Thank You Rupi, For Reminding Me To Use My Words

In writing this,

I am aware of my privilege.

That seated in front of this keyboard, 

cursor blinking,

I should be full of joy and gratitude,

and don't think for a moment I am not.

I am the Yin and the Yang, 

(You are too).

the dark and the light.

I am human and there is a deep darkness and sadness I am also carrying.

I wanted to write about the people who bring me comfort:

the 8 second hug my daughter gave me when she returned from her dad's on Christmas Day,

the witty and endless banter I share with my partner,

the warmth of a child's hand in my own, snuggling into a book before bed.

I wanted to tell you about how our pup sleeps right next to me, and his love was something I didn't expect.

I wanted to tell you about the way the snow fell in the early o'clock of the morning and I stared at stars millions of miles from me, knowing I'm alone and not alone.

But I am human and there is a deep darkness and sadness I am carrying.

It is full and it is suffocating me.

It is a cup that needs to empty,

tears that need to be cried,

Silence needs to be broken.

Sit with me, sit and weep the words,

watch wounds open and close,

gore germinate, quicksand swallow,

and hope we emerge, 

(tip the scales)

back into light,

back into peace,

back into comfort.

Bitterness in Ink, Day 1.

Thank you, blank paper,

for allowing my pen to touch you in the places that  spill my shadows.

Thank you, blank paper,

for capturing my evil twin and compelling her voice to paper.

Thank you for giving me:

fire,

a dagger,

and hiding me under your white cloak.

Thank you for reminding me:

the mightiness of this pen is only an extension of the heaviness in my heart,

that I painfully set down in your ink.

*****************************************************

She defended you

even while she talked shit about you.

She loved your Facebook posts

and then texted me the gossip.

I ate away my feelings to not feel. 

But I still felt.

I told my daughters that we are allowed one great Hate in our lifetimes:

                   I can't decide.  

I can't decide which...

                   Living in this small town 

with so many who openly carry their two faces, one for each palm,

                   (my own hands extended),

                   or your black soul.

***************************************************

I can feel the darkness in me emerge when I see your face.

I push it down, like vomit, it comes back up.

It sits, your statue,  on my chest.

I don't want it. 

I don't want to feel this feeling.

Go away.  

Please go away revulsion, disgust, resentment.

You created pain, like a God,

when you let your Pandora's box open in a room with innocent babes.

I don't want this ugly darkness manifested inside of me.  

Even though I watch only from the crack in the wall, 

a small shatter in the lining of the womb, 

 I can see how my hatred for you,

matches yours for yourself.

*********************************************************************

I can choose

not to play these games or be nice.

I can choose to block the negative feelings when I see your fawning support, 

like syrups spilling,

of the evil Queen.

I can choose to look the monster in the eyes and stomp on the money that grew 

on the trees behind her home.

I can choose not to see you pant at the picked clean bones she tosses you.

I can choose.

*********************************************************************

Suppose I told you, my friend,

that she leaves her dogs out all day in the blistering cold.

The wind whips, the ice falls.

She sweet talks them and feeds them honey and lies

to bring them in to take photos to post on her Facebook.

She gets her adrenaline rush, 40 likes! 

Almost as many as the readjusted breasts in the too tight shirt.

You say, "She's such a terrible person.

How could she?" 

And you tell me about how you've heard the pups howl 

how they bark incessantly,

how they've dug holes into the snow because their chains restrict them.

Then, carrying your other face,

you shower your sugar on her with balloons and cakes and celebratory phrases.

You, my friend,

are not my friend.

But in this small town,

I carry my other face too.

*********************************************************************

Did my words sting?

Did you feel just a little bite out of your bourgeoisie jeans?

Turn around, turn around:

Smile again, 

Your row of Cheshire cat chaos needs rearranging.

If I could fist to face,

without a fight,

I wish I could,

I just might.

I have smashed bottles and been in fights 

in bars,

stitches in hospitals at 1 am.

I have done the crazy things I am no longer known for.

It's not just your sweet tits I'd like to see deflated.

************************************************************************

My Perfect Day, Day 2

I want to go back. It's December of 2013. 

Before surgeries. 

Before weird lumps growing in places they shouldn't.

Before cancer.

 I don't think about dying.

I don't think, this could be my last:

Soak it all in;  You never know.

            My daughters get into the car and drive away,

and I don't consider the possibility of them never coming back.

     I don't worry about whether I will wake up when I close my eyes.

I sleep soundly through the night, without waking up in a panic, unable to fall back asleep,

just to know my heart still pulses.

    I look at the wrinkles and think about the wisdom it shows,

not the grave.

     I feel the peace of the moment and not wander-mind where time will take me.

     There is no horror, no tension, no anguish.  

    My stomach isn't aching already, mourning the moments I will miss.

I'm not thinking about the memories made without me,

Not seeing the birthdays and graduations, or

Not meeting my grandchildren.

I imagine I live a long life and know I stopped to pick the roses, but the roses didn't haunt me.

My children will outlive me.

I don't think about hospital beds or endings.

I don't need to be reminded to live every day like it's my last.  

I have since June 10th, 2014.

****************************************************************

You don't know.  

You can't know, 

unless you know,

how soft the wind blows at 2 am,

the whisper of death.

****************************************************************

Chain smoking,

Tequila at 2 am, 

little hills of dust.

Why does God let you have your health?

I envy.

I envy.

Angry at God.

I eat.

I eat.

I look in the mirror at the girl who used to win the awards for being athletic.

She doesn't look back.

I weep.

I weep.

I roll out of bed. 

Plant my feet firmly.

Limp walk to the bathroom.

My back, a burning knot,

my hands numb,

my feet pins and needles.

My body betrays.

I'm angry.

I hate you God. Spirit. The Unknown. Is this my Karma, 

the trauma I am carrying in my DNA.

God, why have you  set a fire to my temple?

Even when I painted it, fixed the plumbing,

replaced the roof and windows.

I've planted flowers, trimmed the hedges.  

I watered the plants.

Why?

You, spirit creator, who lets the other pain-free play in the snow,

rolling in dust, wiping their noses,

while I wait,

wait,

waiting,

watching,

seeing the "good people" of Christ's Church wish them luck on Facebook,

share pleasantries,

even when the good people know about the mountain mounds of deadly desires they pile around their throne.

****************************************************************

Day 3: Coping

When I deactivated my Facebook,

it asked me, Why?

I chose "Other": and in the blank typed Mental Health.

My last great trial was many years ago.

Learning to curb my negative thoughts,

I searched for answers.

Like a Pavlovian response,

I wore a the old fashioned classic tan rubber band on my wrist.

Each time I experienced a negative thought,

I snapped it.

You may think this was desperate.

Maybe it was. 

But it worked.

I feel only serenity about the man who caused that pain.

Deepak Chopra also speaks to me,

I listen as I shower,

as I stare through a windshield,

As my soapy hands scrub the dishpan.

Sat Chit Ananda.

If you see my struggling,

if you see my rubber band snap,

If you hear me repeat the mantra,

please choose:

 nod in acknowledgment,

offer a kind word,

or mind your own business.

***************************************************************

     Day 4: Still Coping

I won't apologize for the way I feel.

I won't apologize for creating boundaries. 

I don't care what people say: They want to talk, they can talk.

I've always wanted to please people, make them happy.

I blame it on growing up the oldest in a dysfunctional family: Anything to sidestep the conflict.

But as I'm reaching away from the old me, I'm leaving that girl behind.

I won't stand for the people I love to hurt.

I won't act like it doesn't hurt me too.

I'm in a weird place, a space empty,

I emptied it because you held out a cup, 

then a bucket, and quickly I saw an ocean of my own tears.

I chose to compensate for your downfalls.

I chose to feel guilty because of your poor decisions.

I chose to nail my own self to a cross to be the person I wanted you to be.

I gave part of myself away because I loved the people you said you loved.

No child should be 24 before they're 14.

I believed wrongly that bad people were in places not close to me.  

Bad people were serial killers on tv.

Bad people were invading countries and bombing villages.

Bad people were terrorists, thieves, rapists.

But bad people are people we see every day.

They look us in the eye.

Bad people are self absorbed and self consumed and they wrap it up in a pretty package they call

"Self Care"

and I'm "Finding Myself"

and they sell it with lipstick and cleavage

slits in dresses and nipples peeking through lingerie.

I wish this could be different, but wishing won't change it.

I won't look away and I won't lie.

What I understand now more than ever is how Emily Dickenson became a recluse.

What I understand now more than ever is her question, "I'm nobody, who are you?"

(Dear Emily, I'm a nobody, too.)

 

The following story is a satire written from the point of view of a teacher and mother.  

"The Farmer and the Case of the Unhappy Cows"

Once upon a time there was a happy farmer who lived in a rural town not too far from the Village which was known as many names by those outside of the village.  He did not have a large herd of cattle and yet the cattle he had were satisfied.  He fed them and milked them on a strict routine, gave them plenty of air and sunshine during the warmer months, and was glad to clean their stalls, muck their shit, and work the old hard work without the aid of fancy machinery. He understood this way was the old way and although it did not ease the burden of his work, he felt inclined to honor the traditions of his fathers.

His cattle became a part of his family.  Of course they had names and even nicknames and he referred to them lovingly when he called them in from the fields.  He patted their noses and rubbed their flanks.  He sometimes told them stories as he milked, sitting on an old stool. This was his way and he cherished it, despite the days the cold broke through his knuckles, causing them to bleed, and the ax became so heavy he felt his arm like the weight of an anchor.  He cultivated his fields, sweating through his long sleeved  flannels even during the fall, hefting the hay into the loft one pitchfork at a time.  He woke at first light and he nurtured the relationship he had with this dairy farm, one that had been a part of his history.

While the farming community to which he belonged declined, those who remained respected him and he had established a name which was associated with perseverance and determination.

Now it came to be the farmer's crops suffered a terrible blight.  It was not the fault of the farmer.  It was simply an act of nature.  The farmer had never remembered a time such as this and felt quite lost. After conferring with some of his fellow farmers, he felt the only choice he has was to travel into the Village and purchase the food from a well known distributary of farming supplies. His hired hands knew well his routine so he left them and his beloved cattle to make the day's trip to the Village by horse.  

Once at the distributary, which also was known by many names, the foreman was delighted to see him, as he had attempted to recruit him as a customer many times.  The man showed the farmer a variety of feed, many of which he said was "fortified" with this or that. Ingredients the farmer cared not to remember as he had no inclination to be a continuing customer.  The man was quite pleased with himself and put on fancy words for the farmer and droned on about the abundance of milk his cattle would produce with this "fine food" that had been made in the Great City and delivered here to the Village. "You will work less and the cows... why they will be overjoyed at this enriched product." The transaction completed,  the foreman promised a delivery that day of the finest feed his cattle could ever want.  

Weeks went by with the farmer in his same routine, only disrupted by the "fine feed".  And by the end of the month, the farmer noticed some of the cows seemed.. almost fatigued. Not coming right away when he called them.  Others were restless, prancing the way a horse would.  And some unfazed, acting almost normal.  Yet the ones who were acting normally produced perhaps only the merest of additional supply and instead the cattle who now loafed produced less.  Another month went by and more of the cattle began to act strangely.  Consulting his fellow farmers yet again, it was decided he should travel into the city to see The Doctor and his Wife.

He dismounted his horse a day later at the finest home he had seen in all the Village.  The ornamentation of the home and the ostentatious nature of the grounds created a sense of weariness in the famer, and yet he was stuck between a rock and a hard place, so this was his choice.  He needed to get to the root of what was causing his cows so much distress.  Especially Mary, who often now lay down while being called in and began to moo without end.

The man was greeted by a servant who opened the door wide into a great hall gilded with gold.  This doctor had been learned in the Great City and so the farmer felt his ways to be ignorant.  He waited on a settee while the servant offered him tea poured in a cup so tiny, he could put no finger through the handle.  

"Doctor will see you now," and the farmer was swept through the hall into an office of mahogany, thick drapery, statues of bucking broncos adorning pedestals.  The desk consumed the room and opposite was great shelves of books.  The farmer felt his understanding of the world shaken and he cowered a bit in this presence.  The doctor turned in his seat, a man stuffed like a cabbage roll into his button down shirt.  He had spectacles perched delicately on his hawked nose and yet it was the pouches of his cheeks, sloping downward, that truly consumed his face.

"My man, I understand your cattle are depressed?" he bellowed.

the farmer shook his head in affirmation.  At that moment the Doctor's wife, his consultant in everything, swept in with her manicured nails, flowing and tumbling tresses.  Her large breasts burst from her heavy velvet garb and the farmer looked away. 

"Oh my fine farmer," she spoke in a voice eloquent, honeyed, her features of her face delicate, yet he could see the weight of her indulgences also like a heaviness in her cheeks and jaw.   She smiled and her teeth were misshapen, crowded in and out like a child who has slashed a smile into a jack-o-lantern.

She continued and the doctor nodded as she spoke. "We have been trained in th most recent medicines for your cattle.  I myself have the title of Chief of Medicines and my knowledge spans the Great City to the next even Greater City.  We can provide you with a pill which they should take daily, preferably twice a day for maximum effect.  You should also need to entertain your cattle.  Dance for them. Put on a show.  Shower them with gifts.  Do not let the slightest unhappiness weigh on them.  DO not expect them to come to you.  No, no.  these cattle need you to go to them.  If you must, hire troubadours or even a clown.  We must make them comfortable... Now, are you providing them with the grain from the distributary?" She glanced at the doctor who nodded at her, smiling in a way reflecting an almost bizarre relationship in which the wife was clearly dominant.  

The farmer nodded, feeling so uncomfortable that he would accept whatever they recommended, just so he could leave this place.

Then we shall provide you with the necessary medicines and you shall see a great turnabout in your possessions. As she completed her sentence, a small head poked through the door. Her face went red. "Child.  Have you had your medicine today?" The boy nodded. "Then go. Go! Have I not told you before? The company comes soon, so be dressed in your finery!" the child disappeared like the farmer wished he could. She turned and again smiled that wicked smile at him.

He left with the pills, feeling some way he had never felt before.  It was a shadow of a feeling just hesitating in the back of his mind.  he did not know the name for it and yet it made him feel slightly sick, anxious even.  

A month went by with the farmer giving his cattle the two pills a day.  He hired troubadours.  He himself sang for them.  he danced himself.  he let them loaf.  He attempted to milk them as they lay reclined.  He whispered kind words as he always had and yet, nothing seemed better.  He could not understand.  In fact, most of the cows now were fatigued and restless and a few were insubordinate.  What was he to do.  

He consulted his peers one last time, praying for a miracle.  They recommended he see the Chief of the Farming Department in the Great City, a 3 day trip.  Feeling he had no other options, the farmer left for the Great City.  The trip was long and tiring and he had little food now that he was spending a significant amount on pills and grain.

The Chief of the Farming Department was quite busy, and so he was given a pile of papers to complete about his farm, what he fed them, how much they slept, etc. etc. and then scheduled to see an assistant who smiled cheerfully, whistling as he walked the farmer back through a row of tiny rooms, all with darkened windows. The further they walked, the warmer it got until he felt that perhaps this man's office was right next to a great stove bursting with flames.

The assistant studied his application and narrowed his eyes at him.  "So you say that you have restless and fatigued cows?" 

The farmer nodded.

"And you say they are still producing milk, but much less?"

Again the farmer nodded.

"Then my recommendation is you are not milking them enough.  Milk them on the hour every hour. Even through the night."

"Sir?" the farmer said.

The man cleared his throat ignoring the former's objection.

"And you say you have one cow who is being particularly insubordinate and not producing milk?"

Again, the farmer nodded.

"Then you are not giving him enough attention.  You must refocus all your efforts on that one cow.  The others are clearly capable, albeit restless and lazy, but this cow, you must forget the others.  I recommend we complete this paperwork on that cow.  We will double down our efforts, together, to bring some semblance of normalcy to his life yet!"

The assistant was so full of zeal the farmer could do nothing but allow a half formed smile while simultaneously wondering if this man had ever stepped a foot on a farm.

It was 3 days drive back to the farm where, once he arrived, most of the cows were gone.  He began to search for them, frantic, calling them in the same way his father had called them and his father had before him.  He wandered out into the fields, through the trees until he became lost in his search.  He sat against the rock, put his head between his knees and wept.  The darkness came quickly and it began to rain. His tears and the rain were one.  He did not move. It was not that he didn't want to.  He wanted to fervently.  He wanted the old way back.  The structure, the routine, the glowing fields.  He wanted to muck the shit while he whistled and felt the cold sweat of his work trickling down his back and he wanted to speak again to his companions with the reverence he had once felt.

 But he could not.  And so he did not move from the rock nor did he speak.  Where was there to go?  Who was left to listen?  He kept his eyes closed a long time. So long, in fact, he could not be woke.

Shushlisten to your Sisters They sing Now

I am-have-been wearyboned.
The kind of weary-boned that feels like giving up.

Just now, the words came tumbling, and I ran to catch them and arrange them on paper.
I felt the heartsong.  It's the song of the woman who came before me (and before me).  The woman who tenderedcare to others and with grace, seemed to fade.  Who felt little and alone and unseen.  Who felt small and yet large at the same time.  That woman (and before-her woman) who is still with us and when we shushlisten, we can hear her sing.

I've been thinking about what it means to be a woman. A woman who  stands for other women, and feels the age old call to be a voice for the voiceless. Thinking about how my own expectations and sacrifices aren't the same as others. Thinking about the pain of knowing more than my heart wants to know and holding more than my heart seems capable of holding.

But I'm feeling more myself today. (Thank you Jenny for the hug).  After hearing Laurie Halse Anderson speak yesterday about being broken open, about needing to shout the truth, it reminded me of Wordsworth: "The world is too much with us."  The world's pain has been with me too much, too close, almost smothering me.   I'm doing the only thing I know how to do when I break:  I'm releasing the words.

If you have felt the world is too much with you, then this letter is also you.

A letter to myself and you, GirlWoman:
You, soft-scared, despair-destroyed, and heart-sad.
Walk with me (with me).

Dear girl.

You are soft.

The places where others
razors bite and you bleed,
You sidestep,
swipe,
move to the right.
Afraid.
You drop the light to hide.

Light subsides, slow,
like slurred words to ended speech.

Dear girl,
I (outside-in)
See-you: See-me

Where you
Hide in the dark.
Cornercrouched.
Beyondcloset.
Underbed.


Where you bury your uglycryface
away
from a world that
snarls
and hisses-
a world that is
Scratchfist and
poundloud with misplaced desires.

So you judgeblame,
expecting it to mimic the
silentlong sojournsacrifice
that resides in you.

Shushlisten.
You will not hide, now, child.

Up.

Get up.
Standshaky on those two feet.
Be willing.
Bewillingtoletlove
                               b r e a k you inward.
                                            Throw you oPEn.
                                                       s t  r  e   t ch you together.

Bend.
Bend and bend,
like the birch in your yard you swung on at 6,
at 8, at 10,

until at 12
It moment-sways,
supporting your weight,
you scratchknees,
you scrapetoes,
your inner thighs hugging trunk so tight,

Squeezedeyes shut,
waiting for butterfly belly flutters,
as you had once been lofted into the air and
catapulted.


But my girlchild,
you are growing.

That tree is no longer yours to climb.
It can no longer offer, under your weight, the joy of a younger you.
It bends and bends and breaks.

Snaps, cracks,
open boned,
bearing blood and you,
knucklewhite,

groundtossed,
where gravity sucks you
down and down.

And down.
You, headjarred,
you, heartjarred.

Up.

Damn you.
Girl,
get

UP.

Babywalk,
step.
StEp.
s t e p.

Let the tearfall
Let the ragefall
Let the bitterapple d i e.

S  t  e  P.

You,
follower of moons
whose waters have surged and withdrawn,
follower of feetpounds and fleshsliced.

Girl,
You,
Woman.

The tree and
the forest, inyou
the sisters before
(and before) (and before)
Sang
handjoined,
heartwoven,

Shushlisten to your Sisters They sing Now,
proudloud,
beatheart,
You, sharedblood,

Girl, Shushlisten,
Your sisters proclaim:

Woman:
You
Will
RISE.

You Have My Permission: An open Letter to Step-Moms Everywhere

A Letter to the Other Mother of my daughters.


Dear D------,

Your blood, guts, face.  I testified daily so many years ago that those things I hated.  More dangerous  than any poison, I was a sullen, bitter and hardened woman, desperate to lay blame.  I hated you for a hundred different reasons, none of which now matter. I couldn't see beyond the pain that a mother knows who feels that she has lost her most important full time job. For too long I hated.  I wanted you to die, melt, become a puddle of whatever mush a body becomes when seething invisible-mama daggers gouge out eyes and teeth and all soft spots then watch them liquefy as volcanoes erupt into the hell fire I would send.  

I used to think:
How could you be anything like me?  I am their mother. The one that gave them life?  The one that carried them and birthed them through screams and terror of my own near death?  How could you replace me? How could you read them bed time stories, know their favorites to put into their lunches, teach them to measure when baking cookies, play Chutes and Ladders?  How dare you rub their cheeks and back when they were sick, color, make play-dough animals, sing at the top of your voice and play dance party?  

Too many holidays I sat alone, lonely, watching leaves fall or snowflakes whirl while my girls sat on your lap eating apple pie or unwrapping gifts.  You heard their sweet tot voices as they squealed with delights I desired to witness.  I cried into empty pillows and cradled bottles of wine, instead of my darling girls.

But now:
I thank God every day that nearly five years ago I became a step-mom, myself.  For one, I have three beautiful children to love.  But that's not the only why. 

When I became a step-mom, I began to understand how blame can be erased.  How mistakes can be forgiven, and how deep wounds can heal.

As I lay at night, singing, "I'll give you a daisy a day, dear" to my darling step-daughter, and then tell her "Good-night" with a kiss to the forehead, I think of you.  When she begs me back for one more song, or one more story, I think of you.  When we hold hands in the grocery store, or she falls and I bandage a not so terrible boo-boo, I think of you.  When she cuddles into my lap and tells me that I'm not going anywhere because we are "cuddlin'" I think of you.  When I go to her Halloween parades, thanksgiving celebrations, shop for her Christmas gifts.... When I braid her hair, curl it, let her put make-up on me.... When she asks me to put love into the cookies before she mixes them... I think of you.

I think of all the times you have been there for my daughters.  All the tears you've soothed, all the whispered, "I love yous."  I think of the worries, fears, joys, sadness, pride you have for my girls.  I think of how lucky they are to have you in their lives.  Someone that holds them to a standard as high as I do, wants their happiness and success as much as I do.  

And, so today,  I want you to know, you have my permission.  You have my permission to be their mother just as much as I am their mother.  You didn't give birth to them, but that doesn't make your love for them or your hopes for them less than my own.  

You have my permission to have an opinion about whether or not they should get that shot, should attend the event, college, or buy that certain car.  You have my permission to stand beside me someday when they go to prom, get married, have their own children.  You have my permission to continue loving them with the depths of the love a mother has for a child, because since I became a step-mom, I know that you do.

This Thanksgiving I want you to know I am thankful for you.  Because without you, my girls would not be who they are. And for that, I am so very thankful.

Not Only Lovers Betray... How to Forgive when Loving Kindness feels Flawed.

Loving kindness.

That's what I praise and that's what I believe in. But what happens when the real world gets in the way and there is a serious transgression?  A true breach of trust?  A feeling that you have been betrayed and that a relationship mutually built in which you placed your heart, soul, sweat and tears, becomes one that you question?

I find myself wondering is forgiveness and practicing loving kindness something that means that I have condoned the behavior of another?

I find myself wondering does loving kindness mean that I "look the other way" and that my own sense of betrayal is not important?

Do I compartmentalize those feelings, wrap them into a little box, where they could quite possibly fester and poison me?

How does one reconcile this situation?

At what point does another's actions which impact me cross a line (however honorably they think they have been motivated).  Do they ever cross a line if you practice loving kindness?

This is where I'm at.  I have always been a believer that we choose to decide how we react to a situation.  And our reactions define us as people as much, if not more, than any other singular facet of our being.

Yet, I find myself questioning.  I feel myself steering away from my own practice of compassion towards others and closing off.  I feel little and threatened and angry.  I know this anger is holding me down, but where do I put that anger?  How do I manage it?

Will time be the great equalizer and slowly, with moments that become days, that become years, I will find balance moving baby steps forward, deciding that my won story and the well being of my community is more valuable than my anger?

Will I ever choose to invest my time and energy into another kindred relationship with so much spirit, warmth and compassion?  Is my little light diminished because of my experience with what I perceive to be a betrayal?

Can I call on compassion and wisdom of experience to allow a special place that was once in my heart for someone to be filled by another?  Can that place be filled again by that same person?

Loving kindness is about sending the one who has wronged you the acceptance and gratitude of life.  It is not jealous; it is not proud, it is not angry.

It is the turn the other cheek mentality.

I write this today, because I am searching.  Searching for that place in my heart to be consumed by kindness and compassion, not bitterness and reluctance.

So I write this story and perhaps it will help you as I believe it is helping me.....

There once was a girl who lived in the forest.  It was a beautiful forest with tall pines all around.  There was never a lack of food, nor did she ever feel lonely.  Always there were creatures, bunnies, mice and birds, with whom she would sing and speak.

She spent many years in that solitary spirit, unworldly, the forest an umbrella, beyond a great unknown.

It so happens that a traveling saleswoman, with shiny wares and trinkets, enticed her.  She had nothing to trade except for her own labor, which she reluctantly agreed she would work for this woman for three years, in trade for a bright sparkling ring.  The girl left the forest and entered a world of color and sound.  A world that pressed in close and showed her the brightest of lights and the darkest of darks.  She met new people and she learned new things.  The traveling saleswoman befriended her, and she placed all her trust in this woman, who was wise, trusting, and worldly.  The girl, now a woman in her own eyes, knew that everything she had learned, all her knowledge of business, the arts, what it means to be human, good and evil, and of the cities, came from her friend, whom she now called her mentor.

The mentor never asked for anything, but that the girl keep her word.  The mentor offered solace, sage advice, food and a warm place by her fire and in return she expected the girl to honor her commitment.

One evening, the last of their stay, when the girl was investigating the city, she encountered a fountain.  A swan gracefully arched its neck to the sky, where water spouted.

The girl stood, staring, until two older girls approached with sketch pads in hand.  They exchanged polite courtesies and the girl explained how dazzled she was by the swan, that she had never seen such a sight.

The girls offered her a once in a lifetime chance.  They were employed by the sculptor who had designed this swan.  He was right now in the city, and she could meet him, and travel also with him.  they grasped the young woman's hand, and she pulled back slightly, reluctant to go, her mentor had given her only this night to alone ponder the pathways and search the sights.

Yet the girls spoke so smoothly and their stories were so sordid of their travels to exotic places, where giants roamed jungles, that she acquiesced.  She indeed felt her actions were wrong, but the thirst for adventure was so great in her now, she pushed those aside.  She did not think of time in years, she was in this moment.

Her mentor waited all night for the young woman, who did not show.  By daybreak, she was frantic, as the girl had never left her side for so long before.

She searched, calling out to the girl whom she had come to love with all her heart,  in whom she had placed her affection and revealed her secrets.

She soon found the place of the swan, and, calling out the girl's name, was approached by a boy had had been spying when the girl had left with her companions.  In return for a small craved wooden horse, he explained what he had seen.

The mentor denied the girl had abandoned her.  She refused to believe she would go without even a kind word of parting.

Yet, she could only wait so long in the city before moving on.

She never saw the girl again, nor was she the same person she had been before she met the girl.

With grief, she piled her bags, thrust them over her shoulder, and placed one foot in front of the other, heading away, to a place for which she was destined, a road divided from the girl.

She saw time stretch like a rubber band and understood that her choices were her own, as were the girl's. 


~May you find the ability to forgive as I am trying to forgive the girl.
With grace,
April

My Dad does not exist in my life-- Not the Way You Would Think

My Dad does not exist in my life.  I can call him whatever dads are supposed to be called- Papa, Daddy, Dad, Father.  None of those names are relevant and none exist for me.  Not now, and not ever.

After 40 years, It took a 16 year old girl to teach me that I have spent all these years I've been waiting, hoping, wishing, praying, and looking for something that was never going to be.

What I wanted-

Someone who would sing to me,
             pick me up and swing me around,
                  read me bed time stories,
                     give me piggy back rides
                         take me sledding.
                            Answer all
                                         my Whys

Kiss my boo-boos
       Tell me about how stupid boys are and how they'll break my heart.
              Give me chicken noodle soup when I was sick


High five me when I brought my 100s home from school
               teach me how to swim
                    climb trees
                         swing a bat.


Ask me "What do you want to be when you grow up?"
           watch my soccer games,
                  listened to my awful saxophone solos.
                           explain how to do my physics homework.


               In high school he'd proudly watch me
                          win all Northern in Soccer and Softball
                              earn certificates in academics
                                  smile wistfully at me in my prom dress- remembering his little girl.
                                         and when I walked across the stage that summery June evening
                                                    to take my diploma, a little tear would slip through.

And my wedding...
      There he is, graying now, but still strong, watching me approach in a beautiful white dress...
               his baby girl.
          He would fold my arm under his, and hold back a river of tears that he has dammed.
The father daughter dance he would whisper in my ear about that time I
 "accidentally" cut my hair on one side of my head- looking like I came straight from Mad Max movie
             and say "You're so beautiful.  I'm lucky to be your dad."


And even years later, he'd be waiting while I push and Push
          waiting for that blissful moment
                  when he holds his granddaughter in his arms,
                          like he had his daughter.

And now, with the grandchildren growing,
           I would call him with my sadness, my joy, and my fears, my disappointing and remarkable moments as a parent.
                      He would be a solace for me.
                              I would joke about how he's getting older and pretty soon,
                                          I'll be taking care of him.


This is the dad I dream of... but he never happened.
    What did happen were various father figures through my life- my grandpa Ronnie (my rock),  my high school softball coach- Joe Jubinville, my advisor in college- Dr. Paul Johnston, my step dad Clayton (who is awesome step-dad and Papa), my father-in law- Mike Murtagh, who is a great father figure,
              All these men have been father figures to me.  They have filled the role that my real dad couldn't.  They did all the dad things that a girl needs a father for. 

They may not realize it, and I haven't until now- but I never needed that DAD because I've had many dads.... who took it upon themselves to care about me and for me.  Just because I wasn't born their daughter, they've shown me the love I needed at the time I needed it.  For all these men, thank you.
                          Thank you all for loving me like a dad should love a daughter...

"Straining to See Through the Windshield, Covered with a Gathering Layer of Ice" Thoughts on Positive Thinking

             It is 6:45 am on a Wednesday morning.  There is a light snow and with the darkness and streetlights, a magical kind of picture, winter framed, emerges.  I'm on my way to work.  By my side is the at risk student I work with every day.  I've been bringing her to school and picking her up since she returned from a suspension in December as an intense intervention.  I hand her a hot cocoa, she pulls out an earbud and says, "Thank you."   We engage in the kind of random and mundane morning talk about "How did you sleep?" and "This snow is pretty."  and "Who are you staying after with today?"  She is testy this morning, having gone to bed way past what I would consider a good bedtime.  Then she reveals: her best friend is moving away.  And, even though she may not admit it, I know the pending school vacation is going to be tough for her as she will be going away to visit her siblings.  Seems like a great thing, but she will have to leave them again at the end of the week.  I reassure her that it is ok. Still, I know she worries about them.  I tell her,  "You will make new friends." I tell her she will see her little brother and sisters again.  I tell her, "Things turn out best for people who make the best of the way things turn out."  I encourage her to use social media to connect with her friend and siblings.  She is still downtrodden.  I smile and give her shoulder a squeeze and we pull into school. I tell her "Have a great day.  I'll see you at 3."  She says, "You too," and shuts the door.
             I am nearly 40 years old, have a satisfying albeit stressful job, a caring and compassionate life partner and some pretty awesome kids.  We have a lovely home, a new SUV, and another car that's been paid off.  He has a reliable and good paying job.  We buy mostly organic food and make healthy lifestyle choices.  While we are conscientious of the money we spend, we are able to afford to live a comfortable lifestyle.
             I am a part of the middle class.  I say things like, "I'm blessed," and when times are tough I say, "This too shall pass."  When I spill a cup of coffee on myself (which I've done countless times) I'm able to laugh about it or rationalize it.  If my plane is delayed, my car breaks down, or my plumbing backs up and I have to call a professional, it's not that I'm happy about it, but mentally I am conditioned to believe that these things are temporary and that good things are just around the corner.          
        Not only am I living a life of physical luxury, but I'm also living a life of mental luxury.  There is a cultural shift right now, as I write and you read, to be "mindful," to "live every moment," and to "see the blessings in the everyday and simple things." There is a movement in which mental toughness and zeroing in on the good is at the forefront.   I admit I too am just as part of that paradigm as anyone else.  But let's be honest, (for the moment).  We are able to do this because we have a life of comfort.  It's true...  When something bad happens to me, I have the support of the people around me who are able to give me sound, productive and constructive advice.  I am able to reason through a series of wise steps, and chances are if I need some kind of therapy or care, I am able to access it for as long as I need it.  Living this lifestyle, I have things I look forward to: vacations to sandy beaches with friends, hiking excursions, that new book I just can't wait to read.  These things and people give me a sense of well being and hope that there is some kind of meaning to this existence, and the financial resources and education I have helps me evaluate the situations as they arise and respond accordingly.  This is why I understand that a setback is temporary and that I will persevere.
             But what happens if you are a single mom on a limited budget.  Your partner left you for another woman.  You've gained some weight and as much as you'd like to work out and eat healthy, you don't have the time and you can't afford to (having access to clean and organic food, vitamins, salt lamps, essential oils, paraben and sulfate free products isn't something you can't afford).  Your boss is just that, a boss, and not understanding when you have to take time off for sick kids.  Today, on your way to work, you are thinking about how you are going to be able to afford to pay the electric bill since your children's father hasn't given you money in as long as you can remember.  You have no heat in the car and the muffler is rattling.  It needs to be fixed.  Your youngest child has an awful cough and you spent your last five dollars on medicine for him.  You drive by Tim Horton's and look at the line of cars, wishing you had that luxury.  There is a soft snow falling, but you don't see it.  You are straining to see through the windshield which is covered with a gathering layer of ice.  You wipe it away again and bang on the dashboard.  You hope it will shake the defrost, but at the very least it relieves some tension.  Your feet are frozen.  You are wearing the boots you got at a garage sale and the socks have multiple holes in the toes.  They were all that was clean.  You haven't had time to make it to the laundromat this week.  Or the money.  Maybe this weekend you can go.  You decide you can save some money by hanging the wet laundry around the house, instead of using the dryers.  You signal and slowly turn a corner, but your car begins to fishtail despite your caution.  The back end slides into a light pole.
               Shall we tell this woman "This too shall pass?"  How do you think she will get to work now that she has no car?  She is already thinking about what she can sell in her house that might pay for whatever needs to be covered.  She has a microwave.  She thinks maybe she can get 20$ for that.  A gold ring with a topaz her grandma gave her when she graduated from high school, when it seemed like maybe she would go somewhere with her life. She never made it to college.  She met him and she thought she was in love.  Then the babies came.  He barely acknowledged her.  He came home when he needed a meal and a bed.  She had only one person. Then that one person who meant the world to her, her grandma, died. The only woman she could ever rely on.  She didn't want to sell that ring, but she knew she might have to.  She gets out of the car and looks at the pole.  It doesn't look to have any damage.  Her car is another story.  She doesn't know how she is going to do it.  She wants to give up.  It's too hard.
               The power of positive thinking, you say?  Being positive is more complicated than we give it credit.
           

Delicately Intertwined

I think of you 

from the time I awake and 

off and on 

if I allow 

my mind to wander.  

Our meeting and parting 

is a tangible expression of what I know and feel  I have always known about you and me, 

something more than my body, 

more than your body,  

something more than my words, 

more than your words.

It is a feeling and it is a thought 

and it is more and less than both.  

And sometimes it is neither and only feels like a memory. 

 It is more powerful than the human expression of love and it is not lust, 
but it is like something of both.  

I try to put into words and I find it impossible.  

I only know that there is something that is the very essence of what is me 

that feels that something that is the very essence of you 

is delicately intertwined.

I hope you can understand:  

I have known you and will always know you despite what events happen in this lifetime.  

An Impromptu Conversation While Reaching for a Package of Always Infinity: A Reflection on Womanhood and Our Periods

How lucky are we to be born women.... We uniquely have the ability to carry forth life, a blessing that begins that first time we bleed.  Our life revolves around that cycle and yet most of our discussions are in private and hushed.  Women endure humiliation, shame, teasing, ridicule because of our cycle.  Proof of my own embarrassment is in how often as a young woman I tried to covertly place my tampons on the conveyor at a grocery store or made a split second decision in the feminine product aisle just to get the hell out as quickly as possible.  No one wants to have an impromptu conversation with an acquaintance while reaching for a package of Always Infinity.

I remember when I first got my period.  It was the fall of 6th grade and I was at the Collette's house sitting with Gramps while the rest of his family milked the cows.  When they came in, I rushed across the road to my house in the dark and promptly told my mother.  If I close my eyes and breath deeply, I can remember the warm September night air pressing in around me and the sound of crickets.  The starry night and the open field. I was altogether embarrassed and wanted to keep it a top secret.  My mother had other plans and announced that she needed to go to the store to get me pads.  She came home with Always extra longs as well as ice cream from Greg and Molly's store.  To celebrate, she said.

 Looking back, many memorable moments are because of my period.  We've all been there.  White pants and our period.  Enough said, right?  I even remember the first time my grandmother suggested I wear a tampon.  She tried explaining how to insert it, and I was sick thinking about how I would put that "thing" in where I peed. I didn't realize I had more parts "down there." 

I never understood why my Mom wanted to celebrate that moment.  I couldn't--until I lost the privilege of having a period long before I expected it would happen to me.

It's peculiar to me that I have held onto my feelings about going through premature menopause for so long.  I guess by writing about it, it makes it real.  When I was 35 years old, I began working out and eating healthy.  I stopped having my period about the same time, and my gynecologist attributed my new active lifestyle to the loss of my monthly "friend."  Although I had no intention of having any more children, I didn't realize how heartbroken I would be when the choice was taken away from me. I learned that I was definitely perimenopausal at 36 when my endocrinologist was doing bloodwork after my thyroid cancer.  She was very matter of fact and said that my FSH levels indicated that I was in the early stages of menopause.  My brain was still processing the effects of having cancer and I had to set the fact that I was entering this last stage of womanhood aside. 

But I had indicators before that day in which I guessed I would never again conceive.  When I felt my gynecologist of many years was not taking me seriously, I switched doctors.  He felt that what I needed to do was "freeze" my uterus.  In fact, the question he asked me was, "Do you think you want to have more children?"  I replied, "I don't, but I certainly don't want the option taken from me."  He told me with the pain that I was having (which he felt was most likely endemetriosis) it would be my best option.  It was the fall and school was in full swing and I was enduring Common Core (and not very gracefully) so I set aside the idea to come back to it later, which I tend to do with all important decisions in my life.

I came back to it before I anticipated when my ex-husband told me he and his wife were pregnant. I watched as my daughters' excitement spilled out as the babbled about their new baby brother or sister.  I pasted the smiles each time they spoke of the new little one.  When they found out it was a girl, we went out together and bought her some small gifts. When she was born and they wanted me to see the photos of her, I oohed and ahhhed on cue.  And all the time I couldn't help but think, "I'll never be able to give them this joy."  Inside, I was wilting.  What did it mean that my body could no longer carry a child?

After I found myself in a relationship with a man whom I adore and want to spend my life, the feelings came up again.  He has three children younger than my own (together we have a 3,5,7,10 and 11 year old).  His ex-wife also became pregnant and I couldn't help but wondering if Brock and I could have a child (despite being blessed with five) would we?  Part of me thinks yes.  I would like to have a child that is ours, one that would be a bond between the two families.  I have tried to stop imagining what that would be like because it's futile thinking, but I can't.  My brain processes information slowly and I come to a place of acceptance only by embracing the feelings that come with each new stage, struggle or success.

 I find myself longing to go back.  I'm no longer the girl and young woman I was once and never will be again.  My body has begun a decline and although I fervently attempt to prolong the inevitable by eating clean and working out, when I begin to think about menopause, I think about the cycle of life, which includes death.  I see my fresh faced daughter who has her cycle and think of the years ahead of her, the pain and joy of being a woman.  Not just the physiology of it, but the exploration and the discovery of her own self, her sexuality and her identity.  I think of the moment in Willa Cather's novel, O Pioneers when Cather describes the "V" formation of the geese.  The ones flying at the helm, eventually get tired, and must go to the back of the flock.  I project myself into the future, knowing that my body will altogether fail, as it has proven many times, and I will make way for the next generation as they take their place where I once was.

And ultimately, I reflect.  I reflect on my own journey, my unaware self falling in and out of love a few times, not understanding who I was and having no idea of what expectations I should have from my relationships.  I think of how as a woman in my 20s, I didn't give myself much of a chance, instead looking for someone to edge me toward happiness... or some material thing to give me a sense of value.  Knowing now that what my Mom said to me as a child was so very true- you have to love yourself before you can really love someone else.  I am working on embracing this new stage of life, the stage where I can pass on the wisdom of age and experience to not only the two daughters that came from my womb, but also to Brock's two daughters, who have become part of my story as well.

  And it is now, as I begin to take the helm from my own mother, that I understand the beauty of the day I began to bleed, and can rejoice in it.

Peace and Blessings,
April

When God Speaks to Me This Is What He Says

My dear child,

I have given you yet another test and you are thinking, why?  Why me?  

Your struggle has been long, and constant.  I have given you few breaths and you've relaxed your weary feet only as little as the time between your challenges has allowed.  

You have wandered through darkness.  I've given you a candle along the way.  In the darkness you have stumbled.  You have fallen.  You have scraped your shins and elbows. You have felt your way along at times on your knees.  You have learned to not just listen, but to hear. To see things in the dark that others do not see.  There have been times you have lost the light and I have relit it for you or I have given you the stars.  

When you have stopped altogether and sat down on the rocky ground, gazing through streaming tears at the endless night I hummed you to sleep with the sound of my waters then woke you up with the wind of my breath on your face.


Do you remember the morning your baby brother returned to me with his wings?  That day I sent your grandfather to you.  I breathed his words.  I spoke through him.  His arm around you was my arm.  His tears were my tears.

Do you remember the day you were teased on the bus and you felt like you just couldn't go another day?  Do you remember running off the bus, straight into the house past your mother and into your room, then broke into sobs?  Do you remember the sound of your mother's voice, so comforting?  Her hand on your back?  Her gentle words were my words.  Her hand was my hand.

Do you remember the shame you felt in junior high when your peers teased you because of your clothes? Do you remember how heavy their words were and how you felt like you would never be good enough?  

Do you remember the years of enduring your father's alcoholism?  The abuse?  The shame of poverty?

 Or in college, when your "friend" attacked you in your sleep and took what makes you a woman without your permission?

When you received news that your father was in critical condition because he was drinking and driving?  Do you remember when you finally told him he could not be a part of your life anymore?  Do you remember the guilt you felt when you said those words?

When you were pregnant with your firstborn and your husband's family would not allow you to share your joy with them because your sister-in-law had suffered a miscarriage?  Do you remember how they pretended you were not pregnant and the one time someone asked you how you were feeling when you were five months and you had no idea how to respond because you had not been allowed to discuss the pregnancy?  

Do you remember after how you almost died in childbirth with your first born and carried the grief of being a new mother?  How you sat up breastfeeding, looking at her, wondering why?  Thinking terrible thoughts and feeling such shame and guilt because of them?

Your car accident when you were six months pregnant with your second born?  How you thought you would die?  Then how I brought you to your knees again four days after her birth and you spent five days in the hospital, aching for your new baby?

When your husband told you he loved you but he was not in love with... then you discovered he loved another?  How you cried every day for a year and hid the tears and pretended?  How you woke up everyday hoping to return to your sleeping because your living was a nightmare?

The shame when you filed for a bankruptcy because you could not pay your bills?

Then I gave you your health and you rejoiced. Then I took it away.  You experienced the physical pain of a ruptured disc and the pinched nerve that never healed and you thought that was the worst it could be.  Your surgery and your helplessness as you felt humiliated, asking for others to care for you?

Then I gave you cancer and you realized that the physical pain you'd experienced was not the worst.  Looking at your daughters and thinking of how you would say the forever goodbye was the worst.

And then, I gave you the death thoughts.   And you realized that it wasn't saying goodbye to your daughters that could be the worst.  It would be watching your daughters from heaven, dying, and not being there with them as they perished.

Then I gave you more three more diseases and the pain of bone and ache of heart at dreams dying and yet you fight still.

My child.  I describe these few moments of your experience because you must know that your ordeal has been one planned.  You are my warrior.  You have risen each time and battled.  

Have you not seen how many times I have sent my wounded to you, for you to comfort them, to extend your wisdom, to embrace them.  To heal.

Do not be bitter.  Is this latest trial more of a challenge than the others?

You do not see how strong you are.  I have made you strong. 

You, my warrior, my child, have important work still to be done.  You must be my voice, my gentle word, my loving grace.

When you question my judgment, when you wonder why, how could you not know that
I have given you each challenge because you have a mission on earth and your mission can not be accomplished until you have known as much terror, ache, lovepain as life can inflict.  

You are my warrior and you are strong.  
Now dry your tears.  

I am with you and in you and have both created your journey as well as walking it with you.
Trust in me.

 

Shame When Kids at School Talk about Their Summer Vacations.

"Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a battle you may know nothing about."

My step-father hid his weed under a chair in our living room.  When he had enough money to buy himself his favorite chocolates, a yellow box of Whitman's Sampler, he slid it right under the chair next to the small covered box of pot...

That is the truth.  I'm pretty sure I've never vocalized those words and this would be the first time I've ever written them....

This is a hard entry for me to write.  I have lived my entire adult life as two people.  There is the woman you know, who is the mother of two darling girls, a teacher and a reliable friend.  Perhaps you've followed a memory I've written about my divorce, my real father whom I've never met, or my struggles with cancer.

But there is another person who is constantly right below the surface.  She grew up in adversity.  Struggled through challenges that no child should have to endure.  When I look in the mirror I see her.  She is begging me to tell the truth.  She is pleading to be heard.  She knows if she tells, that other children like her may feel hope.  Sometimes I'll smell something or wake from a dream and it takes me right back to her.  I want to put my arms around her and hold her.  Comfort her.  Then I realize she is me.

She has spent her entire adult life with a mask, ashamed of that part of her that has made her so strong.  She is me.  And today I'm going to take off the mask and embrace her.  I can only share with you a moment of what 38 years has felt like.  I can only provide a glimpse of what it was like to be a child living in fear.  Feeling alone, isolated, left behind, abandoned.

Even one moment of light shed on the adversity may make a difference.  After all, that's why I became a teacher in the first place.  And as a teacher, this past week, I've seen so much anger. So much hate.  I don't know what caused the young man to commit suicide, but what I do know is that his death has caused me to feel the need to write this today.  My heart is full, so full of words and words and memories that are haunting me.  And I know that there are children that are out there that grew up just like me, that have become adults, and are living still in fear, wanting more from life.  Wanting to escape their life.   Not knowing how.

Let me share a piece of my story.

My step-dad was a drunk and then there were times he was not a drunk.  It was like that.  We lived never knowing.  Never knowing what Dad we were going to get.  When he was not drunk he was a fairly good dad.  He played basketball with me and catch and always whipped the ball as hard as he could and told me to toughen up.  He went to my softball games and watched from the end of the parking lot, ashamed to get out and sit in the stands with the other parents.  To this day, I love hate my step-dad.  It is a difficult feeling to have.  To love someone who has crushed me, but who put food on my table, took me to practices, accompanied me in my junior year prom dress shopping.  The man who taught me how to stack wood, measure with a ruler, and coached me with my algebra homework. The sober dad who loved me, even though we never said those words to each other's face.

But there is another dad.  And he was a product of his own tragic childhood.  He had his own personal hell he endured and how can I judge him as an adult when I know his drinking was his mask.  This dad, this drunk, stoned dad.... he was not a good dad.  He was angry and violent and sometimes came home after a night at the bar and sometimes he didn't.  He was a man who cracked a Milwaukee's Best for breakfast with his morning cigarette.  He was and is a man who was such a drunk that when you got close to him you could smell the alcohol reeking from his body.  He never laid a hand on the girls, but he would hit my brother with a belt.  I can remember the sound of him doing that, hurting my brother.  And my brother's cries.  And I felt helpless.  I didn't want him to hurt my brother but I was too afraid to say anything.  Because if I did, maybe he would hurt me.   My mom never let him get close to us.  She protected us and she tried to protect my brother.

I'm guessing you're judging my mom right about now.  You're probably thinking, How could she have let that man do those things?  Why didn't she just leave?  

If life were so simple, then there wouldn't be so much hurt in the world.

My mom gave birth to me in May of 1977, six months after her fifteenth birthday.  I believe that she was a "child having a baby".  As a teacher, I see it all too often.  Girls becoming mothers, just like my own mother.  Sometimes I wonder about their life.  Is their spirit as crushed as my own mother's was at times?  It is not for me to relinquish the secrets of my mother's own troubled childhood.  It should be enough to say that she had even bigger hurdles than I did.  She did what she could with what she had.  She loved us, she comforted us, she sang lullabies to us at night and she kissed our boo-boos.   She read us stories, baked cookies with us, sang Christmas carols and talked to us about life.  It was important to her that we talk about our problems. Under the circumstances, her having been an 8th grade drop-out, I applaud my mother for what she did succeed with... and eventually she did succeed.

When I was 8 years old everything changed.  Tragedy changed us all, and even changed my step-dad for a time.  When I hear people say out of our darkest places, true hope is born, I know this is so.

My 18 month old brother died when I was 8.  He died in my mother's arms as I watched from the backseat.  She had taken him to the doctor countless times,  Potsdam Hospital, Crouse in Syracuse and back to Potsdam.  He's just got the flu, they said.  Give him some children's Tylenol.  Maybe no one took her seriously because she came in dressed like her clothes came from a second hand store, which they did.  Maybe it was her unsophisticated speech, her "ain'ts" and "gonnas" and her errors with subject verb agreement.  Whatever it was, no one took it seriously and so my two sisters and my brother and I watched our baby brother die.

And after that, my mom changed.  Not immediately.  I was only 8 and I watched her lie on the couch with her back to us, covered in a multi-colored afghan blanket.   She did that for a long time.  Too long.  We were kept close to her.  No, you aren't going to ride your bike across the street....

But she did eventually return to school and get her G.E.D.  And as years passed, I found myself helping her with her college work.  I edited her papers and she and I would discuss her coursework.  I was in junior high school at the time.  When other kids were playing sports or hanging out watching tv, I was coming home to babysit and have dinner ready if mom was working.  She would leave me a note on the table.  A list usually of things that needed to get done.  And I was responsible for making sure we each divvied up the chores equally and got them done.  And then, when she needed me, I was  a sounding board for her struggles with college.

But let me back up.  Because I've lost a bit of what I wanted to share and instead got ahead of myself. This entry today I hope, if it leaves you with no other impression, then I want you to understand a little of what it was like to grow up in poverty.  I want to give a voice to all those kids eating free and reduced lunches... kids who might not have a mom like mine.  No one to cuddle them, sing to them, no one to love them.

Just a few thoughts on what poverty means to me:

• Eating government food.  It comes in cans with white labels.  The cheese is so bright yellow that as an adult I refuse to eat orange cheese.
• My mom and my family getting on a bus and leaving one state to go to another thousands of miles away to get away from my step-dad.
• Not knowing who my real father is and never hearing a response when I finally write to him.
• Eating our dinner from a picnic table in our dining room when we had no table.
• Being cold.  
• Refusing to eat school lunch because we had a ticket that the lunch ladies punched and everyone would know I was on welfare if they saw my ticket.
• Waiting until no one was checking out at the grocery store and rushing to check out so no one would see me using food stamps.
• Watching my mom cry because my dad was off on a binge.  
• Watching my mom cry and pack my dad's things in a box and put them on the porch because my dad was off on a binge.
• Watching my dad take an axe and destroy his own truck when he got home and my mom was not there.
• Locking my dad out of the house because he is drunk and we are afraid.
• the sounds of adults partying while I am in my room, trying to sleep.
• My bedroom, without a door, and with plywood on one window and plastic over the other. My dresser missing two drawers.
• Shame when kids at school talk about their summer vacations.
• Getting one pair of sneakers and one outfit from Ames for the new school year and wearing them to bed the night before because I'm so excited to have something new.
• Being afraid in the middle of the night that he might come in and do those things to me again.
• Shame when kids at school tease me about my clothes.
• Wanting to take a shower but we have no water.  Knowing I'm the stinky kid, wishing I could change it.
• Knowing there's no Santa by the time I'm 9 years old and faking it so my brother and sisters can experience the magic a little while longer.
• Crying silently because the kids at school exclude me.  
• Shame when my parents pick me up and they are driving a car that is rusted and falling apart.
• The smell of smoke, thick.  Cigarettes always in the air.  My clothes and hair smelling like a cigarette and knowing I smell like that, but not being able to do anything about it.    
• Studying.  Studying.  Focusing on school and sports and doing everything I can so I can graduate and not ever have to live this way again.
• Being called a lesbian by the guys at school who have no idea that I have no interest in boys because he did those things to me.
• Hearing screaming at night.  Always hearing screaming.  And one morning the screaming is my mom... screaming at dad to call an ambulance,
• Watching my brother die.
• Not wanting to raise my hand because I don't want to be noticed by teachers.
• Meeting my grandfather at 5 years old for the first time and being afraid to let my grandfather hug me because of the times when the bad man touched me where he wasn't supposed to.
• Knowing my mom can't afford a good Christmas, and wanting one so bad.
• Finally telling my mom about the bad touches.
• Getting a job when I'm sixteen and spending my money on my younger sisters and brother, taking them places like the fair, because I want them to have some happiness.

Recently I heard a professor at SLU discussing they were going to have a workshop there so people could experience what it's like to live in poverty.  I felt a strong desire to speak up, but didn't.  Anyone who hasn't endured poverty's wicked ache, can't attend a two day training and know its hunger, its isolation, its shame.

That would be like saying we could watch the movie Lone Survivor and saying we experienced what it is like to be a marine.

Poverty is a cycle.  It's vicious.  It's brutal.  And, saddest of all, for many children, it's a life of secrets, lies, and despair.

I was lucky enough to have a mom who finally stepped out of the mold and broke the cycle. 
I was lucky enough to have teachers that made a difference just like so many of our teachers at MCS do.

There are so many other truths about poverty upon which I could expound, but even this little bit I think is enough.  I've always had the dream that I could help others like me... give a voice to the voiceless.

I'd like to end by connecting this to what I've witnessed as a teacher.

In the MCS school district I've studied the numbers for Free and Reduced lunch as provided by the state of New York.  The heaviness in my heart I feel when I see the numbers creeping toward and toppling 70% in the elementary schools, and only in the 50% range at the high school....is that number decreasing because the disadvantaged are dropping out of school?  That would be my guess.

 If you look at the data regarding how students living in poverty perform compared to their counterparts.  The difference is obvious. It's widespread across the state.  We KNOW that poverty is THE biggest problem.

And yet, I hear so much blame placed on poor people.  Name calling.  I am certainly not making excuses for people who take advantage of the system.  What I'm trying to do is lead you to see.  Living in poverty is almost always synonymous to living without an education.  Living in ignorance.

When uneducated people make uneducated decisions, we, the educated, should not be surprised when their decisions are misguided, inappropriate, sometimes hurtful and even illegal.  We've got an entire generation of impoverished adults who have been living in a system in which welfare has become a way of life.  Who makes the decisions in our culture?  Educated people are supposed to do that.  We can keep pointing fingers and placing blame.

And while you're wasting your time doing that, there is a hungry child somewhere, sitting on a mattress that is laying on a living room floor, watching her father sleeping, taking care not to step on the heroin needles.

It takes a village to raise a child.

And if you're living in poverty and it feels hopeless, it's not. It starts with an education.

No blame.  Only change.
  

“Literacy is a bridge from misery to hope. It is a tool for daily life in modern society. It is a bulwark against poverty, and a building block of development, an essential complement to investments in roads, dams, clinics and factories. Literacy is a platform for democratization, and a vehicle for the promotion of cultural and national identity. Especially for girls and women, it is an agent of family health and nutrition. For everyone, everywhere, literacy is, along with education in general, a basic human right.... Literacy is, finally, the road to human progress and the means through which every man, woman and child can realize his or her full potential.”

~Kofi Annan

"My Broken Body Does Not Deserve to be Limited by the Victoria Secret Angel" Thoughts on the cultural hype to vilify body types not given the Victoria Secret Stamp of approval

"My Broken Body Does Not Deserve to be Limited by the Victoria Secret Angel"

This is me.

I was once a size 2.  Do you see?

I lifted. Did burpees until I was red faced and puke ready.

I squatted and lunged and jump roped and planked.

Then I ran.  I ran and I ran,

I "T-25'd".  I "Piyo'd", "ellipticalled" and biked

and every other machine with a motor.

I was a superwoman and my abs were my

badge of honor.

But my body fails me,  it controls me.

It is a prison and it is also my home.

And while I must acknowledge that,

I do not have to accept the feeling that 

I am not good enough

because my hips are curvier than yours are sharp.

I am a warrior still, softer perhaps,

but no less indomitable in spirit.

Breath in, breath out, smile.

And while my battle is no longer bigger biceps,

I respect if it's your battle.

But understand my broken body does not deserve to be limited by the expectations of the Victoria Secret Angel or any others.

There are bodies beautiful that are not defined 

by breasts and thick tree trunk hips.

We must desist punishing the other for fitting a design

that is not a mold that we hold high.

His Family Became my Family and Then We got Divorced

What do you do when the family you had and cared about when you are married, is no longer your family after you are divorced, even though you still care about them?

You see, before I was born I was abandoned by my own father. That kind of damage takes a long time to heal.  Then, my step-father and I had our outs.  He was a recovering alcoholic for a long time, but lost his footing when my Mom and he divorced (I was in college at that point).  I had to learn to shut him out of my life, and he has at times put a foot through the door that I've had to again, shut. That kind of hurt similarly takes a while to heal.  That hurt is only prolonged when the people you cared about as your family, suddenly disappear from your life.  They die too, in a way, and you must grieve them... but what happens when they really pass from this earth?  What are the "right" feelings to have?

I was with my ex-husband from 19 to 30 years old. He was my first real boyfriend. I loved him with an intensity only a silly girl can, entrusting him with all my secrets and desires. His family became my family.  In college, his grandfather, Grandpa John, lived only about a mile away and he quickly became my "Grandpa John" as well.  The same went for my family.  My grandfather (with whom I am very close) and "Jack" became quite close as well.  Our grandfathers met and spent time with each other.  My own grandfather continues to speak very highly of Grandpa John.

Grandpa John, who was born the year women got the right to vote and the White Sox threw the world Series, was getting along in years even then and "Jack" and I visited him often for dinner, helping him around the house or running errands.  Even after we graduated and moved an hour away, we visited continued to make the short trek to Plattsburgh to check in on him.  We helped him put up his Christmas decorations as we listened to his stories about the War and his early days.  He loved history and he loved telling stories.  He was a remarkable man in so many ways.  Even though he was getting on in years, he was quick witted, sharp at calculations, and as a retired accountant, he still provided advice and accounting services to his family and friends.

Grandpa John was my grandpa for ten years.  He sent me birthday cards, talked to me on the phone (he called Jack almost every afternoon at the same time), and sent Jack and me Christmas cards.  I reciprocated.  I made him dinners (I still remember the time I made him Venison in the crock pot.  Epic fail), sent him our family Christmas cards, bought him his birthday gifts.  I continued that even one year after Jack and I separated and then divorced. I loved Grandpa.  He was important to me and that didn't go away just because Jack didn't want me anymore.

But, unfortunately, after the separation and ensuing divorce, I never received anything in return.  And I never again saw Grandpa John after the Fall of 2007.  

I guess I will never know why he chose not to reciprocate my birthday card or Christmas gift.  Maybe he wanted to, but felt it would mean he wasn't being loyal to his grandson.  And knowing how close they were, I can understand that and respect it.

What is terribly hard for me to understand or accept is how. on November 14, 2013, when Grandpa John died quietly at my ex-mother in law's house, no-one told me.  I didn't know until a week later, when one of my daughters mentioned how sad they were.  It was a punch right in the gut.  Grandpa John had died.  He had died and a week had passed and no one had told me.

How do you deal with that blow?  I spoke with my ex-husband and offered my condolences.  I guess I was hoping I would be given permission to attend his wake, but I wasn't.  The information I was given was very limited (most came from the internet) and what little bits my daughters chose to divulge.  I did not press them because I did not feel it was right.  They were hurting too, missing their great grandpa.

After this, I felt even more abandoned.  My ex-husband, I know, was hurting because the man he had called Grandpa had died, but was I allowed to also grieve?  I wasn't allowed to publicly or in the traditional way, and so it was privately.

Now, after all this, you may be thinking that I would be bitter.  I must admit, a little part of me continues to be hurt, but not bitter.  I try not to take it personally.  I know that how a person treats another says more about who that person really is and what their fears are.  I know that moving on means accepting that there are reasons I will never know and some pains that only heal if I put them aside.

What I know with certainty is that I heal each time I encourage my ex-husband to be a part of my grandfather's life.  After the divorce, my Grandpa and "Jack" continued to speak periodically.  And finally, when my ex-husband invited my grandfather over to his home with his new wife, I was taken aback a bit, but I realized that it was about love, not about my petty jealousies.  My grandfather had come to love this man, as I had once, and who was I to severe those ties? (Especially when I so wished I had been able to remain in contact with Grandpa John).  My grandfather still visits Jack, his new wife, and their new baby daughter every once in a while, however it is much less now as he  approaches 80 and his health declines.

As he continues to age, I promise that I will continue to keep my ex-husband abreast of my grandfather's progress, and encourage my ex to call my grandfather when it's his birthday or he's not doing well.  I will continue to do that because it is the right thing to do.  It is what I wished for myself....

And as a final word, I'd like to add, that I wish for Francis John Collins, Grandpa John, peace in his final resting place.  May he be reconnected with Connie and spend the rest of his days in her loving arms.  I will always remember you, Grandpa, sitting in the kitchen at the typewriter, your glasses perched on the edge of your nose, piles of paperwork on the table (rubber banded together) the biggest smile on your face, and Sammy by your side.