why I'm here. I don't care if you believe in G-d and I certainly am not offended if you believe in a different brand of spirit than I do, but I'm here to tell you this: The first thing I learned about my pagan friends is that they have one rule only. Do No Harm. They are free to live their lives without presuming judgement as long as they don't actively seek to harm anything or anyone. I had never...not in my whole life....ever....even fathomed that I could live and just be kind. Just be myself. Just do good works. Just focus on my relationship with me and my spirit.

    If you believe in G-d please accept my invitation to find a relationship with a loving nurturing G-d who doesn't send mean people to tell you that you are failing at life. And if you don't believe in G-d then please reach out to your friends and relatives who are being verbally and emotionally abused by people who think that they can speak for G-d and commit emotional blackmail on their congregants.

   I am emotionally drained and am having anxiety. I see a fetal position in my future after my kids go to bed.  If you were raised in a place like this, forgive me if this brings you pain. I feel your pain. I am bruised and broken even right now remembering all the  times I was called out, humiliated, shamed and scorned.
   I love you. I trust you. But I will never send my kids to church with you even on VBS night because I don't know what happens in that sanctuary of yours. And sadly, the beauty that I see in your heart does not deserve to be abused in this way on Sunday morning. I did not sit on a naughty bench of a pew for many months and thankfully I never took my kids to a church that allowed this sort of action. This behavior is nothing short of a Jim Jones meltdown when he stood on the Bible proclaiming his worth.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PSJt-LHMNRY&feature=youtu.be

The Passive Racist

    The sweet white haired grandma stood in the kitchen. She was baking some cornbread and had the radio on singing along with the Statler Brothers. She was happy. The sun was shining through the sunroom and she was planning on having a big family meal later on. She was washing up the good china when her son walked in and said, "Mom, I have a problem. There is a stain on my hood." The music continued to play as she walked to the bathroom and shut the door.
    After dinner was over that night her husband pulled her aside and said, " Hey, honey. Brent got a little too close to the fire tonight. See what you can do about patching up his robe. Okay?" He then kissed her on the forehead and walked back to the front porch where his son  and a few of the grandkids were playing guitars and singing together.

     The sweet white haired grandma that uses the "N-word" is harmless. She doesn't bring any grief to anyone: In fact she usually brings fried chicken. She is the one at church every Sunday who sings in the choir and walks by the nursery kissing the babies calling each one by name. She has actually travelled all over the USA. Her and her husband sit in their air conditioned RV and drive all over America seeing all the sights. They have met thousands of people. They have seen poverty. They have gotten lost and have seen the dusty roads of rural Kentucky. They have stopped before and had dinner at roadside shacks where meals were cooked by people who literally sleep on the booths after closing time because they don't have a house, just a business. They have been to the Universities visiting their grandkids, meeting college students from literally all over the world.
   No, sweet little harmless grandma is surely not our problem. She didn't raise her children to hate people. She doesn't know what her boys do once they leave the house, and after all; they are grown. She has broken bread with many people of many nationalities......none of which she respects.

  She doesn't have to teach her kids hate.  All she has to do is teach her kids that they are better than everybody else because   they are white Christians. All she has to do is teach her kids that they are above the law because G-d is the only one they need to answer to. All she has to do is teach her children that some people are waiters and some people are guests and those two lines don't blur. All she has to do is make sure her kids get vouchers to go to private schools so they don't have to be around "those types of people".

    All she has to do is sew up their robes and bleach their hoods and make sure they have dinner when they get back. Nope, she is surely not a racist. And she has convinced herself that because she has  kept her hands clean that G-d won't see blood on them. Looking away and acting stupid is not a free pass. No, the passive  women of America surely aren't the problem.
  Maybe the problem is the "old" generation....hmm. The generations before us that were just too ignorant to know better? Yes. The ones that cocerned themselves with voting laws, child labor laws, public education laws, and equality laws....they sure were ignorant. 

I am Breaking

    School is out and I am dealing with a range of emotions. This is the last real "summer" I get to spend with all of my kids. The spectrum of ages that now live in my house is daunting. There is no way to have a family lesson or a family discussion. Things are fragmented. My oldest two are practically adults. Samuel is 13. Jonas and Tika Rae are so young. The movies that I watch with the older ones are nothing like the movies I watch with the younger. My heart is in three separate pieces. Sometimes I wonder if those pieces even touch.  Lilli is embarking on her senior year. She is beginning her life. This is the last summer that I will have a baby in the house: Tika goes to Kindergarten in the fall. I have no idea how to feel. There is joy and sorrow mixed so well together that the emotions negate each other and I am left with a hole. A bright empty  hole.
    The biggest lesson to be learned this summer  though is about the middle child. The strong and adventurous boy who desperately needs freedom and through freedom finds identity. There are so many fights and so many late night conversations. There are so many tears and so many rules. I have looked at him and in plain speech said, "I have never had to raise a child before you. Those other two have never crossed me. They have never asked for their freedom. They have never dated, snuck out of the house, or needed space. If you need to be angry please go yell at them!" I am struggling. By the third child the parent is supposed to be so broken that she just hands the kid the car keys and says, "Just be home before daylight. Alive." I am not raising the third child. I am essentially raising my first. He is a deal breaker and a loner. He is a straight A student with tons of friends. He is 13.
    The dynamics in this house are changing. As I am giving him his freedom I am waiting for Lilli to take hers. I am preparing him to choose a high school. I am also preparing Tika to go boldly and bravely into a class of new friends, new ideas, and new rules. I am trying to figure out if Michael will ever get behind the wheel of a car or will he move to a city with a subway. I am breaking. I am fractured. I have never been so whole knowing that all the things that are happening are supposed to happen and all things are right. 
     I am trying to hand over the little kids to the bigger kids for a few minutes each day this summer. Michael is helping Jonas with math. Sam is helping Tika with money. All that seemed fine until I caught Sam trying to teach Tika to count to 'nerfteen'. (sigh). Lilli has taken on a part time job working for a friend for a few hours a week and I am tempted to ask Sam to teach her about money too.
    There is no joy in me. I am simply counting each hour. The nights are so very long as I ponder, in the heat, if any of these people will be recognizable this time next year. How will a year change them all? How will a year change me. What is like to NOT have a baby in the house? What is it like to watch your first baby turn 18? Life is a gaping hollow hole of perfect. I am miserable. I am so very proud.

Schools Behind Fences

 There's been a lot of talk recently about why schools are failing, why they are closing, and why schools are under attack. I don't have any easy answers, but I know why I am disconnected to the school system and it's the school system's fault.
   

"The Good Old Days"

   My children actually attend the same school that I went to. We live only a few blocks from the home I grew up in  and a few blocks from the elementary school. In fact both high schools that my children attend are within walking distance and when I was younger I walked home often from school. The great thing about walking to school is that you meet people. You meet the parents of your child's schoolmates. You see where people live. You become a part of your community. When my oldest kids were at the elementary school, I would walk over to get them and wind up meeting parents who had parked and gotten out of their cars to wander around or grab a teacher to talk to. It was all so casual. The kids were corralled at the Smiley Face and released as parents showed up. Some kids rode bikes and some kids, keys hanging around their necks, walked home. The teachers were out front walking between the kids, looking for parents, and having conversations. We could see the teachers and they could see us.

"Why Don't Parents Care About Education?"
  
    When teachers ask why we parents aren't more involved I get a little offended. The state has encouraged schools to be on lock down the whole day. Trying to get to my child's classroom is not easy. There are numerous locked doors between me and them. The state has also encouraged schools to have background checks on every parent who wants to volunteer. The parent  pays for those out of their own pockets.  The state has encouraged schools to get parents off the buses. You want to field trip with your child? Okay. Fill out this background check, pay for it, and please drive your own car.
   You're going to tell me "It's for the safety of the kids." Really? Because I would feel safer if my kids knew that grown ups weren't threats. The threats I see aren't from local sex offenders but from the teachers that are in the classroom. The state took parents out and replaced them with teachers who now cannot be contacted while they molest our kids or take pictures of our kids, while they yell at our kids and throw things at our kids, and while they pray over our kids (to what G-d I don't know). And while the kids are having sex in the bathroom they don't worry about Lindsey's mom walking in on them. Oh, and those school shooting.....? Were those parent related...? Get real. Kids are okay bringing guns to school because there is no parent wandering the halls who may know your mom or, even better, smack your behind.
   Maybe we don't come to bat for the teachers because we cannot find the teachers. We don't volunteer because we are treated like criminals. We don't care how little you get paid because we aren't there to see you tackle Rodney who has scissors at Tracey's throat. WE DON"T SEE YOU. The state has put you in a position where you are literally fighting this battle on your own. Parents have been put in a position where the only contact most of us have with a teacher is through a letter. I want you to tell me to my face that there is a problem with Timmy. I want that communication that only the spoken word can bring. We are told to e-mail. That is how the state wants us to communicate with our teachers. E-mail. How do I know the teacher got my e-mail? I don't.

    I have to admit that I have seen teachers bend over backwards to get my child to succeed. I have witnessed them go to bat for my kids. The truth is that it doesn't matter how much I am in love with my school district, the district took me out of it. I did not willingly remove myself from my child's school. The community that we spent  years creating is gone. The friends and neighbor attitude is shunned. Schools now want to be invisible and I'm pretty sure if they could have recess behind a jailhouse fence they would. Teaching children that community is dangerous has turned out to be the most dangerous concept of all; and not just for the kids but for the teachers too. We are supposed to hold each other accountable. No one is holding the state accountable for all the  rules. No one is holding the state accountable for anything....because they made sure we can't communicate.
   
   

College, Knowledge, and Learning

     When you say you are going to college this is what I hear:

I am going to test myself
I am going to test my beliefs.
I am going to test whether I have any beliefs of my own.
I am going to meet people who come from different socio-economic backgrounds than me.
I am going to make friends with people who are of different cultures than me.
I am going to hear stories about people who want something more than I do.
I am going to travel.
I am going to read.
I am going to listen.

   When I tell you I want you to go to college I am saying all of the above. I want you to GO to college. Between the years of 18 and 25 if you are sitting on your ass at a computer taking college "classes" you are getting a degree in " I can recite back or look up information". You will not receive a pat on the back from me if you get a certificate through the mail. I will laugh at you, mock you, maybe call you a loser who has no real working knowledge of the world you now claim you are worthy of working in. It's a joke that you are healthy and capable of getting to a school and you choose not to. Oh, and no way am I paying for that on-line tuition. You want a degree from Jamaica? Then get thee on a plane and goest thou there.
  A college class consists of a wide variety of people exchanging knowledge and ideas. Online classes allow you to stay in your bubble while holding onto your own beliefs and cultural value system. You are not challenged. You will not be prepared for working out there in the daylight with people whose world view is bigger, broader, and more advanced than yours. You will stay angry and confused most of your day because you have never met people outside your bubble. You will cling violently to the idea that you are "right" in your thinking and that other people are judgmental of you and you may even come to believe that people are bullying you. What people are trying to do is HOLD A CONVERSATION with you. No one is oppressing you because of your beliefs, what they are doing however, is asking you what, when, why, where....and you don't have an answer. College is the place you go to learn how not to argue with people or hate people or be a raging homophobic bigot.  College allows people to ask you questions and hold you accountable for your ideologies.  It introduces you to movies, music, politics, and ancient beliefs. It is where all the secrets are kept.
College teaches you how to talk to people. It introduces you to culture, religion, and independent thought. It teaches you how not to take yourself so seriously and then allows you in your golden years  the chance to hold your head up and tell people, "No, sir, I do DESERVE whatever I get in life because I spent years learning about myself and the world. You sir, can sit down." College is good.  
  
  If you come to me between the ages of 18 to 25 holding an online degree I am going to tell you to mow the lawn. That is what your degree is worth to me. What you were taught  I learned on YouTube from various professors and I learned it for free.  Community college is a wonderful thing. And you'll probably pay less. You cannot live on campus, so be sure to get a job (and an apartment. Dear G-d get an apartment).
   As you know I have been in and out of college for years. I really long to be in the classroom. The ideas and information inside a college classroom are  addicting. It is a liberating experience to know that there are answers to every question that you have. I sincerely hope you take advantage of college, and if now is not the right time; I hope that you give yourself that time later on in life. It was so very worth it for me. College helps, and it's not at all about getting the right job or a great job...it's about you. YOUR life, YOUR journey. Don't let someone else fill you up with ideas that could make you old and mean and nasty and judgmental  at 18. You have so many years to work on being the perfect  angry old codger. Take this time to open your mind.
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