Blog
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Learning the Tarot: The Fool
Choose your own adventure
Life is full of journeys. Mini—and sometimes major—adventures that we find ourselves in. New jobs. Friendships. Vacations. Learning Mandarin. Training for a marathon. Finding the perfect local cheeseburger. Learning to love yourself more. Starting a business. Starting a family. Starting therapy.
You get the idea.
Tarot talks to us about our lives through the journeys that we’re on. The goal is to use the cards to look at our behaviors, actions, reactions (etc) from multiple perspectives. Our instincts will help us determine what exactly the cards are talking to us about, so practicing the tarot also helps us build and strengthen our relationships with ourselves.
In Tarot, there are two types of cards: the 22 cards of the Major Arcana and those from the Minor. The cards of the Major Arcana take us through the different stages of our journeys, from start to finish. Each is numbered, from 0-21. We start with The Fool.
FROM ZERO TO HERO
The Fool is card zero of the Major Arcana for the simplest of reasons. The Fool IS ground zero. The Fool IS the starting point. Straight up? Without The Fool there is no tarot since…
TAROT IS THE JOURNEY OF THE FOOL.
Where will your journey take you? Yup. That’s right. It’s all about The Fool, baby. And guess what? Folks, we are The Fool.
Remember, those tarot cards are talking about OUR journey. They are giving us advice about our lives. They are tools made specifically with us in mind. Without us, they’re just cards with pictures on them, as pretty or interesting as they may be.
So when you’re thinking about The Fool, you should be thinking about yourself.
Now before you go getting bent out of shape about being called a fool, it’s important to understand what that means in terms of tarot. The Fool is blissfully curious.
They are full of wonder, a desire to learn, and a deep need to discover what they don’t know.
Let’s try a little exercise. Go back in time to when you were young. See if you can’t search your memory for a childhood adventure. It doesn’t have to be complicated, something simple will most definitely do. Catching lightning bugs. Exploring a neighborhood creek. Building a fort with your friends in the woods. Something like that.
Once you’ve selected your memory, try to put yourself back inside of it. Try to remember how huge it felt. It wasn’t just an afternoon, it was an event. Every step along the way was something new and different: an experience to live inside of. Think of how excited you were.
The Goonies? So. Many. Fools. You wanted to touch everything; smell everything; feel everything. You wanted to get up close and put your hands in everything. Dip your toes into the water. Chase the fireflies everywhere and grab at their shiney little butts. You wanted to climb every tree, seek out each and every hideaway and satisfy the myriad of curiosities you had.
The world was a vast mystery that you looked forward to enthusiastically peeling back the layers of and sinking your teeth into. Everything was thrilling. Everything was a chance to explore and discover and learn from.
That is The Fool.
TRUST THE PROCESS
The Fool embarks on their journey with the wonder and curiosity of a child. They’re unconcerned about the risks ahead, a mere fleck in their periphery, if that. They’re focused solely on their adventure, trusting their instincts to guide them along the way. They have faith in the process of discovery and everything it may turn up. Not just the ups but the downs.
They embrace the possibility for mistakes, understanding that these are sometimes the best ways to learn and get a feel for foreign territory. They don’t let worry hold them back. They don’t let fear dictate their behaviors. They don’t get caught up in the minutiae of perfectionism, control issues or other mental hurdles we often find ourselves jumping over.
Think about a time you discovered a new obsession. Knitting. Playing the guitar. Everyone’s desire to master the perfect pandemic sourdough starter. Whatever. Remember how you felt getting really into it? You thought about it all the time. Wanted to be practicing or learning or watching a YouTube video about it all the time. You scroll through Instagram. You buy a book about it. You discover your favorite experts in the field and favorite artist practitioners.
Coming back to you?
You dove into things head first. You didn’t stare at the guitar strings, not making a move. You played. You put your fingers on the strings. You strummed. You sounded terrible. You didn’t care. You did it again. And again. And again.
You were too busy learning and exploring and practicing to be worried that you’d be terrible forever. You were too excited every time you got something right to beat yourself up when you got something wrong.
That is The Fool.
Hobbies can makes Fools of us all. They trust themselves to make it through their journey and to come out on the other side better than they were when they started. They seem to understand that the rewards in life are the journeys themselves and all of the experiences that come with them.
It’s not about creating the most exquisite vase. It’s about learning the art of pottery.
It’s not about winning the race. It’s about learning how to swim.
Not about becoming a Michelin starred chef but learning how to cook a meal they like eating; learning how to knead a loaf of bread or bake their grandmother’s favorite cookies.
It’s truly about the experience and not the destination. They’re not interested in putting limitations on what can and cannot be a part of it.
FIGHT THE POWER
Another beauty of The Fool is their natural inclination to question the rules and stipulations put before them. It’s just another part of their need to learn. They want to know why they’re being instructed to behave in a certain way—to follow a certain, prepared set of rules. They want to understand why things are the way they are. Nothing is taken for granted. Nothing is assumed. They want things to be explained and if they can experience the workings of the rules themselves, all the better.
It’s not about pushing back against the establishment, it’s about understanding the establishment. The Fool doesn’t want to simply follow the rules because they were told to. The Fool needs to make sense of the reason they’re in place. The Fool wants to be in the know.
If they end up improving the society around them because of their natural inclination to question, wonderful. There won’t be hesitation in making important changes. Life is about learning and growing. It’s about trial and error. Hypothesis and experimentation, then moving forward with the results to improve, improve, improve!
Progress does not frighten The Fool. Growth and change only excite them. They know that we’re constantly learning and because of that, are never destined to be stagnant. If we don’t adapt to the changing world around us, we’ll go extinct.
The Fool wants to be in the front seat. The Fool wants to be in the front seat of that car. Driving, if possible. Worst case scenario, they want to ride shotgun and be in charge of the GPS. Not because they want to be in control or because they think this is some kind of competition but because they want to be involved. They want to be in the thick of things, getting their hands dirty and feeling the wind in their hair. They want to be in the perfect position to make any split second decisions that need to be made. The Fool knows that plans change and they’re always ready and willing. Spontaneity is their jam.
INNOCENCE IS BLISS
The Fool is about openness and possibility. The willingness to face whatever their journey throws at them. It’s about potential and optimism and impulse. Most importantly, The Fool is about having an innocence and enthusiasm that protects them from those fears that prevent happiness.
That worry I mentioned earlier that we ignore when obsession starts? When we let that worry win, we prevent our own happiness. Those mental hurdles we talked about before? Again, keeping us from happiness. All of that enthusiasm and curiosity The Fool is buried in—living in the moment of—keep those fears at bay and let them experience more happiness.
So truly, The Fool’s eternal optimist tendencies pan out because their behaviors ensure it. It’s genius. Talk about making your own karma.
FICTIONAL CHARACTER FOOLS
- Alice
- Dorothy Gale
- Simba
- Charlie Bucket
- Bastian Bux
- Forrest Gump
- Harry Potter
- Miguel Rivera (Coco)
- Luke Skywalker
- Peter Parker
- Moana
Check out my YouTube video about The Fool:
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Learning The Tarot
Add art and ritual to your self-care practice
Have you ever wanted to learn tarot?
It’s a wonderful way to focus on the different aspects of your life from a perspective you otherwise might not have considered. I like to think of it as a form of guided meditation. It’s a truly lovely self-care practice that allows you to put yourself first in a mindful and positive way with the goal being one of creating a more fulfilling life for ourselves. The cards present you with ideas and ask you to see how these ideas may fit into your life. They ask us to look at the areas of our lives—areas that we see everyday—from angles that we might not get to by ourselves.
Another beauty of the tarot is the literal beauty of the tarot. The art itself. There is a tarot deck out there for everybody, even if they never use it and simply put it on display or thumb through it every so often. If you have a favorite art medium or style, there will be a dozen decks showcasing it. If you have a hobby or fascination, chances are there’s a deck or two out there that does it justice. The world of tarot is large and thorough and I’d challenge anyone to settle on just one deck they’d want to take home.
When reading tarot, there are dozens and dozens of spreads that will allow you to focus your meditation on specific segments of your life. The best part about these spreads are all of the wonderful ideas they give us. The spreads beg us to spend time on ourselves. Instead of picking apart our brains like we normally do, it offers up the notion of casual speculation from a respectful distance.
What do I mean?
The cards are about helping ourselves. There are no “bad” cards. Are there some cards that are fucking awesome? Yes. Yes, there are. Does that mean that there are some cards that are not as awesome? Well, logic dictates. So, yes. But each card is merely an opportunity for us to find fulfillment and true happiness. Sometimes we need help with that. Most of the time, actually. That’s just how life works.
Document your journey. Try making your own tarot journal or incorporating it into your current journal. A LITTLE BACKGROUND
My mom’s family is a tarot family. I mean, I grew up Catholic. My mom’s family is a pretty typical Catholic family but there was also always a tarot deck or two lying around. It sounds funny writing it out—hearing the words in my head—I realize this isn’t necessarily how everyone grew up. I don’t know that anyone was ever really serious about it, whatever that means, but they weren’t a toy and we understood what helpful tools they were.
Both my mom and my aunt were active fans of the tarot. My aunt was particularly gifted at using them. It was my great-grandmother, however, that was the real family tarot reader, using the skill to provide for her family. So, for me, the tarot has an additional personal connection that I find comforting—something about tapping into the strength of my female ancestors. But using the cards as a tool for meditation has been the key to my own relationship with the tarot.
I sit down to do a simple reading—three cards, nothing fancy—and I’m guaranteed fifteen minutes of calm introspection. The cards have no agenda other than posing ideas that may help me in my life. If something strikes a chord, I’ve discovered something. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. There’s no pressure. And isn’t that the point of meditation? To take the pressure off?
It gives me a chance to really reflect on the areas of my life without my own neurosis getting in the way. It allows me to examine my behavior and motivations from a third person perspective and with that small amount of distance sometimes I see things that I hadn’t seen before.
Find a deck (or two, or three, or four) of cards that you want to make a part of your life. CHOOSING YOUR CARDS
If you’re interested in getting your own deck of tarot cards, the most important thing to keep in mind is connection. There’s no right deck to choose; no one better than another. It’s all about finding the deck you connect with the most.
Do you fall in love with the artwork displayed? Does the deck showcase an idea or value that’s important to you? Maybe it’s the perspective of the cards or the theme that gets you.
Does something about it just speak to you?
Whatever’s behind it, that connection is what will link you to your cards. It’s what will compel you to open them consistently. It will help you see all the details and signs of the card’s meaning inside its artwork and more deeply understand the symbolism behind the choices the creator made.
It will also, very simply, help you enjoy the cards more.
And don’t forget to enjoy the search! Go out and visit the shops nearby you that sell tarot. There are bound to be several small independent businesses surrounding you—just do a little map search. Don’t forget about your friendly neighborhood book stores, as well. They often stock tarot decks and you’d be surprised at the unexpected finds. In non-fiction, check the metaphysical areas, the religion section and (ugh) the games area—cause of cards. When all else fails (or maybe it’s actually your preferred method), hit the internet. Look up tarot cards in general or if you have something more specific in mind, throw that into your search terms and see what comes up.
Prepping for class JUST A FEW BASICS
The most important thing to remember in learning the tarot is to respect your cards. Treat them well. Don’t use them with greasy fingers or dirty hands. Keep them in a box or a little bag, something purposely for them. Don’t just toss them in a drawer with pens and pencils, left to gather dust. Treat them like something you’re fond of…soon, you will be.
It’s not a bad idea to cleanse your cards before using them. You could use candles (5 of them in the shape of a pentagram, with the stack of cards in the center) or a good cleansing crystal. Each point of the pentagram represents a suit of the Minor Arcana with the highest point representing the Major Arcana. Just didn’t want your imagination running wild with horror movie symbolism.
Now, this might be a little too woo-woo for you. A little too cosmic and trippy. I get it. And personally, I think that’s fine. My beginnings with the tarot never involved cleansing a deck. I’d say that it mostly depends on your opinions about energy and vibes. Are you someone that thinks certain people give you the heebie-jeebies or maybe you have a friend that just feels good to be around?
If you’re one of those people, I say, cleanse your cards. You’re not the first person those suckers have been around. Give ‘em a little pass with the crystal or light those candles. Why not? If I found out that anything in my possession had been handled by some super creeper, I’d have wished I would’ve had the chance to cleanse that shit at the beginning. You know, just in case. And since the point of these cards is for self-care, let’s keep that crap away from us, right?
When using your cards, it’s best to keep to a calm and peaceful atmosphere. You’ll want somewhere quiet with few distractions. Think about things like lighting, music or a scent that puts you in a positive or peaceful frame of mind. Put your phone on do not disturb mode so that texts and notifications don’t start frustrating you, because they will. Basically, give yourself the best setting to create a little self-care introspection. Whatever that means for you. If you have a quirk that puts you in the right mindset—a cup of tea, a little bourbon, a joint, whatever—use it.
You are the most important part of this equation. After all, you’re the self in self-care. This shit’s named after you. Be the star, baby! Put yourself first. Take that hot shower first, if that’s your thing!
Created with Procreate MINDSET
Now that you’ve got the outside the way you need it, it’s time to get the inside to match. Huh? Keep an open mind.
You’ve given yourself a soothing and safe environment, a place perfect for possibility. And for that we need an open mind. We need to be willing and able to look inside ourselves when the time comes. Take comfort in the ideas the cards present. It’s supposed to be about helping ourselves and that means staying open.
The world around us is made up of nothing but change. Change is really our biggest consistency. The sooner we get comfortable with that idea, maybe even a little excited by it, the better. Changing our attitude in this way can really change our entire life…for the better. Things become easier when change isn’t the enemy.
Perhaps the best thing about using the tarot as a form of self-care is that there’s hope behind every message. Tarot should never leave you feeling discouraged or disheartened. If it does, you’re doing it wrong. Every card is a chance to grow. Even cards that may be proposing a better way to handle situations are simply suggestions for greater happiness. And they never suggest an alternate path without showing you what that would be and why it’s a more positive avenue.
Tarot never leaves you hanging.
So, with all of that said, I’d like you to come and join me on an exploration of the cards themselves. We’ll look at the suits and their meanings, the major and minor arcanas, spreads and anything else we come across.
Where do we start? Well, at the beginning of course. The Fool.
See ya then!
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45 Fat and Feeling Good
Rebirth and #teamtorrid
Birds flying high
You know how I feel
Sun in the sky
You know how I feel
Breeze driftin’ on by
You know how I feel
It’s a new dawn
It’s a new day
It’s a new life
For me
I’ve made the decision to become unstoppable.
For as long as I can remember, other people’s opinions have mattered to me. If I make the cut, I won’t have stage fright. If I pass this audition, I’ll have the confidence. If someone publishes me, I’ll be able to handle the negative critics. Always needing some kind of validation before I’ll truly believe that I deserve to be doing whatever it is that I’m doing.
It’s increased my anxiety, just flat out ruined hundreds of my days and made my life in middle school and high school absolutely excruciating. If this happens to you at all, you know what I’m talking about. There’s just a pit in your stomach all the time and even the biggest bullies aren’t a harsher critic of yours than you are.
Well, I did a little thinking. If I can ruin my days, can’t I enhance them, too? Can’t I build them up instead of tearing them down? I mean, influence is influence and I like to think I’m a smart person so wouldn’t it be smart if I started unfucking with myself? Go with me, here. It seems like, based on my trial years of trolling myself, that I can have a pretty heavy effect on my happiness. So—and hear me out, this is gonna sound cuh-razy—we’re gonna put that shall we say less than helpful attitude on pause for now, because I’ve recently decided that I was, in fact, enough.
Women’s clothier Torrid has just completed an open casting call to be featured in their holiday ad campaign and I decided to say “why the fuck not” and enter. It meant pulling out my curling iron, something I haven’t done in literal years, and putting on makeup. But beyond that, it meant putting aside all the negativity in my head and taking an actual chance on myself.
Why is this a big deal for me? Other than the aforementioned shitting on myself, I mean.
Well, I’m 45 and fat.
And yes, Torrid is a plus-size clothing store and therefore everyone who entered the open casting call will be, by someone’s definition, plus-sized but the competition isn’t my problem. I am.
Other people’s opinions plague me. They haunt me. They creep into my pores and clog up my mental health. I take them and run with them and use them to blackmail myself into not participating in life to the best of my ability.
I self-sabotage. I crack under pressure. I give up before I can fail.
The ways are varied but the outcome is always the same: I lose out on experiences. Because when it comes down to it, the fact that I ace myself out of potentially winning a competition or getting a part in something or just whatever isn’t the point. It’s that there are so many things that I actively want to attempt that I don’t. Or the things that I do go forward with, I keep myself from enjoying.
Part of the application process involved submitting five pictures along with a one-minute video. This, in and of itself, was challenging for me. Posing in front of other people makes me feel incredibly awkward. Anytime I’ve been involved in an acting exercise, it’s been the same situation.
I feel foolish. Silly. Like everyone can see through me.
And then, guess what? Startling non-revelation here: I get inside my own head and start to freak out. I get tripped up by my own thoughts and lose focus on the task at hand. Eventually, I get tired of feeling stupid and awkward and I just give up.
This time however, I put my bullshit aside and I did it anyway. Literally, I said “fuck it” and just went with it. I posed for pictures, tried to show my personality and did my best to enjoy the process. The weirdest thing? How comfortable I ended up being.
Is someone gonna break into my house and beg me to walk a runway? Doubtful but again, that’s not the point. I had fucking fun and when I went to bed that night I was proud of myself. I felt like a badass for taking a chance and like I had learned a little something about myself, too.
Another unexpected turn of events? The day after I submitted my application, I was miserable. Wait. That part wasn’t new. Whenever I take a big, mental step forward, afterwards I feel like trash. Truly. Like straight-up trash. Like a dumpster fire of dumpster fires. So that first part I was not surprised by but I felt only fair to mention.
What I was surprised by was the rest of the week. It was great. I got more done. I was more productive and my mental health on the whole was better. I was able to handle situations with less pull on my anxiety. Plus, I was able to move forward in several areas of my life. Areas that needed to see some growth.
You’d like an example? Well, of course you would. Examples are important in seeing the reality of how things are playing out.
The last time I had a haircut was June 20, 2019 and I can’t remember the last time I went to a salon by myself. It used to not be an issue at all. Make an appointment. Go to the salon. Whatever. I did have some anxiety surrounding small talk for so many hours but nothing that kept me from keeping up with my appearance.
Over the years that changed. It became gradually more difficult for me to take on situations by myself. I’d use friends or family as buffers, like human security blankets. And even then it would take me close to forever to get the nerve to get the ball rolling.
This week became different, though, and my hair is going to reap the benefits. I’ve got an appointment all set up, just a couple of weeks shy of my haircut’s two year anniversary. And I’ve picked a haircut that isn’t necessarily going to be high maintenance but is one that I’ll have to get touched up at appropriate intervals.
And I’m fucking excited about it.
I’m excited about taking a step into life again. Excited about rejoining the human race at a far more accessible comfort level. I want to enjoy being social again. I want to not be constantly worried about how others are going to see me. Always shying away from letting my guard down in case I fail to measure up. It’s a stressful way of forcing myself to exist.
Bottom line—I’m finally ready to not make life any harder for myself than it has to be and I’m ready to welcome the new adventures that await me.
Lastly, I’m not fooling myself into thinking this #TeamTorrid competition is going to be easy. After the initial round of competition, the panel of judges choose thirty finalists. Then *trumpets sound* the public gets a chance to vote. So yeah, just throwing myself out into traffic trying to dodge the cars on my inaugural escape from myself.
But I think I might be ready. There seems to be this little voice inside of me telling me that I should go for it. She says that whatever happens, I’ll be fine. She also thinks I’ll have fun and that sounds pretty reasonable to me.
I like that chick in my head. She seems smart. And I think she’s right. I think no matter what happens, I’m gonna be okay. Maybe even better than okay but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
So yeah, I’ve made the decision to become unstoppable: to believe in myself enough to take chances and just not give a fuck about what people think of me. And I’m feeling pretty good about it.
It’s my Rebirth Day, bitches! Welcome to my party!
Dragonfly out in the sun, you know what I mean, don’t you know
Butterflies all havin’ fun, you know what I mean
Sleep in peace when day is done, that’s what I mean
And this old world is a new world
And a bold world
For me
For me
…
It’s a new dawn
It’s a new day
It’s a new life
It’s a new life
For me
And I’m feeling good…
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Don’t Eat Peter’s Tomatoes
A Tale of Love and Merlot
He walked in looking like George Clooney and smelling like George Costanza. He was a smorgas-George. She closed her eyes and gripped the stem of her wine glass. Then again, she was a total Betty. Bettie Page, Betty White and Betty Rubble but maybe Georgie-boy liked older women. She was certainly about to find out.
He approached her table right away, her blue-black hair and navy and white sailor dress giving her away immediately. His smile seemed genuine as his eyes took in his dinner partner.
“I’m hoping you’re Wendy?” His voice was mellow and smooth, his complexion buttery soft. She had a tough time imagining why he needed a set-up when the scent of pumpernickel hit her nose, followed by a hit of dill. Her stomach rumbled and her cheeks turned just the slightest bit pink.
She nodded and went to stand but he shook his head in deference and walked over to where she was sitting. He bent down and gave her half an embrace, his voice tickling her cheek as he spoke.
“I’m Basil.” He moved away, not overstaying his welcome nor too put-off to get close. So far, he was making things interesting. He took a seat across from her and nodded towards her glass.
“Merlot,” she replied.
He nodded. “I’m a gin man, myself.” Then, a smile and shrug. Before she had a chance to reply, a server appeared.
“What can I get’cha?” She was in snug jeans and a knotted Bowie t-shirt but Basil only smiled politely and met the young woman’s eyes.
“Bombay gimlet, thanks.” He turned towards his date. “Would you like another?”
She took about three seconds and then conceded.
“The Bright Cellars, right?”
She tilted her glass as a nod. “That’s me.”
The server disappeared into the din of the bar and they were alone once again. She picked up her glass and took a sip.
“I’ve never met a Basil before.”
“Let me know if you need me to sign off on your “names I never thought I’d hear” Bingo card.”
She cringed in response. “Sorry. You must get that all the time.”
“No,” he corrected. “I’m sorry. Traffic was a pain in the ass. I had the same Audi cut me off three times and I’m just being a dick. It’s a family name,” he explained. “My dad was Basil and his dad and, you guessed it, his dad.”
She smiled. “Oh, just the four of you?”
“Well, they were gonna name my uncle Basil originally but it was too specific. They just ended up naming him Herb.”
One sharp laugh directly from her belly rushed out of her mouth and she immediately clapped her hand over her lips, embarrassed.
He grinned widely. “No, please.” He brought his hand out to gesture at her but then brought it back to his lap. “Wow. I don’t even know what to do, here. I never expected that joke to work.”
She opened her mouth to respond but instead a hiccup came out. “Oh, fuck!”
He barked out several sharp laughs and leaned back in his chair as the server returned to their table. She looked from one to the other and smiled awkwardly before setting each of their glasses down appropriately.
“Would you guys like more time or,” she trailed off as she nodded towards the menus sitting on their table.
Basil looked towards Wendy, who shrugged. “I’m so sorry, I haven’t looked at all.”
Basil turned to the server and admitted the same then followed up. “Do you guys have any charcuterie board, plate, thing… at all?”
She nodded. “Yeah, yeah. We’ve got a board with like, meats and cheeses and dried fruits. That kinda thing.”
He turned to Wendy again. “Would that work for you? At least while we figure things out?”
She straightened up and scooted her chair further into the table. “Sounds great; I am getting a little peckish.”
He smiled. “Perfect. We’ll peck at that for now.”
She nodded and turned away from the table as Basil returned his attention to Wendy. “It’s really nice to finally meet you. Alex and Aaron talk about you all the time.”
She finished off her initial glass of merlot and set it to the side. “Wonderful! I know where they’ve buried the bodies, so I’m confident they sang my praises.” She winked at him and he smiled.
He took a drink of his gimlet and nodded. “That’s good. Nice and cold.” He looked up at her. “That they did.” Then, he paused. “Is it in the garden, cause those tomatoes always look and taste terrific.” He lifted his hand, as if grasping the fruit. “I always wondered what Aaron’s secret was.”
She nodded. “It’s his ex.”
Basil laughed heartily. “Oh, shit! I hope not Evan. I really liked him.”
Now it was her turn to laugh. “Oh God, no. He’s lovely. No, no. Evan lives in Greece, now. He and his husband have goats.”
He shook his head, as if to clear it out. “Goats?”
“Well, they have a goat farm. They make cheese and milk. Well, technically, I guess the goats do.”
“The goats would appreciate that, I think.”
“It’s the least I can do; the cheese was delicious.”
“Well, now I’m just jealous. Delicious cheese and,” he gestured “you’ve clearly kept in touch with Evan. I haven’t heard from him since the break-up. I thought we were friends.”
She laughed, even slapping her knee lightly, then took a drink of her fresh merlot. “Evan didn’t stand a chance. I showed up on his doorstep after a respectful two weeks and declared that he was stuck with me.” She took another drink. “You don’t let someone that good at trivia go easily. He’s a phenomenal game player and not in the mental warfare way.” She paused and cocked her head. “Actually, some of it really was mental warfare but only in the good name of game nights.”
“Wow.”
She nodded as she sipped. “Yeah, I’m a handful.”
“Doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” he returned.
“It’s all about perspective.”
“Indeed.” He smiled again, all the way to his eyes. He really did remind her a lot of George Clooney. Seemingly out of nowhere, or perhaps her attention was just directed elsewhere, the server stepped up to the table.
“Here we are,” she said with the slightest bit of a flourish, as she placed the food on the table along with two small plates. “Can I get you anything else for right now?”
The two looked at each other, speaking with their eyes. Basil shook his head. “We’re fine for now, thanks.” She nodded and disappeared into the room.
Silence fell for two or three seconds before her continued their conversation. “You know who I didn’t like? Peter.”
“Dear god, no. But I wouldn’t want to eat his tomatoes, either.”
Now is was his turn to whoop with laughter. “Absolutely fair point,” he said as he passed her a plate and then grabbed the second for himself. “This looks pretty great.”
She nodded. “Smells good, too.”
“That it does.” He took a few cubes of cheese, some olives and a nice, thin piece of prosciutto. “So, remind me what you do again. I’m not sure that I’ve ever been told.”
She took from the plate herself, as she spoke. “Well, in my past life—before I retired, I was a dance teacher.”
“Oh, wow.”
“The little ones all the way up,” she said gesturing with her hand.
“You must miss it.”
“Well, I do but I can’t miss it too much. My daughter runs the dance studio now, so I get to keep my hands in the mix. Now, though, cause I get bored too easily, I work a few days a week at one of those thrift stores that specializes in old Hollywood costumes and vintage pieces. It’s a gas.”
She began to nibble on a slice of pear with a sprinkle of bleu cheese. Then, when she realized how much she’d been talking, smiled sheepishly and asked, “you?”
“I’m surprised you can’t tell. Most people can.”
“I—“ she let herself trail off, more than a little confused. Okay, he might remind her of George Clooney but he was kidding himself if he thought he could impersonate the guy. If people still did that, at least.
“I own a deli. The charcuterie must be hiding it,” he finished, looking down at the spread. “No matter what soap I try or what cologne I go with, I always just end up smelling like pastrami and baba ghanoush.
Ahhhhhhh. Light bulbs went off in her head.
“Oh!” The word slipped out before she could stop it and her hand automatically shot up and covered her mouth.
“I knew it,” he declared pointing and then banging his hand lightly on the table.
“Oh fuck, Basil. I’m so sorry. Am I just the world’s worst actress?”
He chuckled. “No, not at all. There was an accident at work. Nothing bad, just, hummus everywhere. Literally, everywhere.” He gestured with his hands but couldn’t seem to get the shape big or awkward enough. He paused, then repeated. “Everywhere.”
His eyes met hers and he gave her a raise of his eyebrow and a slight dip to his head. She finally giggled.
“I showered twice and stuffed two coffee beans up my nose for twenty minutes and still the only thing I can smell is hummus.”
“I love hummus,” she shared as she popped a queen olive into her mouth. She paused and then popped another.
He looked into her eyes again. “I’ll be the judge of that.” With these words, she blushed. He noticed, his hazel eyes deepening in color, and winked at her. Her blush deepened and she swatted at him from across the table.
“You stop,” she teased.
“Making you blush? Nah, I don’t think so. Looks too good on ya; makes me feel too good watching it.”
She rolled her eyes but still continued to rouge, then tried to form a rejoinder and instead found herself tongue-tied. She closed her eyes momentarily and tossed her napkin into her lap.
“Well, fuck,” she said.
“No retort,” he asked, smiling.
She shook her head. “Nope. I got nothing.”
His smile widened as he lifted his glass in a toast. She joined him, her wine in the air.
“To the ever versatile chickpea,” he said.
“To the chickpea,” she laughed, echoing him and finishing her drink.
“And to another glass of merlot,” he asked. She smiled into his eyes. This was going well.
“Definitely. To another glass of merlot.”
-
Disney Mornings Playlist
Hakuna Your Mornings
Do you have a secret desire to be a mermaid?
Do you like to hold up your pet(s) and pretend they’re a cub destined for greatness?
Does a perfect day for you include pirates, hitchhiking ghosts, churros and fireworks?
Honey, are you a bit of a nostalgia whore?
Yes! Same.
What I am not, though, is a morning person and sometimes I need a little help to get me moving.
Ugh. I lied. It’s all the time. All the time I need a help to get me moving. So I figured, why not get help from the music and memories that have been helping me since I was a kid?
Enter…Walt Disney.
The friend that’s been there for as long as I can remember, bringing me comfort, laughs and motivation. The friend that reminds me of everything I can accomplish, if I just believe in myself. The friend that despite how much I want to stay a wallflower, drags me out onto the dance floor and demands that I give myself over to all the moments life has to offer.
Who better to pull me into my day than the soundtrack that turns me positively Pavlovian? Songs that in many ways bring me to life could be a really effective way to, well, bring me to life in the mornings (when the sun is at its absolute bitchiest).
So…
(as romantic French music plays)
Mes monsieurs et mademoiselles, it is with deepest pride
And greatest pleasure that I welcome you today
And now I invite you to relax
Pull up a chair as I proudly present my…
Disney Mornings Playlist
We Know The Way
Opetaia Foa’i & Lin-Manuel Miranda
Moana
Moana is a story of perseverance. It’s a story of believing in yourself and being who your soul tells you that you are. It’s about how life and the world can change you. It shows us that how we deal with our pain is so very important.
Moana invites you to hold onto yourself, to nurture yourself and to then, watch yourself soar.
This song, which occurs during a vision about Moana’s ancestors, happens to be my favorite from the movie. It takes Moana back to her roots, shows her that the thing she thinks makes her so different connects her inseparably to the past. It lets her know that she’s not alone, that there’s nothing wrong with her for feeling the way she does. And it gives her generations of allies she can take with her on her life’s journey.
That safety net is the perfect way for me to start my day. To wrap me in its webbing and keep me warm with the knowledge that I’m me and I have support.
Circle of Life
Carmen Twillie & Lebo M
The Lion King
I honestly feel like this one needs no explanation.
Nants ingonyama bagithi baba
Sithi uhm ingonyama
Nants ingonyama bagithi baba
Sithi uhmm ingonyama
Ingonyama
Siyo Nqoba
Ingonyama
Do you speak Zulu? Despite the fact that there are roughly 12 million native speakers, I think there’s a pretty solid chance that you don’t. I bet those lyrics are pretty damn familiar, though.
Like most of you, I do not speak this Southern Bantu language but I can sure as hell rock out some fine-ass Zulu lyrics that make up the beginning of one of the all-time best and most memorable Disney songs in existence.
And the endorphins that shoot through my body when the opening bars of this song hit, work better than any alarm I’ve ever used.
One Jump Ahead
Brad Kane
Aladdin
This is simply a fun little romp. While I’m dragging myself out of bed, I can be mentally racing through the bazaar with Aladdin and Abu. We make an unstoppable trio.
Under the Sea
Samuel E. Wright
The Little Mermaid
Our trip through Disney’s second golden age hits its sweet spot as soon as the first notes of Caribbean music reach our ears. There are so many choices from The Little Mermaid that are playlist-worthy but this one really let’s you get your groove going. It’s hard to keep a scowl on your face, even on a Monday morning, when you’re singing and dancing along to this song.
The Beautiful Briny
David Tomlinson & Angela Lansbury
Bedknobs and Broomsticks
Angela Lansbury is a treasure. We mere mortals have been lucky enough to watch her do everything from quaintly solve mysteries (Murder She Wrote) to absolutely screw with her son’s psyche (The Manchurian Candidate). But here, we get to watch the magical marriage of an apprehensive witch kicking some Nazi butt, Disney style.
And this ditty is a true delight.
I See the Light
Mandy Moore & Zachary Levi
Tangled
I think of this entry as a bit of a palate cleanser, like a lemon sorbet between courses or cucumber water. The song is light and airy and Mandy Moore delivers on all of her strengths: clean, uncomplicated notes with a flawlessly lilting performance.
It’s All Right
Jon Batiste
Soul
I don’t think Soul was made for children. There, I said it. And because of that, the movie really flew under the radar. Thing is, when you’ve got Jon Batiste, Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross arranging and composing, you’re kind of holding gold.
It’s All Right is a standard. Everyone knows it, even if you don’t think you do. Things is, not everyone has heard Jon Batiste’s cover. This man is the personification of soul. Real soul, not the artifice of cool that people are sometimes referring to when they throw that word around. This man is soulful and it comes through in every note that comes from inside of him.
Side note: Give a listen to his new album WE ARE. To say it’s incredible is a hostile understatement.
Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious
Julie Andrews, Dick Van Dyke & The Pearly Chorus
Mary Poppins
This song could put some pep in the step of Buzz Killington, himself. You knew this song was going to be on the list when you read the title and if you didn’t, why not? It’s like the free space on a bingo card—it’s a gimme.
The Gospel Truth I
Cheryl Freeman, LaChanze, Vaneese Thomas, Lillias White & Roz Ryan
Hercules
The muses own this movie and they know it. Now, bow down to your queens and let them do their thing.
I’ll Make a Man Out of You
Donny Osmond & Chorus
Mulan
Mulan is incredibly empowering. Again, a movie about finding yourself and then believing in her/him/them, this song is one of many that builds you up, both lyrically and musically. Broadway miracle Lea Salonga is the singing voice of Mulan and makes the entire soundtrack (you can hear a taste of her perfection at 1:35) but this song in particular, performed by Donny Osmond, singing voice of Li Shang and no stranger to Broadway himself, gets the blood flowing and the heart pumping in a way that’s perfect for the mornings.
Hawaiian Rollercoaster Ride
Kamehameha Schools Children’s Chorus & Mark Keali’l Ho’omalu
Lilo & Stitch
Everybody has at least one friend that’s obsessed with Lilo & Stitch and, honestly, they have every right to be. The movie is stunning and an absolute breath of fresh air. The background animation, based on watercolors, is truly beautiful and the story itself will move you to tears plus much of the soundtrack is the music of Elvis Presley through the filter of a little blue alien.
Hawaiian Rollercoaster Ride encapsulates the entire movie. Its fun and whimsy, its salute to childhood, the beauty of the landscape and its culture—it’s all there. You’ll fight the urge to grab a surf board, I guarantee it.
Un Poco Loco
Anthony Gonzalez & Gael García Bernal
Coco
This song is just pure fun. It’s short and sweet and will easily make you smile, which is hard to come by when you’ve just woken up. A quick little ditty to get you into the shower.
The Bare Necessities
Phil Harris & Bruce Reitherman
The Jungle Book
This song is energetic, bouncy and peppy without being annoying. It’s pure jazzy deliciousness that will have you swinging your hips a little as you get your day going.
King of New York
Newsies Ensemble
Newsies
Ever wanted to hear Bill Pullman sing? Now’s your chance, baby!
All kidding aside, Newsies is fire. I’m definitely dating myself but I was in early high school when this movie came out and I couldn’t get to the theater fast enough. They gave each moviegoer a commemorative pape (that’s newsie-speak for newspaper) that taught you some of the dance moves from the movie and gave you “stats” on your favorite newsies. A lifelong fan was born!
There are so many songs from this movie that could’ve been included but this song is a strong 10 on the energy scale and if you don’t know the song before you start listening to this playlist, you will in no time.
Side note: Did I mention Christian Bale stars in this movie? Hear his dulcet tones at 0:33.
Almost There
Anika Noni Rose
The Princess and the Frog
I like including this song for so many reasons. First, there’s my love of double meanings. By this time, our playlist is beginning to come to a close and our day is about to get underway. We can see the finish line, honey! Then, there’s the song itself. We’re back to that old Disney motif of believing in yourself and not giving up, no matter the impediments, and that’s very specifically the feeling with which I like to start my day: unstoppability.
Anika Noni Rose, gimme your arm, honey. We’re almost there!
You’re Welcome
Dwayne Johnson
Moana
Moana gets two songs. It’s literally that good of a movie.
You’re Welcome has the beat, the lyrics, the gravitas, the cheekiness and the fun to set you out on the right foot to begin your day. And…there’s a rap! Dwayne Johnson raps!
Come on, can you smell what Maui is cooking?
16 songs, 48 minutes
Well folks, there you have it: my Disney Mornings Playlist. It’s gonna change your life—or at least your mornings.
You’re welcome. 😉
-
Dearest
A Letter to Myself
Dearest,
How does one start a letter like this? With an apology? No. I’m fairly certain that isn’t what I’m supposed to do. Maybe, in fact, the opposite. Maybe, that’s been the real trouble all along. Taking responsibility for something that wasn’t my doing. And maybe when we spend our energy blaming ourselves for things that weren’t our fault, we miss taking the blame for the things that are.
Or maybe that’s just me playing The Blame Game, again.
Now this, of course, is where we both imagine a set from a 1970s game show, like a Match Game or a Password. Lots of big, round lights and shag carpeting. Names like Merv Griffin and Mark Goodson adorn the credits and Brett Somers is somewhere giving somebody hell and a hard chuckle. And, there’s music. That jazzy, jingly 1970s game show music, a soundtrack to another time before it became so acceptable to trade in all of your personal ethics for a handful of cash. Back when people didn’t violate their ethics, they just didn’t have any.
After all, you don’t keep the right to vote away from people or enslave them altogether and have a stiff, upright moral code. That code bends, baby. It arcs. Maybe that code never truly gets off the ground but I digress.
We imagine The Blame Game is brought to you by Turtle Wax or Rice-a-Roni (the San Francisco treat). Those, of course, are also the parting gifts. We would kill at The Blame Game. We’d pick the correct curtain or give the cheeky, innuendo-filled answer and head back home with a brand new matching washer and dryer or a super swanky living room set, complete with wet bar and HiFi console.
But, again, I digress…
Now is not the time for The Blame Game and maybe, just maybe, we’ll turn that show off forever. Maybe we stick to Jeopardy! and Card Sharks. That being said…
Things did not always go the way we wanted them to. They didn’t always go the way we thought they should. Let’s be real, things didn’t always go the way we told ourselves they did. There are a lot of regrets, a lot of should haves, floating around in the past. And that’s where they should really stay. The past should always stay in the past. And the future relegated to the future.
We only have the time for one thing and that’s got to be the present.
But I know you’re worried. I know you’re afraid of all the things that the past has turned you into. I know you’re still convinced that you’re being haunted and that you probably always will be.
You don’t have to. Worry, that is.
I’m here.
I’ll take care of you.
That’s what I’m here for.
And it would kind of be my honor to keep you safe.
You’re important. You’re precious. You’re worth making you feel at ease.
And it’ll make me feel better, too. Just knowing that you’re not worried will help me to feel stronger and more capable. It’ll help make me a better person. A person who doesn’t need to rely on other people but instead chooses to do and be better by accepting and giving help. In tandem and in harmony. Because no matter who you are, life has a way of making itself and its power known and in those times, support is pivotal.
And dearest, please be proud of yourself. Please give yourself credit for the things that you didn’t let them take away. You could’ve easily let them take water away from you but you didn’t. You held on to it and claimed it as your own. In a pool, in an ocean, in a stream just a five minute walk from your childhood home. The stream you and your best friend spent hours of your time creating a world all of your own.
I think that’s why you feel so safe there, because you kicked them out of that home of yours for good and you never let them back in. And I’m so, so proud of you for that. For not allowing them to make you feel uneasy or unsafe in a place you consider a sanctuary. You picked a safe haven as your church instead of handing over your life to someone else who says that if you follow them, they’ll bring you closer to God.
You don’t need snake oil salesmen and you never have.
Maybe your past is what taught you to be wary of those selling trust. And that’s a lesson almost never learned without pain but, still, a lesson that must be learned for fear we become the peddler.
For that, dearest, you are my hero.
The strength that you carry so casually inspires me. You think you don’t have it only because you’re unaware of what your strength is and where your strength lies but it is so prevalent. I see it in everything you do, in everything you are. I see you sling it over your arm like a purse and slip into it at night before bed.
Rest assured in your strength, my love.
You have come so far. Farther than you’ll ever realize. You’ve run emotional marathons; competed in mental triathlons and flipped tires heavy with repressed memories. And still you stand. Still you continue forward with your head held high and your eyes willing to meet any and all. Please, don’t forget these things. You’re view of yourself is essential to your happiness and success and you so deserve to be both of those things.
So, go forward. Give the past a small smile and a little wave and tell it that you’ll think more of the fond times than the not. And then, bloom. Blossom and bloom and let yourself grow. And when you’re feeling your lowest, remind yourself that you are a survivor. You may still have demons but that only means that you haven’t given up the fight.
That strength and resilience is your power. You mustn’t be intimidated by it, by yourself. For you have always been your own everything.
You are your own planet.
You are your own ocean.
You are your own moon and sun.
You are the wind and the change and the providence.
You are the notion and the nuance.
You are the mist.
You bloom with the flowers and fall with the snow. And you spark with the flash of lightening in rain.
Embrace yourself, dearest. Hold your hand and give it an extra squeeze. For you are the comfort you’ve always needed most.
And I am here for you.
-
I Just Want to be Okay
Mental Health and Me
“I’m fine.”
This is my mantra.
It’s become almost a joke between my husband and I. The louder I say it, the less likely it’s true. The fact of the matter is, I just want to be okay.
I’ve been with my therapist now for a couple of years and she’s been incredibly helpful. I have a psychiatrist and I take medication. I’m not embarrassed by it. I used to be. I really wish that I thought I was cool for being on it—for caring about myself enough to say “fuck the stigma!” and to put my own health and well-being first but I don’t.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been in therapy. I’ve tried multiple times, some successful and some not, starting in college but I probably should’ve been seeing someone long before even that.
I wish we lived in a society that took mental health seriously. I wish taking care of your psyche was as normalized as taking care of the rest of you. Because it’s about time we face the fact that if our psyches aren’t okay, that shit manifests in our physicals bodies through any number of issues and disorders.
I wish we were given real opportunities to make sure that we were okay and safe in our lives from the time we’re small. Too many people have gone through too much in silence, turned to too many dangerous things to cope, for there not to be a better way of systematically handling our mental health.
I just want to be okay.
What’s okay for me? What do I mean when I say okay?
Well, I’d like the nightmares to stop. I have nightmares 5-7 nights a week and it’s been going on for years. The kicker? I now remember that this is not the first time it’s happened. As a child, this was an issue. Screaming bloody murder until one of my parents heard me was a constant in my life.
Darkness upset me. It could put me in a trance. I felt rhythms in the air. The things going on in my mind in the darkness were so terrifying that I haven’t quite stopped wondering if somethings aren’t caged memories but very real hauntings. Unfortunately, there are enough very real caged memories that I can’t let go of that theory either.
I’d like to let go of everything: the pain, the fear, the wondering. It’s incredibly sticky, though. And no matter how hard I try, I can’t get loose.
Tire yourself out.
Meditate.
Create something.
Write out what you’d like to dream about.
Create a safe space in your mind.
Journal.
THE. LIST. IS. ENDLESS.
NOTHING. HAS. WORKED.
IF. I. KEEP. FUCKING. UP. PUNCTUATION. WILL. THAT. HELP?!
I’d like to get through a day without feeling like I have to cry. Not two. Not three. Nothing flashy like a week. I’d just like to get through one day without feeling like tears are imminent.
“God, Monica. You must be miserable!”
No, not at all. I have very happy moments. I laugh a lot. I like having fun so I try to have fun as often as I can. But, I cry too. Maybe even at the same rate. Sometimes, I’m crying for myself and sometimes, I’m crying for others.
Newsflash: sometimes I cry for no discernible reason.
Books make me cry. Articles make me cry. Documentaries make me cry. Movies make me cry. TV shows make me cry. I’m gonna mention the documentaries again because those tend to be the worst for me. Real people’s stories make me weep openly.
I’d like to have fewer panic attacks. None would be preferable but I would very seriously happily accept fewer. For me, most of the time, panic attacks mean being overwhelmed to the point where I can no longer think clearly. A lot of time my heart rate increases. Sometimes my breathing shortens. Mostly though, it’s the being overwhelmed that defines the experience. Like I’m suffocating in my own thoughts and if I can’t make everything around me slow down, I’ll have no way of getting my mind to stop crowding me.
I don’t necessarily get panic attacks everyday and sometimes, some glorious times, I can go a while without one. But when panic attack season hits, it can REALLY hit. Multiple times a day, multiple days in a row—just a myriad of combinations that add up to a rollercoaster of issues.
I’d like more sunshine days instead of those marred by clouds.
Most days when I wake up, I get a few clean breaths and then storm clouds are on the horizon. Even if I don’t breakdown in tears, it feels like my heart is weeping; like my insides are cloaked in sadness. Maybe memories of nightmares hit, maybe my brain just says “it’s depression time!”
I can still have times throughout the day when I laugh, my husband cracks me up constantly, but there is a grayness that hangs over me anytime that I’m not actively involved in a moment of joy.
The overarching goal of my days is to just (period) stay (period) busy (period), because staying busy means I don’t have time to let my anxiety or depression take over. Generally speaking, the minute I stop to breathe, it’s cloud city.
After a while, it starts to feel like the clouds are literally sitting on my chest. There’s a heaviness there what feels like all the time and because of that, I overcompensate. If I’m around anyone other than my husband or my very best friends, I feel like I have to be “on.” I can’t let my grayness rub off onto anyone else, so I make sure that people walk away from their time with me happier.
And turning that grayness into rainbows is exhausting.
Literally.
I feel physically spent: my muscles are tense; my mind has been on constant alert for opportunities to be insightful or funny or clever; I’m jittery and I feel strung out. And, bonus, I’m now wondering how well I pulled it off. I’ll analyze every minute I can pull from my memory, trying to determine if I made any mistakes, hoping desperately I only remember positive moments.
I always feel especially lucky, if my husband has witnessed my interactions. He will inevitably get the “did I do okay” question and he knows that I need a detailed answer back that proves to me that I did, in fact, do okay.
I’d like my life not to be ruled by guilt and to reserve the words “I’m sorry” for when I’ve done something for which an apology is appropriate.
Truly, my favorite part of getting older is growing accustomed to admitting when I’m wrong without the usual hang ups that go along with that but I have absolutely not been as successful putting my guilty feelings into perspective.
If it’s possible to blame myself, I will. If it’s not possible, I’ll still try.
Over the years I’ve attempted to fix this problem and yet, it’s as if I’ve actually taken courses in how to improve my self-guilting techniques. Growing up Catholic, I was (in my opinion) trained at a very young age to take the blame for any and all situations. I’d say this is true for most Catholics but especially true for females.
Unfortunately, I also think this means that many Catholics (without necessarily realizing it) feel perfectly at ease passing along this expectation of guilt. It becomes not just something that we press upon ourselves but something that we use on other people. Truthfully, I’m pretty sure this is a common problem in many religions but I can only speak to my own experiences, here.
Finally, I’d like my anxiety to chill the f@#! out and let me live my life on my own terms.
phone calls
crowded places
texts
going to the gym
messages
grocery shopping
emails
finances
mail
social outings
certain people
writing this list
bumping into neighbors
going to the pool
write the list
rearrange the list
judge the list
reevaluate the list
worry about the list
reconsider the list
second guess list items
second guess the list itself
judge myself based on the list
freak out
You get the idea.
So, I’ll just keep trying, because I just want to be okay. I’ll keep going to therapy. I’ll keep taking my medication. I’ll keep meditating. I’ll keep doing yoga. I’ll keep moving forward. I’ll keep journaling and writing and creating. I’ll keep busy and I’ll keep laughing.
Bottom line: trying to be okay makes me happier and more fulfilled than giving up and giving in to misery every single day of the week.
-
Reparations
Juice and Cookies
She stared at the envelope, her eyes going in and out of focus. She knew what was inside; knew what the letter said. She’d seen them before. Saw her own, saw her husband’s, both of which were locked up safe here at home. It had been suggested they keep them in a safe deposit box at the bank but that was simply laughable.
To leave one’s identity at the hands of someone else was a mistake few in her position ever made. Not after so many weren’t given a choice.
She flipped the envelope over and stared at the official seal, ran her fingers over it before turning it over once again. She sighed internally. She didn’t know what she was waiting for; it was just a letter, just information. The money was already in the CD. The transfer was done, had been done for days. Seeing the words on a paper was just that, words on a paper.
And that’s all it was…words on a paper.
She hoped that someday it would feel like more than that. It seemed to feel like more than that for Harvey. He seemed to think it was positive, a good idea. He liked to refer to it as moving in the right direction but she still didn’t know what she thought.
She knew it wasn’t going to keep her from giving her son everything he could possibly have to help him in life, that was for sure, and with that she turned away from her front door and walked more fully into their home.
Her feet crossed the hardwood floors, the bottoms of her shoes making a familiar clack as she headed towards the den.
She entered the room and sat down at the desk. It had been her mother’s. She remembered all the nights she’d sit on her parent’s bed and watch as her mother would balance the checkbook as she sat behind this desk. She felt closer to her here. She didn’t care if one leg wobbled a little or that the right-hand drawer stuck a third of the time.
She grabbed the letter opener from the pencil cup and tucked it into the tiny opening at the top corner. She sliced through and listened to the sound of the ripping paper, thrilling at the twill that entered the air and made a shiver go down her spine.
She pulled the thick off-white paper out of the legal envelope, all the signs of the official screaming at her immediately. The eagle eyed her angrily, as if she were taking something that didn’t belong to her but she knew better. No two dimensional bird was going to make her question what every fiber in her being knew was true.
This would never be enough.
This piece of paper could never be thick enough to outweigh the past. A past that constantly bleeds into the present.
She ran her fingertip over the words on the page and felt the first prick of tears behind her eyes. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, waiting for her heart rate to return to normal. Tears were a luxury she wouldn’t give in to. Her mother hadn’t nor had her mother’s mother. One day, maybe, if there really was balance in the universe, her grandchildren or great-grandchildren would be free to cry their tears and she hoped they did. This was not a strength she wished upon her children or her children’s children.
She took one more cleansing breath, deep through her nostrils, and opened her eyes once again. Her eyes swept over the letters on the page, not caring in the least to relive centuries of memories but knowing that it was always necessary to make sure everything was as it seemed. Accountability could never be taken for granted. No one gets the benefit of the doubt.
She pushed her chair back a bit and reached under the desk for the firebox there. It was simple and gray with a black handle that she used to lift it onto the smooth wooden surface. She let the box sit on the desk as she stared at it, breathing in through her nostrils and out through pursed lips. Then, she laid her hand on top of the book sitting to her left. The worn cover was in good condition, years of faith only adding to its ability to persevere the elements.
She flipped open the cover, revealing a pocket-sized manila envelope adhered to the inside. It wasn’t sealed and she quickly had it opened and was pulling a small key from it.
She closed the envelope and then the book, shutting her eyes momentarily and saying a small prayer to her grandmother, the first woman who taught her that girls had to be stronger than the boys. “If you’re perceived as weaker,” she’d said “you have to make sure to be stronger.” Then she’d taken her into the kitchen and sat her down with some juice and cookies and told her why she always wore the gold calla lily stickpin with all of her outfits.
She opened her eyes and unlocked the metal box, finally removing its contents:
birth certificates (3)
social security cards (3)
last wills and testaments (2)
ancestral draft cards (2)
ancestral birth certificates (5)
In addition, there were two letters nearly matching the one that sat on the desk in front of her, two additional letters dated exactly 18 years from those originals and two little black books.
Everything was present and accounted for just as she knew it would be.
She took one last look at the letter. If Harvey wanted to see it for himself, which he probably would, he’d know where to find it. She added the piece of paper to the rest and returned them to the firebox, then reached for the two black passbooks. She knew whose was whose without needing to look inside since the upper right corner on Harvey’s had been worn down before the two had even met. She set his back inside with the paperwork, no memories clinging to those particular pages for her.
She held on to hers, the weight feeling familiar and foreign at the same time. It took her a full minute before she was able to open it and even then she couldn’t make out anything inside, her vision blurred from tears refusing to make themselves known.
She let a stream of cool air release from her lips and followed it with a clearing of her throat. She refocused and let her eyes narrow on the typed letters and numbers stuck to the inside front cover.
Beginning balance (01.08.2045): $20,000
Transferred balance (01.08.2063): $217,851.07
Her own handwriting throughout the years was evident on the first page, with various dollar amounts written in black or blue ink and corresponding notations laid out to their left.
She turned the first page and then the second, her index finger trailing over the list of numbers. Acid churned in her stomach as a mix of emotions flooded her system. So many experiences, opportunities, possibilities. So much life. Yet, she refused to be grateful. There was no cause for gratefulness, here. Too many lives were stolen. Too many people fought not to be destroyed.
She was luckier than her ancestors, that much was true. Although, she couldn’t help skirting back in her mind to the great-great-greats before the boats and the shackles and the shame. She couldn’t imagine that she was luckier than them. No money or invention could replace the eminent feeling of security that ancestral freedom brought.
At least that’s what she imagined.
Her fingers gripped the black book tight, the bottom of the binding pressing into her palm. One day if luck was still on their side, their son would be holding his, unable to fully conceive of all of the life in front of him. But luck could never be assumed or taken for granted. Her grandmother taught her that, too. The same day she taught her how to use that stickpin.
She closed the book, finished with her trip down memory lane and ready to be back at home once again. She placed it back inside the box and shut it with a cold finality that only metal could translate. She ran her hand over the top. Same, she thought before sticking in the key and twisting it into its lock position.
She tried to lift the lid, ensuring the lock had worked, and found she couldn’t open the case. Then, returned it back underneath the desk and placed the key back in its hiding place inside the family Bible. She took one more look at the great book and said a last prayer, this one for her son. That he find himself, physically, one more step further from the past and one more step away from the danger he was relegated at birth.
The tear leaked from the corner of her eye before she realized it was there and she swept it away as soon as she felt the brush of its warmth. Her son would see no progress, be spared no knee, from the umbrella of her tears. She set the book aside and pushed her chair back before standing.
It was something, she thought. It was a start. Progress.
It was more than her parents had and her parent’s parents.
It was more than they were allowed.
She shook her head, her thoughts felt forced.
She let her hand brush over her still slightly-swollen belly and wondered how she was supposed to feel, wondered how her parents felt when they received her letter, wondered if the betrayal would ever feel minimized.
She heard the baby fussing in his bassinet and couldn’t help but smile at the sweet sound of cooing. Her heart flooded with emotion and another tear leaked from her eye. This one she let fall as her gaze landed on the screen and the swaddled form of her son. Her smile spread as her eyes swept over him; he must be hungry. She chuckled to herself. That boy could eat.
She walked out of the room, heading to the nursery to feed her son, just as her mother had fed her and her mother’s mother had fed her. And for that, she was grateful.
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I Kneel to Stand
Kneel to Stand
Right and wrong.
Love and hate.
Respect and intolerance.
Make a choice.
Speak despite fear.
Take a stand.
I stand with Nike.
I stand with Kap.
Black Lives Matter.
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Dealing with PTSD
This blog post isn’t for everyone and it isn’t for attention. The sole purpose of this blog is to reach anyone else who may be going through something similar and could benefit from knowing that they aren’t alone in this fight of theirs.
I’ve been reliving a childhood trauma on a pretty consistent basis for a few months now. I’ve never properly dealt with this happening, having been encouraged at an early age to not talk about it. And before this, my conscious mind could handle burying my memory for about a decade at a time. Every ten years or so, I’d remember what happened and spiral a bit out of control until I was able to push the memory back down again and move forward with everyday life.
It’s obvious to me now that a lot of my actions and behavior, a lot of my mindsets and attitudes, were greatly influenced by these events and that even though my memories might have been compartmentalized at different times in my life, my conscious mind was definitely affected.
I’m in my forties, so this particular set of memories has resurfaced several times and for whatever reason — be it timing or a simple expiration on my coping method— I’m unable to bury this any longer.
I’m haunted by my memories. Fear. Pain. Pleading. My very first panic attack, around grade three. Seeing the same face in the face of so many others for the majority of my life. Hiding anything about myself that I feel is shameful. There is no area of my life that gets away unscathed. It touches everything. Things that I never understood before, choices that didn’t make a whole lot of sense — they all make sense now.
Every day is a rollercoaster and triggers are all around me. I’ve stopped communicating with people that are important to me. Reaching out is so painful right now. I feel like my whole body is inside out and all of the things that are most vulnerable and tender and now unprotected and being bruised constantly.
This is the first thing that I’ve been able to write in weeks, probably months, and my writing is what keeps me sane. Everything inside my head brings me to tears and the tears almost always turn into an anxiety attack.
The world isn’t helping, either. The times I’ve been able to surface from inside myself are hardly any better. The world is on fire. There is hatred everywhere. And my trauma is keeping me from doing anything to help. And I want to help. Desperately.
And that leads me to now.
I’ve realized that the helping I so desperately want to do starts with me. I cannot help anyone unless I first help myself. And that’s not easy. I was raised Catholic and was taught that the best of people give until they have nothing left for themselves. Self-care was not something that was taught or encouraged and I’ve always equated my own self-care with selfishness.
So, I’m going back to therapy.
I saw a psychiatrist about six or so years ago but never touched on this, as I was in one of my memory burial periods and I mostly talked about losing my dad as a teenager. I honestly thought that was my biggest problem or at least I convinced myself that’s what I though.
I scheduled an appointment with a psychiatrist a little over a year ago but never went. I must have canceled and rescheduled that appointment four or five times until life helped me out and we ended up moving back to SoCal so it wouldn’t make sense to start therapy if I wouldn’t be able to have more than one or two sessions.
I got a new GP in December, when my husband started a new job and I’ve spent the past four months avoiding the therapy that I told her I wanted. But things have steadily gotten worse. This is not something I can handle on my own. I realize that, now. I really realize that.
I’ve spent a lot of time hiding this, fearing that any disclosure on my part would hurt the people closest to me. Would they think I was lying? Would they think that I was blowing things out of proportion? Would they question the validity of my memories? Would they be mad at me for not just sweeping it under the rug but instead bringing it up all of these years later? Would I somehow make them feel guilty for not knowing about this sooner? Would they just think I was being a drama queen?
I’m afraid of everything.
But no matter how much I tell myself I want to keep quiet and keep things buried, to protect my own feelings as well as the feelings of those I care about, I physically cannot keep it in any longer. I lose control. I lose control of my emotions. I lose control of my hurt. I lose control of my anger. And then I lose control of my control and my words come spilling out.
My confusion takes front and center. My inability to understand sweeps over everything and I become that young girl again, begging for help. Even now as I write this, the tears are uncontrollable. The pain is so raw that it feels undeniable.
I feel as though I’m battling every emotion, every single second. Shame. Anger. Guilt. Frustration. Sadness. Futility. Helplessness. Annoyance. Betrayal. And a lot — and I mean a lot — of confusion and an inability to understand how this all happened.
I saw a social worker last week. That was my first step. She was very nice and helpful. She laughed at my jokes. My husband came with me. I needed that. I have an inordinate amount of trouble with feeling like I’m a phony. I needed someone there that could corroborate things for me. Sure, he couldn’t speak of my memories but he could help me feel validated about problems that I still have, about issues and truths that I’ve been denying for so long that I think no one could possibly believe them.
I have an appointment scheduled with a psychiatrist for next week. I let the social worker know very honestly that I knew I needed a psychiatrist’s help. Mental illness runs in my family and that combined with the clusterfuck of memories I’ve got going on made it a pretty obvious decision for me.
I don’t know how the appointment is going to go. It’s with a guy and to be frank, I want to talk to a woman. But I would rather give someone a shot and start the ball rolling than insist on a woman straight away. I know a lot of really wonderful men — maybe this guy will be another I can add to that list.
I have a follow-up appointment set for next month with the social worker. I like that I have someone acting as my advocate. All she cares about is me getting healthier. If this psychiatrist ends up not working, she’ll find me another. She’s helping me with coping methods, as well.
None of this has been easy. Every single day has been like a minefield and my feelings of guilt and shame surround me. I’ve spent so long lying to myself and everyone around me about so many things that I feel like an imposter when I’m telling the truth.
But…I’m finally getting help. I’m actually doing it. I’m putting my well-being first because I’m finally realizing that ignoring my own needs isn’t healthy. Self-care isn’t selfish, it’s necessary. Denying yourself the essentials, not properly caring for yourself — it doesn’t make you a better person. It just makes you less able to handle all that life throws at you. And it makes you less able to help those you love, when they need it.
I know that I’m not the only person going through something like this. And right now, I feel at such a loss to be able to help anyone else with anything — except in one way: I can be open about what I’m going through. I can let people know that they’re not alone. I don’t have to reveal all of my secrets to the entire world in order to let other people know that even though they may feel alone, we’re in this thing together.
I can share that it’s never too late to help yourself. I can encourage people to put themselves first once and a while. And I can hopefully show that no matter how many times you try again, the important thing is that you’re, again, trying. Never give up on yourself. Never. This is the only life we know, whatever happens before or after our time here, the only thing you have for sure is you. Don’t give up on yourself. You’re worth it.
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Pride of Doing
I’ve always been a dreamer. And for all of my life that I can remember, I have dreamt of being a “published author.” When I was little, I just knew I wanted to tell stories and write but by the time I was in the third grade, the words published author were my two favorites.
I loved thinking about being a writer. Imaging the fulfilling life I’d lead. People would love my books! They’d bring joy! And laughter!
They’d change people.
I’d be appreciated and accepted. I’d be applauded. And because I was a writer, I’d still be able to walk amongst the people without being hounded. Oh, I had thought of everything.
The types of books and stories I told evolved as I aged, as did how I imagined myself.
And my imagination was my safety net.
There, I could live in the planning stage of my life. I could marinate in dreams of the future and a world of possibility. It was heavenly, exciting, seductive.
And stifling.
I never finished anything.
I would start a project and keep it going until I’d get bored. Then, I’d start another.
After college, I got a job writing. Industry and technical kind of writing. And all of my writing for myself stopped. I concentrated on the day to day and getting a footing in my new life. But it wasn’t long before I started my writing again.
I worked on shorter fiction, hoping to focus on improving my writing. I developed a group of writer friends that I bounced ideas off of and got constructive feedback from. And my writing grew. I felt confident to delve into longer works and I started novel-writing.
I started a romance novel. I got maybe a third of the way through and got bored. I started another romance novel and the same thing happened.
I started making more plans.
Spending more time thinking about how much I’d love my life once I was a published author instead of doing the writing that could get me there. Would I let my books get turned into movies? How would giving up that creative control feel? I could adapt my own novels into screenplays. I’d have to learn how to do that but I watched a lot of movies and thought I could probably handle that. I had a lot of professors tell me how strong my dialogue was and that’s what a screenplay really was anyway, right? The talking. And, the plot, of course.
One idea turned into another idea and I couldn’t help getting caught up in the excitement and energy of building the story of my future. It could be anything I wanted. Screenwriting sounded so glamorous. Maybe I’d meet George Clooney. It seemed like there was nothing off the table.
I still wrote. I even finished things. But once I finished them, I reworked them. I reconfigured them. I changed them.
Nothing was ever good enough. Nothing was what it was supposed to be. It could be bigger. It could be better. It could be funnier.
Details were tweaked. Settings were changed. Characters got cut.
There was always something that wasn’t ready.
And the planning of my life continued.
I made some progress forward, sure. Hell, I moved across the country. Los Angeles meant I could work on any kind of writing that I wanted.
And I got a job. And I stopped writing. I settled into my new life. I got to know my new city.
I began living in my planning stages all over again. I made friends, went to work, enjoyed myself but with my writing, the future was where it was at.
I cycled like this for more years than I’d like to admit to, hitting strides of truly prosperous writing and then shifting into the life of perfecting things and hiding from my future.
I’m finally living my future.
Most days when I go to bed, I know I’ve put in a really thorough day’s work as a writer. It involves much more than I ever thought it would, due to both naïveté and a changing industry. Getting myself to this point has taken a team of people: friends and family, professionals and amateurs.
It’s mostly taken me, though.
It’s taken me realizing that living the life of a writer was vastly more fulfilling than just dreaming about it.
It’s taken me understanding that the writing itself is the actual reward. Not the finished product, like I always assumed, but the process. The journey I take to create what I’m working on changes me. And the more I write, the more I evolve.
My first book is coming out in a matter of months.
It’s not fiction.
It’s a satire.
And aside from getting married, it’s going to be the greatest moment of my life, thus far.
But not just holding the book in my hands and seeing my name on the cover — the writing of it, the drawing of the cover, the choosing of the chapter headings. Everything. Everything I learned and did and devoted to it. Every fact I researched and every footnote I made. Every “fuck” I wrote and every laugh I enjoyed as people I loved read my words.
I’m going to have something that I actually devoted myself to, from start to finish. I spend each day now, thinking about that fact. I do my social media — the new millennia’s networking. I try to gain inspiration from all the talent in the world around me. I work on my website, hoping it’s conveying who I am the best that it can. I bullet journal, so that I can keep myself on track and organized without making the artist in me go crazy over lists and schedules that bore the shit out of me. I read every day so that I never forget what a good book is. And I write. I try to keep up with my blog, sharing my thoughts and views on the things I feel are important. I’ve got six viable projects for my next book, three of which I’m actively working on. One new nonfiction. One new fiction. And one screenplay turned novel that I’m not yet willing to give up on.
And I’ve never been happier.
I feel like I grow as a human being every single day.
And I’m finally discovering who I am as a writer.
I’m a contradiction.
I’m the things you need to pay attention to as well as the things to help distract you from them.
I use my secrets. I use all my secrets to help split myself open in the hopes that it makes other people feel less alone. And in turn, myself.
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Acceptance
I’m beginning to realize that I’ve always let people mistreat me, even from my very first relationship in college. My mom once said to me during this time that she thought it was lucky I ended up with someone who treated me so well; she always figured my low self-esteem would lead me to finding someone who would misuse me. Thing is, and this was not some devil of a guy, he was a real dick sometimes. But I wasn’t strong enough at the time to even acknowledge that he was being a dick to me. I’d say that I spent at least the first twenty-five years in a total denial about my own life. The next ten years were spent trying to block out the realizations that were now making themselves known and it’s only been in the last several years that I’ve begun to be able to be honest with myself about my life and about me.
My active imagination has always been a tool for me. I can’t even tell you the number of cumulative years I’ve probably spent living my life as some other version of me in my own imagination. When I was young, I would use fairy tales, books or movies to model these plays in my head. Plays taking place in my own life. But I would designate different characters as my villains just to avoid dealing with the actual triggers I had in my own reality. It was my way of protecting myself.
I spent years, decades even, blocking and denying a good portion of my reality. I shoved one particular memory into such far recesses that every ten years or so I’d have to deal with the realization of it’s part in my history all over again. Like I was remembering for the first time. I’d go through almost all the normal stages of grief, dealing with it: denial, anger, bargaining, and depression. But I refused to accept it’s validity. I just straight up couldn’t handle it. Accepting it meant accepting so many other things along with it.
I had to accept that I was broken.
I had to accept that my whole life was affected by one incident.
I had to accept that I’d morphed this incident into part of my identity without knowing it.
I had to accept that huge pieces of me were influenced by this one thing.
I had to accept more than just the initial incident but everything that came along with it. Every moment and movement that’s tied up in the pain.
And I had to accept that this was always going to be part of me. I had to accept the memories instead of continuing to bury them.
And I was never ready to do that.
I have to do it now, though. My mind, my memory, my psyche isn’t giving me the choice anymore. I can no longer bury it.
I think it’s because I’m married, now. I’m in a loving, wonderful, happy marriage and the areas of my brain that were so affected by this one thing are confused. So many of the instincts that I’d developed over the years were now at odds with the love and support I was getting from my husband. To be perfectly plain, many of the impulses and inclinations I had up until now were in direct conflict with the respect I was being given.
There are some answers I’m never going to have. And that’s okay. It has to be. I don’t need answers to deal with it and move on with my life. I don’t need validation or answers or understanding. Some things can never be understood. But I deserve to be able to heal. I deserve to be able to put away the shame I’ve been carrying for so long. I deserve to be a whole person again who’s proud of every part of myself.
I am stronger than I realize.
I am heartier than I ever thought.
I am a force. I am the wind and the rain and the storm.
I am everything I need to be.
And I finally accept that, too.
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42
Why is it that we count our years of age, anyway? I mean we know our birthdate. D’uh. We have a birth certificate and crap. And we can celebrate on the anniversary of that date every year, if we like — there’s no sense not having a party with cake and ice cream. But why do we have to count the years of our life like we’re fucking prisoners in jail, marking time in scratches on the wall?
Is that how we feel? Like we’re trapped in our own lives just waiting for the comforting kiss of death? We’re all sad and pathetic, just ticking off the time like we’ve accepted our tragic existence.
And if it’s not that, what else could it be? Are we stupid? If we don’t count the years out for ourselves, will we not be able to do the math from our own birthdate? If we don’t put our age on every form we ever fill out, will we totally forget what fucking age we are?
Maybe we’re all at least mildly OCD and we need to count our age every year in order to feel right and secure. We need that sense of repetition and reiteration to better manage our life cycles.
Is it the ultimate fear of death? We need to constantly have corroboration that we’re still alive and seeing that number by our name reassures us that, indeed, we are? Are we that insecure that we’re still relevant to the world that we need to be continually reminded of being alive?
Are the details of our lives so disappointing that our age is the only validation to our existence that really matters? Our careers? Our accomplishments and all the knowledge we’ve gathered? Even the luxuries that we’ve become so accustomed to — are these so underwhelming that they don’t help remember a full life?
What about our families? Our partners? Our children? Our parents and our siblings? Our friends? Our loved-ones? Are these not enough to prove to ourselves that we have full lives?
Are we truly saying that the literal loves of our lives aren’t enough for us, in terms of marking our lives and providing our existence? We really need to stoop to such a level that we reduce our lives to counting the years like hostages?
So yeah…I’m turning 42 in less than a month.
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Something Wicked This Way Comes
I recently decided that to was time for me to read “Something Wicked This Way Comes” by Ray Bradbury. I say recently because I started reading the book on Saturday the Second. So, like a week and a half ago.
I bought the book in early 2015.
So, like two years ago.
I first decided that I wanted to read the book in roughly the year 2000.
I first read Ray Bradbury in the eighth grade. “The Martian Chronicles”. So, that’s 1989 or 1990.
And I first became obsessed with “Something Wicked This Way Comes” when I saw the movie starring Jason Robards and Jonathan Pryce on TV when I was a kid. My guess is that was around 1986.
31 years.
Approximately.
I’m glad I’m not letting time stop me, though. I’m glad that I’m finally getting around to reading a book that has been a part of my life for so long.
I’m also glad that I’m liking it.
Bradbury has a very accessible way of writing. He says a lot in not too many words, making you wonder if he painstakingly agonized over each and every word. I like to think not. I like to think that he’s part magic and that the words just flow out of him, no matter how fast or slow, on their own.
A lot of times if I’m reading a book when I’ve already seen a movie adaptation, it’s hard not to picture the actors in my mind to represent the characters. Funny thing, even though this movie is so ingrained in me after multiple viewings and the actors so much a part of their roles — I don’t see them in my mind when reading the book. They quickly became whatever my mind made of them.
I’d gotten away from reading in a way only a writer can. When you’re drowning in your own words so viciously that you almost forget other words exist. Now that I’m on the final edit of my book, though, I think it was time to really kick myself in the butt to start reading again.
Plus, it’s a great way to distract myself from the actual editing. And who doesn’t love and desperately long for that?
So, I’m 31 years and 49 pages in…I’ll keep you posted on how the book goes. I’m pretty excited to read more.
And now, to go do that…
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Grandma Bernice: The New Propaganda Machine
In this age of the Internet and social media, propaganda is not just the work and ammunition of governments and political parties anymore. Any run of the mill human being can now join in on the fun of spreading lies and misinformation just like their favorite underhanded politicians.
In just one afternoon on Facebook, you can see dozens of articles, click bait and videos promoting false angles on news stories in addition to the straight-out lies being floated around.
And even though we may see that these stories have originated from websites or organizations that are fueled by alternative facts, also known as fiction, most of the time we see them because a friend or family member has shared them.
We are assaulted with this propaganda every day of our lives and multiple times a day at that, either from some random trashy pop-up or a hate-filed meme that Grandma Bernice shared implying that illegal immigrants collect welfare and she can solve the problem by typing “Amen”.
This new society of ours is moving and expanding at such a rate that we’re not even aware that we’ve become the yellow journalists of the past. Who needs unethical reporters when our own citizens can spread gross exaggeration much easier?
When @POTUS45 said live and on the air that Chicago was worse than Afghanistan and that people were being shot left and right, real reporters across the country did their homework and checked his false figures. Real journalists and writers began immediately shedding light on his lies while the yellow journalists out in the Interwebs began to spread his disease of misinformation like wildfire.
Sure, a number of “real” news outlets have stoked the flames but even those are finding it hard to completely ignore the lies coming out of our current administration. But have the great citizens of our country who follow our @POTUS so blindly been listening to these organizations that they once loved to quote outright?
No. No, they’re not.
They’ve been ignoring anyone with a degree and the ability to put two words together and opted instead to become the wheels of their own propaganda machine. They latch on to anyone they can find with a matching opinion and a loud enough voice and then throw their false facts, their exaggerated claims without one speck of research behind them and their righteous indignation to the masses.
And we of the world are their victims.
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Year Forty and One
So, I’ve been forty-one for a couple of months now and I would’ve thought that I’d hate it. And don’t get me wrong, I don’t love the number, but now that I’m realizing how much of my response to that number comes from what men have told me (men who have decided that they’re still sexually spry at the age of 80), I’m a little like “fuck you, whatever”.
Basically, me at 41 is pretty unapologetic about who I am.
And that has honestly changed my entire life.
Sure, I’m still married and pretty much all the vital stats are the same but the growth I’ve had in the past year has been monumental.
Because of health issues, I’ve spent three-fourths of the past year living with both my new husband and my mom. At different points I’ve wanted to strangle them both (not really) and I have it on pretty good authority that the feeling is mutual.
But the things I’ve come to understand have been eye-opening. Things about myself, things about my loved ones, things about the world.
I’d feel, almost, like a whole new person if the woman I am now didn’t feel so familiar in so very many ways.
I’ll tell you one thing, I like her. I like her a lot.
She speaks her mind. And she’s working on not caring about what other people think.
She puts actions to her words. And she tries to really accomplish the goals she’s set for herself, not just play at it.
She finds the idea of the unknown more exciting now instead of totally scary. And she’s pretty fucking psyched about what the future holds for her.
But enough of the third person.
There are pieces of my life that fit now in a way that they’ve never fit before. Some of that has to do with me and some of it just has to do with timing and the universe.
I guess in year forty and one I’m realizing that nothing comes before it’s due. And some lessons just aren’t ready for us to learn from them until the exact right moment in time.
And most importantly, we have to really stand behind what we say. We can’t make exceptions about what we believe just because our feelings are hurt. And we have to try and use compassion whenever we can, especially with those we love. Because love, understanding and forgiveness are the greatest gifts we as humans have to give.
And life is truly better for everyone when these things are incorporated into our daily lives.
I’m expecting this next year to bring me more knowledge and growth than the last and I’m kind of hoping that it’s like this for a while. I have a hunch it may be. This older and wiser duo they’ve been advertising is pretty rad. They should add badass to it, though. Cause I’m definitely more of a badass at age 41 than I ever have been before.
I think, maybe, the world just wasn’t ready for this me yet.
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How My Mom Casually Taught Me to be a Feminist
It’s not hard for me to see how I became so demanding about my basic equal rights as a woman. The movies and TV shows that my mother surrounded me with as I grew up speaks volumes about the woman she is and feminist beliefs she taught me.
My mother LOVES Mary Tyler Moore. Mary Tyler Moore (the show) was my mom’s favorite but the woman herself could do no wrong. I knew at a very young age that she was the first woman to wear pants on prime time television (one per episode until she started sneaking them in more often) on The Dick Van Dyke Show. I knew that the MTM logo I saw so many times on TV was her and I knew how much she dedicated of herself to (what was then known as) Juvenile Diabetes.
Carol Burnett constantly tugged her ear on our TV and I knew those Golden Girls before they were golden. I knew Bea Arthur as Maude was the first woman on prime time to get an abortion and started out by arguing with Archie. And I knew that when Betty White was Sue Ann Nivens to Mary Tyler Moore’s Mary Richards that she was waaay more like Blanche Devereaux than Rose Nylund.
Jane Curtain and Gilda Radner were hilarious and Goldie Hawn was a triumph. I saw her shake her groove thang on Laugh-In reruns and heard the term rape for the first time in a movie while watching Foul Play with my mom.
The movie 9 to 5 was watched every chance gotten. My best friend and I could quote that thing by the time we hit double digits and whenever I watch the movie with a new person I always share with them my mom’s favorite scene (the hospital scene and corpse escape).
If I had to take a guess, I’d say my mother’s favorite playwright is Neil Simon. When most people think of him, they think The Odd Couple (if they realize he wrote that). He’s written countless amazing plays and movies but my mother’s favorites have always been the ones starring Marsha Mason. Max Dugan Returns, The Goodbye Girl, Chapter Two. Neil Simon could write one hell of a strong woman. She was funny, strong, real, smart, silly, vulnerable and brave. She handled the shit life threw at her. And she always held her head up.
Gidget was on A LOT. The movies (although my mom only really liked the original) and the TV show. I knew both Sandra Dee and Sally Field as our favorite girl hero. I learned at an early age that it was okay to be smart and headstrong and stubborn. It was okay to try and do the things that the boys do. I learned that being myself was more important than fitting in and that a boy worth liking was one that liked me for me.
And no one, NO ONE, was on our TV screens when my mom was in charge of the remote more than Doris Day. And if you don’t think that Doris Day was a goddamn feminist then you haven’t ever seen one of her movies. She did everything. She had a career. She had a love life, even if she was single. She was smart. She had her own money. She was stubborn. She stood her ground. She said what she thought even if it took guts to do it. She wasn’t afraid to argue and she was damn good at it. And she did it during a time where that was even a bigger deal than it is today.
I got lucky. My parents taught me how to be a strong person. They taught me how to treat others and they taught me the values that I cherish today. The values that I write about a lot in this blog. My mom, though, she taught me how to be a feminist. She taught me what it meant to be a strong, independent woman. So it’s no surprise that when my high school did a production of Arsenic and Old Lace and they opened up male roles to females because the play was so male-heavy, I expressed how cool I thought that was. A male classmate of mine overheard and asked me if I was some kind of feminist. When I went home and told my mom about the conversation that night, know what she said?
“Did you tell him, ‘Yeah, why aren’t you?’”
I mean, how cool is my mom?
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The Win is in The Fight
I am an artist, first and foremost. I have known since the beginning of my memories that I was born to write. That has always been my identity. That has always been how I’ve seen myself.
I glory in that. I wear it like a badge of honor. I have a gift. A real gift. I sit. I put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard and words just seem to appear. I see myself go through the entire process but in some very real ways, it feels magical. I don’t map things out. I don’t make writing a science. I don’t sketch before I draw my words.
I have no qualms with those who do. It’s just not me.
I love my gift. I cherish it. It makes me proud.
But there are conditions to the type of gift I have.
I know, deep down in my soul, that it is my duty to live the life of an artist. It is in the very fibers of my being that I use my voice and my art to try and make the world a better place.
I like writing fiction a lot. I like writing everything a lot, to be honest. But more so than that, it is my privilege to turn letters into text into ideas. It is my honor to help speak the important thoughts and beliefs that will hold our planet and its people together.
My soul signed a contract before I was given this gift and I feel that pact in the way I move, the way I think, the way I love. My voice will never be silenced. I have made sure that is impossible. And my voice will be used to promote freedom, equality and love.
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Black and Blue
My blog post today is literally about one thing and one thing only. There’s nothing else besides this I want to address and I want it to be very clear that there is only one point I’m wanting to make.I’ve seen a number of good people post things since our latest wave of police violence against people of color that – in a nutshell – says that when you run away from the police, you should be prepared to die.Because if you don’t comply with law enforcement, you deserve whatever happens to you.Here is the one thing I would like to say to that.I understand what you think it is you’re saying. I understand that when someone runs from law enforcement, the natural and logical assumption by those police and/or other enforcement personnel is that you’ve done something wrong and that they better catch your ass quick.I really do understand that.Aside from actually knowing good, honest people in uniform, I also just get how A + B = C.This is the perspective I would like to share with you, though. And I’m hoping that because you’re logical and caring people that you’ll give my point of view a chance before dismissing it outright.People of color have been discriminated against a lot. Flamingly violent racists aside, we can agree on that I think. And in addition to that discrimination being your general institutional and establishment racism (racism based on policy and practice), it has also come in the form of violence.A lot of violence.And it’s uncomfortable but I think we really need to face that right now.People of color have had violence practiced upon them solely for their race for hundreds of years. In order to bring them to this country, we chained them. We chained them to boats. We chained them to each other. We put men and women who weren’t criminals in chains and then forced them to do our work for us.Those people were beaten on a daily basis, perhaps even an hourly basis. Because of their skin. They were whipped. Because of their skin. They were raped. A lot. Because of their skin. They were tortured. Because of their skin.People of color have been hanged. Because of their skin. They’ve been lynched because of their skin. They’ve been set on fire. Because of their skin. They’ve been beheaded. Because of their skin. They’ve been drawn and quartered. Because of their skin. They’ve been tied to car bumpers and dragged, the modern day drawing and quartering. Because of their skin.People of color have been stabbed because of their skin. People of color have been shot because of their skin. People of color have been brutalized because of their skin.At a rate so astoundingly high that it should silence the voices of anyone that would like to imply that people of all races have had these problems.And the thing is, law enforcement has not been innocent of these crimes. Not when slavery first took hold, not when segregation was being challenged and not now. I am in no way saying that every law enforcement officer is guilty. Not at all. No way and no how.But some are a problem.Some have always been a problem.And we, as white people, have not done enough historically and currently to eradicate these demons from our bevy of protectors. I’m sorry but we just haven’t. We get too defensive when the topic is brought up, letting our guilt take over and allowing us to continue on practicing in a racist world.And now, because of it, we’re at the motherfucking crossroads of all crossroads. Cause this is where we’ve ended up (and this here is my blog point):When people of color see a law enforcement official with a gun in their hands, at their hip or even just in their holster, it is just like seeing anyone else off the street in possession of a gun. And, be honest, if someone you don’t know approaches you with a weapon, you’re going to be beyond uneasy. If they look like they mean business with that weapon when they call for your attention, that weapon starts to look bigger and bigger and badder and badder.We need to understand that in a lot of cases people of color are operating their daily lives with a severe case PTSD. Their entire history as a people, since the white man came into their lives, has been traumatic. Every step to reclaiming their freedom has been traumatic. And their “free” existence now continues to be traumatic.We cannot expect them to look at the world with the same eyes we do, for we have not been through the same things. Yes, some Caucasian people do not feel safe around police and other paid protectors, the same way that some people of color have been raised in an environment where law enforcement didn’t treat them like the enemy and therefore see the police as the good guys many of them are.But neither of these is the norm.And we need to understand that.We need to understand that there is a long history of violence that leads us to the fears that still linger today. When we have a friend or loved one that’s a victim of abuse, we understand that people that remind them of their abuser can cause them to feel excruciating fear and have a desperate need to get away to safety. And we need to start looking at our current situation this way. We need to start understanding that people in uniform have one connotation for some people while having an entirely different connotation for others and these connotations are crucial to our ability to function as a civilized society.I’m very aware that there are situations that fall out of these parameters (like the fact that it seems we have people of color complying and still being killed) but, as I said earlier, I wanted to focus my blog on this one very specific topic.We say if people run from the police, they deserve whatever they get. But we forget that it’s really not that simple.And we need to really work together as a country to stop this violence now before it grows even further. Before the United States becomes bedlam and we lose more good people and good law enforcement. Because, here’s the thing…Police officers and others in uniform are beginning to feel like they’re being judged for the clothes they have on and not for who they actually are.They’re starting to feel like people see them coming and automatically make negative judgements about them.Police officers are even more afraid for their lives than normal because they think someone might shoot them either out of fear, anger or just because.Police officers are starting to feel like people of color.And when people who are required to carry and be skilled at using weaponry start feeling like they’re backed into a corner, our country will be the bloodied victim. And we will have no one but ourselves to blame.
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Questions
Normally, I like to think that I have all the answers. Although I certainly haven’t fooled myself into thinking I’m an astronaut or rocket scientist, I do like to think that I know stuff. I do well at Jeopardy. My educated guesses are pretty right on. I tend to figure out who the killer is pretty early in movies or tv shows. And I pick up things fairly quickly, in general. Basically, I’m awesome.But, this isn’t that kind of blog post.Cause there are just some things that I don’t understand.Like, superficial judgement. Whether it has do to with your race or gender or physical appearance, whatever. I don’t get superficial judgement. I don’t understand how just by looking at me, you think you know me. Skinny and fat shaming fall into this category. Thinking people with tattoos are somehow less responsible would fit into this one too. I mean, I just mentioned that I think I’m smart and yet I can promise you that those things don’t help me determine what you’re like. How the fuck do I know what you’re like until I actually talk to you?And another one. Religion. Judging people on their religion, I just don’t understand. I mean, fuck off. If you know anything about the major religions we’ve got going on, you know that they’re pretty similar in the things they preach. Sure, the stories they use are different but the morals tend to be very close to one another. So, why aren’t religious people just happy that there are other religious people out there? Why aren’t they happy that so many other people share their thoughts on how to live their life while they’re here? Why isn’t being a person of faith something that draws those people together instead of dividing them so significantly so often?And along those same lines, why is it that people are so intent on mixing religion and government? The same people that are constantly talking about how the second amendment is woven in gold and shouldn’t have any limits of any kind have no problem disregarding freedom of religion and separation of church and state. How can you claim that one amendment is more important than another like that? And if you start reminding me that there isn’t much ahead of the right to bear arms in the constitution, I’ll remind you that freedom of religion is one of those that is. So given that, why does anyone think it’s okay to force their religion on anyone else? I don’t care how good you think yours is, faith and religion are very personal things and to tell anyone that you should be in charge of how they show their faith and choose to worship is criminal and a personal violation.Nextly (Yes, I know that’s not a word, so what), why is it so fucking hard for some people to put themselves in someone else’s shoes? Do we really need to have experienced something in order to be able to determine whether something is shitty or not? How is it that so many people can willfully ignore real problems and issues just because it isn’t affecting them directly? How does it not cause them actual pain to see others in pain? How is this not a thing that everyone deals with?Also, why is it the initial reaction of so many to blame the victim? Is the idea of a broken system or fallen hero so horrifying to you that you would chose to stick your head in the sand, or worse, blame the injured party just in order to sleep better at night? And why isn’t blaming the victim keeping you awake? Why does ignoring a real problem put some at ease instead of fighting for what’s right? I understand that ignorance is bliss but what about an outright refusal to admit what you have to know deep down? Is that bliss as well?And are there really that many people out there that actually think that their race is a superior race? Cause sometimes it really seems like there are still a lot of people out there like that. Is that just a magnification of the terrible the way that tends to happen with the media or is that still a significant percentage of people? And for those people who truly believe this, how is that even possible? How can anyone actually think that one race is better than another? How can pigmentation mean so fucking much?And to that same end, are there also really people out there that think one gender is better than another? Do some feminists really believe women are better than men? Do other people really think that the majority of feminists have this warped view? Do some men really believe that they deserve to earn more for the same level of work? And are there really both men and women who think that the man should be the head of the household and the woman be subservient? And I don’t mean just having traditional roles, I mean actually thinking that the man is the boss of the woman, as if husband replaces father and woman stays a child.Here’s another: do most people really believe that their country is better than every other country and the people in it? Do most Americans really believe that they’re better than other people from other places? And not your standard, respectful patriotism but the actual belief that being American means being better? And is the state of our country today not giving you pause in this belief system?Question: are there really people out there that think that we can make life better for anyone through hate? Are there really people who don’t view hate as a disease that needs to be eradicated? Are there really people left in this world who don’t realize that hate destroys the soul, poisons the heart and decays the brain?And with that same thought in mind, how does hurting other people not make some people feel terrible inside? How does causing pain in others not make some people wither inside? How can you cause tears in another and not feel a part of you die inside? And how does it seem like some people thrive on this feeling? How can it be that some people get energy from the destruction they cause in others? I was a dick to a guy in the drive-thru of an Arby’s in Los Angeles about five to seven years ago and I still haven’t been able to let it go. I was wrong and I was a dick and my friend told me so and I still feel bad. How is it that there are some people who don’t work this way?And finally, how is it that for some people a stranger’s own personal experiences and life choices are so deeply offensive? This one really fucks me up — I just don’t get it. I just don’t understand. And if there’s someone out there that this is true for, please, I beg you — educate me. How is someone else’s life experience — someone that you don’t know, someone who has no bearing on your life — how do their actions and how does their life, in general, become so violently offensive to you? Why do you feel it’s your place to watch them, judge them and then attempt to eviscerate them from afar just because you disagree with the way they classify themselves or the way feel they have to live their life in order to be true to themselves? And you know exactly what I’m talking about here, not serial killing, not theft or torture — but choosing to become a more whole person, from their own perspective. How do you feel it’s your place to take a very real and very painful situation and try to crush the person struggling with their own identity?So these are just some of the questions I have. These are some of the things I’ve been struggling with, both lately and for a lot of my life. And sometimes it just gets tiring to try and try and try to come up with answers when it seems like so many people don’t have any desire to actually come up with solutions. So, instead I wanted to share my questions and struggles with you, knowing that there are other people out there that have the same things going around in their minds. Maybe together we can work some things out.