Jump to content

My sister once said to me, “For someone who has the biggest vocabulary I know, you sure say the word ‘Fuck’ a lot.” I took this as a complement. She had not meant it as a complement. Truth be told, she swears very little. I can’t even remember the last time that I heard her swear. I, on the other hand, tend to swear like a very well-educated pirate. What my sister doesn’t comprehend is that I don’t swear for the shock value, or because I can’t think of anything else to say. Trust me when I say, that I can think of a plethora of other expletives to fit any number of situations. But using a swear word, one of those “taboo”, “inappropriate” words has a power behind it that still exists even if you are all alone.

Lalochezia

That power is given to those words from the moment that we start to learn language. Kids get in trouble for swearing. They are told that those are naughty words or only for adults. Which of course means that by the time you hit fifth grade you’re uttering every swear word you can think of with your friends and then giggling incessantly if a teacher or parent should walk by and almost hear you. At least this is what is was like with my friends. But then of course, I grew up in a very small mountain town where there wasn’t much to do. So maybe giggling at swear words was our version of hanging out at the mall. Who knows. At any rate, swear words take on this aura of rebelliousness. For most kids.

I was not one of those kids, because I didn’t get in trouble for swearing. When I was about nine, my mother scolded me for saying the word ‘shit.’ I pointed out to her that she said it all the time. Sometimes in different languages. I also told her that I didn’t buy the whole argument about adult words vs kid words especially since adults used those words around kids. So she made me a deal. She said that she wouldn’t swear for the entire week, and if she slipped up then I would be allowed to say that word with impunity. By the end of the week I could say them all. Needless to say, dad, who worked in the school district I attended, was not overly thrilled with this deal. Especially since I’m sure he imagined getting reports about me swearing in class. So dad added an addendum to the agreement: I could say any word that I wanted to, but if I got in trouble for my particular word choices, I was on my own. It was up to me to take responsibility for what I said.

Sailor

Herein lay my first lesson in the power of words. I was nine years old and allowed to say anything I wanted free of reprisals from my parents. But I had to learn not where certain words were appropriate, but how they were received and whether or not I liked that reception. For example, swearing at school out a recess with my friends was fun and daring. Swearing during class in front of the teacher got me trouble. Obviously I liked the first, but not the second, so I kept swearing in the first instance and never swore in the second. It was in this way that I developed the ability to switch my vulgarity on and off. Around older adults (who appear to be the type that would not appreciate it), or children, I don’t swear. I turn the pirate off. Around my friends, and heck even sometimes in my writing, the pirate gets turned back on.

Quite frankly, I prefer it and I’m more relaxed when the pirate gets to come out. I swear, because I choose to swear. It provides a lovely release of frustration, or surprise, or anger, or whatever emotion tends to be surging. And I’ve even seen studies that show that people who swear regularly are healthier and in general more honest. Don’t know if I believe that, but there you go. So for those of you who were offended, or “put-off,” by the f-bombs that were dropped in my last post, I apologize. However, I’m not going to start mincing my words. I do have an extensive lexicon, but as my sister so adroitly noticed, ‘Fuck’ happens to be my favorite word.

As I apparently haven’t had enough to deal with this year already, and I haven’t had enough to cast a gloomy pall on the holidays, I found out on Saturday that Bubba, one of my dogs, might have a malignant tumor. This was the last straw. My last spec of holiday cheer that was hanging on by a thread was broken. Fuck this holiday, fuck this year, fuck everything. I threw up my hands and decided that I was cancelling Christmas. I have no cheer, I have no goodwill, I can’t even manage to feel anything but numb. I’m jumping on board with Michelle Featherstone and Cancelling Christmas.

Later that day, I was riding in a car with my best friend and she mentioned that for the first time in a long time (since her mother died) she was actually enjoying holiday decorations and looking forward to festivities. I scoffed, and told her that she must have taken my holiday enthusiasm, because unlike my normal mania, I had none. My Christmas decorations weren’t even up yet, and I probably wasn’t going to put them up at all. What was the point? Then there was a silence. I couldn’t have guessed what she was going to say after that silence if you had given me a hundred guesses. She told me that I wasn’t allowed to cancel Christmas, because I was the only reason that she had started to like the season again and if I weren’t celebrating, then where did that leave her.

I had no idea. I had no idea that my indefatigable zeal toward all things Christmas meant anything to anybody but me. I had no idea that my need to reclaim the holiday and create happiness for my own life, was facilitating healing in hers. Apparently her mother was very much like me around the holidays, “vomiting Christmas” wherever she went. (My friend’s words, not mine.) How being around me helped instead of making Christmas harder, I don’t know, but I’m glad that it did. And I’m especially glad that she told me. I needed the reminder this year that Christmas is about the people around you and the people in your life that you care for, and bailing out affects them just as much as it does you.

So Christmas is no longer cancelled. The decorations have been “vomited” throughout the house and I’m doing my best to approximate holiday cheer. Learning that Bubba’s lab work came back looking positive and the vet can get him in for surgery on Friday has helped. If all goes well, he’ll be good as new by the New Year. Missing part of one ear, but healthy, and that’s what counts.

Photo by Lori Fusaro

Photo by Lori Fusaro

Over the past year I have fallen behind in several areas of my life. Now I realize that quite a bit of that is completely in my head. The fact that I haven’t been able to bust through a page long to-do list without breaking a sweat in quite a while simply makes me feel like I’m behind. However, I also realize that it isn’t all in my head, as evidenced by the piles of started/prepped/half-assed projects lying all over my house. Generally speaking, once I start a project, I finish the project. Which is why the sight of unfinished projects is currently driving me batty! It’s making me twitch.

So now that the mono haze has finally lifted, I have started the arduous task of playing catch-up. Holy crap does playing catch-up suck! I am now beginning to realize why I was that obnoxious person in school who got projects done ahead of time. It is really daunting, and quite frankly stressful, to see a mountain of things to do and know that they are all over-due. It’s giving me a headache. I’m pretty sure that right now I would trade my left leg for a couple of pairs of extra arms just so I could do more things at once! Although missing a leg would probably slow me down on things like “laundry” and “hang the new curtains,” so that trade would definitely be ill-advised. All I have to say is that it is a good thing that I don’t live near a cross-road, because one night in desperation I would have found myself out there summoning a cross-roads demon to help catch me up!

Leunig-catching-up

It wouldn’t have worked of course, because my entire demon-summoning knowledge has been gleaned from watching “Supernatural” and somehow I doubt that their writers were going for 100% accuracy. It being Hollywood and all. But again, it’s a good thing I don’t live near one because I would have wasted my time with Hollywood mumbo-jumbo, which would have put me even further behind schedule. That wouldn’t have gone over well. Seriously though, what I wouldn’t give for a little “Bewitched” nose wiggle action or Mary Poppin’s finger snapping abilities. I wouldn’t even need to keep them, I’d be content to just borrow the powers for a weekend.

That not being likely, AT ALL, I’m trying really hard to cut myself some slack and approach one project at a time. Step by step catching up to where I want to be. One thing at a time is not really how I operate, so this is also a good learning experience for me as well. So I’m learning, and growing, and relaxing (sort of) into this new way of doing things.  *deep calming breaths* We’ll see how it goes.

How is one supposed to say goodbye? Is it for a couple of minutes, hours, days, weeks, years or the rest of your life time? We never really know when we utter that simple phrase. It could be any of the above. Life is fragile and ever-changing. But how do you say goodbye when you know in your heart of hearts that it is indeed the last time? The last time that you will see their face, the last time that you will feel their hug. Do you hug a little tighter, a little longer? Do you look them in the eye when you tell them that you love them? Do you linger and prolong the exchange or turn your back and walk swiftly away? What could possibly be enough? What can possibly be done to fill the gap, the void that you know will soon exist as soon as the door closes, the car turns over and you drive away.

Because there is a void. A great black void that you try not to think about, try not to look at, try not to imagine having to fill again. How can you fill it again? It belonged to them, and they are now gone. Is the goodbye supposed to help fill that hole? Be a patch, a bridge to get from one side to the other? You don’t get the person, you get the goodbye. That last moment that you know you will remember until the end of your days. You have memories of course, but none of them are stamped so indelibly on your heart, because in all of the other memories you believed that you would have more. More times to cherish, more laughs to share, more time to be had. You always believe that there will be more time. Until there isn’t.

And then you’re left trying to figure out how to say goodbye.

Goodbye

I refuse to live inside the box anymore
I refuse to stay within the lines
I refuse to conform
My passions draw me out
While standards pull me in
I will not live by standards anymore
Hollow, bland, unfeeling
I cannot live like that
I will not live like that
I’m tired of pretending to crash into the wall hoping to break through
This time I will
I will break through
Because I’m tired of pretendingbreaking through
I’m tired of stifling passion
She needs to get out
She needs to breath
She needs out so badly it hurts
And it will hurt more
Creation doesn’t come without pain
Expression doesn’t come without pain
Standing alone
doesn’t come
without
pain.

 

And then you have that moment that freezes you. A hundred things to do, a hundred distractions, brain going a hundred miles a minute and then it all just stops. The spinning, the panic, the deadlines, the need to rush, rush, rush. All of a sudden you freeze and even if the wolves were at your door, you can’t get moving again. You’ve lost all momentum. Then your brain starts to ramp up. Things to do, prioritizing tasks, consequences of ignoring tasks move across your consciousness, then begin to run and swirl until it is all one big jumble. But your body remains frozen. It won’t be compelled to action, because unlike your brain, your body responds to your heart, and the truth of the matter is that it is your heart that is frozen through. Terrified, petrified, stuck wide-eyed in the middle of the highway waiting for the impending doom. Your brain knows what needs to be done.

Your brain knows the work that will make your heart beat again. Will make your heart sing again. But the body won’t listen to the brain, its taking its cues from the heart. A classic chicken or egg conundrum. The heart won’t beat until the work is done, but the brain can’t do the work until the heart beats. Silence, silence all around. The brain screams at the body, “Do the work! Do the work and the heart will follow!” Slowly there is a flutter, not in the heart but in the hands. The brain is getting through, the hands will listen. The hands do not need the heart, they are tools to be used.  They move, they type, the page slowly fills. The brain keeps up its insistent mantra, “Do the work. Do the work. Do the work. The heart will follow”

The pages fill. The head discards them. The hands fill more pages. The head discards them. The work is being done, but without the heart it isn’t any good. The brain starts to waver, the conviction is lost, “But I’ve done the work, why hasn’t the heart followed. Why won’t the heart beat?” Through the despair a tiny voice breaks in from the hands.

“It’s not enough. We must do more work.”

With no better option to put to plan, the brain starts up its mantra once more. This time a drone,

“Do the work. Do the work. Do the work.”

Over and over and over again. The pages are filled the head discards. The pages are filled, the head discards. The hands ache with cramps and the brain’s mantra has turned into soft, but steady pounding on the wall. The brain is so intent on moving forward, building the momentum, building the framework, keeping the work going, that it fails to notice the tiniest of beats coming from the chest. Faint and weak to start. The fear is still strong, the heart doesn’t know if it’s safe to move. But the endless monotony coming from the brain acts as a catalyst, a promise of protection with its unending chant.

“Do the work. Do the work. Do the work. Do the work.”

The heart takes a risk and takes a step. It is smooth and solid ground. The beat strengthens as a second and a third step are taken in complete safety. The road has been paved. Slowly the heart begins to explore and the beat grows strong, infusing the body and thawing the blood. The fogs roll away and the way is clear. The heart can now skip and dance, free in this world. The hands cease aching and fly across the keys. The pages fill. The pages fill. The head goes to discard and stops. It’s amazed. The work is good. The brain quietly lets its mantra die into nothingness and with this new silence it hears the beat of the heart. Relief and gratitude fills the brain. The terror has past, the fear is gone.

The brain looks to the heart, “You followed.”

The heart looks to the brain, “You did the work.”

Do The Work

I am a smart person. In fact, I would place myself in the above average intelligence category. (I’m also very humble.) However, sometimes it is that very intelligence that makes me really stupid. I can usually pick things up or figure them out on my own fairly quickly. However, when I can’t, instead of asking for help or reading more than a sentence or two of the instructions I try again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again. And again, until I’m ready to rip my freaking hair out because I can’t get it to work! (There’s also a fair bit of stubbornness in there.) At this point, I finally break down and read the instructions while swearing under my breath about stupid programming/interfaces/construction, etc. It is while reading the instructions – or googling how-to’s if there are no instructions – that I realize that I am a complete idiot and have wasted insane amounts of time.

9 times out of 10 I was doing it correctly from the very beginning, except for one simple step. Or forgetting to press one button. Something so simple and easy, that had I fully read and followed the instructions after my first attempt I would have been done in a matter of minutes. Now there is always that 1 out of 10 that even if you read and follow the instructions to the letter you still need an old priest and a new priest to get it to turn out okay – in case you’re wondering, I’m referring to any “Easy Assembly” furniture. That shit is never easy! Which means that 10% of the time I never had a chance in hell and 90% of the time I’m a complete idiot by refusing to read the instructions because I think can figure it out myself!

Facepalm for an IDIOTThose aren’t good odds. I’m not a math major, but you don’t have to be to know that those aren’t good odds. In fact, if you were in Vegas playing Blackjack, those are the same odds of busting if you hit on 20. Nobody hits on 20 in Blackjack. Not even the gambling addict or the drunk sorority girl in platform heels playing with daddy’s money, hits on 20. Because you are practically guaranteed to lose. So you would think, that being an intelligent woman who knows these odds, I would just suck it up and read the directions fully after the first attempt fails.

Nope. Nope, nope, nope, nope, nope. It’s ridiculous! The stubborn runs strong in me. Apparently stronger than the intelligence. I have spent the past three weeks fighting with the images in my children’s book trying to get them to format correctly, and line up correctly, and not come across as complete gibberish in the previewer. I tried it as a PDF, then as an ePub. I tried it with each page as its own image and I tried it with each double page spread as a single image. I read a paragraph here or there in the directions and tried those suggestions. Fail, fail, fail, fail, fail. Finally I tried reading the freaking directions from start to finish. Guess what they told me to do? Download a free program, stick my PDF into it, and hit the publish button. Within an hour – most of which was upload time – I had a beautiful file uploaded to Kindle that looks great in the previewer. So if you are a writer looking to publish to Kindle, please learn from my mistakes – because lord knows I don’t seem to be capable of doing so – read ALL of the instructions BEFORE you start.

I am an idiot.

Amy w: Book

Amy’s not an idiot though. She’s smart, she got the book.

 

*Shameless plug of self-promotion: My book, Children Have Got to Be Carefully Taught is now available for pre-order on Kindle! Click here.

I am a straight, Caucasian woman from a middle-class background. Trust me when I say that I realize the privileges that I have. I was born in Alaska, and we lived in an Eskimo bush village where my parents worked as teachers and fought every day against the culture to try to keep the girls in school. The only white people in this tiny village at the mouth of the Yukon River were the teachers and their kids – no we could not see Russia, but we were a hell of a lot closer than Palin. Because of this I was the only white girl in my pre-school class. Let’s just say that one of the little Eskimo boys, for whatever reason, did not like this. So he bullied me, constantly. The two Eskimo women who ran the pre-school would literally give him a slap on the wrist and then send him back into the play group. When I started coming home with bruises, and one day a cut from the broken glass of the little telephone booth that he knocked over while I was in it, my parents decided that enough was enough and they pulled me out of school. We moved to Colorado full time when the school year was over.

So it is with that background, and those experiences that I feel 100% confident in saying that I have absolutely no clue what it is like to live as the victim of racism. Let me say that I again, I have no clue what it is like. I have an idea and I can empathize, but I will never experience discrimination and racism in the same manner as a person of color. Yes, when I was kid I sustained physical injury because of the color of my skin. But all my parents had to do to remove me from that threat was to move and enroll me in a different school that was predominately – read 99.9% – white. The discrimination became a thing of the past. Black parents do not have that option available to them. Hispanic or Asian parents do not have that option available to them. No matter where they go, the color of their skin goes with them, and therefore, so does the discrimination.

As a child I was taught that police officers were my friend. That I could go to them for safety and that I could trust in them to help me if I needed help. To me this was the norm. I have several family members and have friends in law enforcement, and they are good people. For a long time I thought that everyone had this same viewpoint. However, a friend of mine, who is black, disabused me of this belief. As a child she was taught to be wary of police officers. That even if she wasn’t doing anything wrong, she was to speak with caution and not make any sudden movements. If they had not acknowledged her presence, she was to give them a wide berth, and under no circumstances was she to draw attention to herself. This is just one of a hundred different examples of why I will never truly understand the discrimination and hatred that exists simply because of the color of one’s skin. Even with all of the research that I have done into the Civil Rights movement and the slave culture of the South, I as a straight – white – middle class – woman, will never truly know the pain of racism. But seeing it sickens me and makes my heart ache.

I have no solution and, upon seeing the fall-out after Ferguson, I fear that a solution may not be forthcoming in my lifetime. I do however, hope that there may be great strides made in the right direction. I believe that the answer must come from love. I do not deny or mean to ignore or brush aside the anger that many blacks feel. In my opinion it is a righteous anger and they have more than enough cause to feel it. The love and the acceptance needs to come from the whites. White people need to step up and acknowledge that all lives matter, regardless of color of skin, economic status or geography, and then act accordingly. They need to acknowledge that whether we want to admit it or not, being white affords a certain privilege in this country and that is racist. Feeling guilty about it, doesn’t help a damn thing. Bemoaning that being accused of being a racist is just as bad as being the victim of racism, is bullshit.

CB Racism

I feel like I have a leg to stand on for that, as I have been accused of being a racist. You know what, at the time it really sucked, especially since the accusation was completely fallacious and eventually dropped because of lack of any evidence. Not to mention that it became abundantly clear that the reason the charge was levied against me, was because I was the only white person in the group that the charge could be levied against. Despite this, I had to go through a humiliating deposition where I had to answer questions like, “What white supremacy groups do you belong to?” At the time, it was awful and I seriously began to question my own motivations and feelings toward other people. By the end I knew it to be what it was. It was a second charge tacked onto a wrongful termination suit in the hopes of getting more money. It is now over and two years later, it’s become an inside joke with my friends and my life isn’t impacted by it in any way. That isn’t anywhere near the same thing. Just like when I was a child, I got to close that particular door, walk away and not let it affect me anymore. That is the privilege of being white in this country. So, no, I will never be able to fully understand what it is to have the cloud of racism perpetually at my shoulder.

I guess the only thing that I can say, is that we need to learn to not only accept, but embrace and celebrate each other’s differences. Our differences should make us stronger as a group, not weaker. In the meantime, to all of my friends of color – past, present and future – stay strong. You have allies. All of my love.

 

A couple of articles that I found worthwhile:

The Root – 12 Ways to Be a White Ally to Black People

Thought Catalog – 23 Quotes That Perfectly Explain Racism (To People Who Don’t “See Color”)

Peggy McIntosh – White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack

I am lost
I wonder where I’ll find myself
I hear comforting music
I see friends there for me
I want time
I am overwhelmed

I pretend that I’m fine
I feel fake
I touch no one
I worry they’ll see through me
I cry, but not enough
I am crumbling

I understand my limitations
I say I can do it
I dream of easier days
I try to live one day at a time
I hope for a break
I am trying to piece myself together

Pieced Together By Thomas C. Fedro http://www.ebsqart.com/Artist/Thomas-C-Fedro/751/

Pieced Together
By Thomas C. Fedro
http://www.ebsqart.com/Artist/Thomas-C-Fedro/751/

I have always considered myself a very strong and independent person. I’ve been through, what feels at times to be, more than my share of hardship and heartache. Yet I have always persevered, gotten through and seen the sunshine on the other side. Despite this, I’ve come to realize something. You can be as strong as Superman, independent and self-sufficient enough to live on an island, but when you are down, truly and desperately down, you are only as strong as those who will stand around you. Those who will shelter you from the storm, keep the wolves at bay and stand at the ready should you need a word of encouragement, a hug, or simply some space and time to feel the ache. It is these people who are truly the measure of your strength. They are the ones who see you vulnerable and instead of taking advantage or casting aside they gather their weapons to ensure you are left in peace.

As children, family means the people that you were born into; parents, siblings, aunts, uncles, grandparents, etc. However, as you get older you get to add to and choose your family. Choose the people that you hold near and dear. The people who get your time and energy before anyone else. The people who will stand with you through thick and thin. Over the past couple of weeks it has become very obvious to me that I have chosen well. I have an amazing family, and I am stronger than I ever thought I could be.

FAMILY