The other night I had a free hour in my brain all to myself which I spent over an incredibly tall pile of dishes. It was a simple domestic act that I actually welcomed after more than a week away from the duties of home and hearth. Generally, I'd either fill the open mental space with a litany of thoughts over the myriad complexities of life, a podcast with some intellectual and humorous value, or a library audio book. Though my iPhone houses several hundred songs which span an array of musical genres, melody and rhythm rarely travel the distance from electronic gadget to earpiece.
On the aforementioned night, a Saturday mid-evening sandwiched between my Friday return to Tennessee and the Sunday twilight hours spent with my kids putting up the Christmas tree in the company of my pre-surgical mom, a few tunes seemed appropriate. Perhaps I'd been stimulated by the musical movie Sarah and I viewed while crunching our way through an entire large-size bucket of theater popcorn: Cher and Christina Aguilera singin' and a'dancin' a la burlesque. While not in danger of incurring any amount of Oscar buzz, it offered toe-tapping entertainment with a modicum of taste per today's standards, avoiding overt sex scenes though the stage antics were a bit tongue in cheek at times!
The Soggy Bottom Boys always draw me in with their twangy yet moving version of [I Am a Man of] Constant Sorrow. The lyrics remind me of my brother, Gary. Straightforward, troubled, the thread of the lighthearted melody a perfect foil to the theme of thwarted life. It evokes such a strange mixture of hope and sadness within me. Much like thoughts of my brother do. The writing is superb, simple and profound. It hits all the right notes, no pun intended, and reaches across the aisles to all people under a burden, regardless of their placement on the social ladder. Somehow, it manages to purge the stagnant waters in my soul and make way for fresh clear pools. Two to three rounds just about does the trick, most of the time. Is it an irony that it hails from a movie entitled Brother, Where Art Thou?
After shaking my way through an Michael Jackson classic and a Rhianna staple, funny enough it was called Breakin' Dishes, I happened upon my latest purchase from iTunes. Evidently, there's a group that goes by the name of Florence + The Machine -- would that be a blender, food processor, or hand mixer, perhaps -- and they pound out a Celtic-like ditty that makes my feet move in ways not likely to land on a slick MTV video but it feels invigorating all the same. The Dog Days Are Over. I don't even know the lyrics to save my life, except for that one line. But there's always a welcoming spot in me for it.
In the wake of my trip, there was an unspoken need to let it all go, especially those two intensely tiring days of court in Lamar with my sister. The dance of circles and hops, skips and kicks, head and arm swings, resembling more a tribal celebration of urgent crop weather asked for and received or lives spared in the wake of battle, was executed for my niece and nephew and sister. And for the other family members so hurt and affected by this strange and painful set of events. I inhabited a space of freedom which none of them are able to enjoy. With emotional abandon, I danced and danced, the kitchen appliances my witnesses, the washed and unwashed dishes a mute audience, and any reason to do otherwise unable to be found.
It ended abruptly. My own healthy and alive children entered the room, prepared to further their personal agendas for the evening, exacting their own dance of words and wills. I muted my mini concert in trade for dialog and even a bit of argument. We hammered out our agreements and moved ever closer to a Sunday morning and away from a Saturday night. The yellow dish gloves crept back over my hands. Suds and silverware busied me for a time. Thoughts of rest and what I might or might not do in the near future captured valuable brain space.
The music, and the moment, was over. But it happened. As are all of us who love without restraint and beyond any set of hard and fast rules, I am bound to those who inhabit my heart with a passion that infuses every aspect of my existence. Including an hour spent in the mundane and melodic refrain.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
One of the Beautiful Boys
I've moved on to another book. Not unusual. Generally, there are several in various stages of unread in the hopper. Well, they actually sit in two stacks on my headboard. If they ever fall from their spot in the middle of the night, they might poke an eye out . . . or possibly relocate my nose.
In September, I touched on "Tweak" by Nic Sheff. A first person auto-biographical account of a young man's descent into, and eventual ascent out of, a serious drug addiction to meth and heroin. His father writes professionally and penned his own account on the matter: I'm finally digging into that. Page by page. Not so much a chapter at a time as a memory or feeling at a time. My own.
The senior Sheff incorporates detailed and well-researched information in his writing. I understand his brand of intellectualizing mixed with liberal doses of emotion. An attempt at balance in a wildly imbalanced world. I like what I'm learning, or rather THAT I'm learning. But I don't really like it. The book. The perspective. The parental posturing. That it is, or was, a New York Times Bestseller makes sense to me. That other sensitive writers and famous people lent their names and comments to its jacket in praise and appreciation, I get.
And I also get my lukewarm dislike. I believe I can slice that pie into distinctive thirds. The initial wedge: I read Nic's take on it all first. His stripped-down writing just brought it all home with the suddenness of a mainline injection. From a writer's perspective, he delivers the goods in a manner I generally don't use, maybe can't do, but I admire it greatly. His brevity is barren, direct, with no wiggle room for mental wandering from the thing at hand -- except to possibly wander ever deeper into his struggle.
The second wedge: David Sheff writes like a parent. Makes sense, seeing how he is, after all, Nic's dad. One would think that being a parent myself might induce more of a sense of simpatico with the patriarch's material. But reading of his mistakes -- he takes responsibility in hindsight for his errors along the way, some of them pretty significant -- positions me squarely into the role of child, shoving me several decades back into the era of errors me and my siblings experienced at the hands of our adult influences. They didn't generally intend to do harm, these loving grown-ups at the helm of our lives, but all the same damage was done, often with powerful impact. Sorting through it all, sifting the grain and leaving behind the chaff, has been a lifelong process. Some of us experienced more successful than others in emerging on the good side of things in less pieces. So, the kid in me commiserates with this young man long before the adult in me is able to align with the father.
Finally, the last in this trio: the germ of truth from which this entire book springs is the idea of how love meshes with co-dependency, how they become so enmeshed that making a positive identification of either element becomes impossible at a certain point, and how tortuous the path of extricating one from the other can be. With the proclamation from my baby brother about the real nature of his drug addiction, namely the fact that he IS an addict and he admits it and he's NOT even close to recovery and not even sure he is capable of going into recovery, I had to jumpstart an entirely new level of self-examination. It started out as a stall in the development of our book. No writing save for the blog has happened since that day of our conversation. That stall opened up the door for doubt as to who I ever was to Gary and who he ever was to me during all of these many years. That doubt engendered a moderate level of sustained depression that began to concern me and my husband. And, threading its way through all of that was the big bad foul word: co-dependency. I bristled at the thought that I could be that to him and vice-versa. It was a label for the subject of many of our in-depth conversations in the past months. It was the few strategically placed vertebra in the spinal column of our adult relationship. It was the elephant in the room of our presently evolving friendship. In a nutshell, it could kill or be killed.
I'm still figuring that one out. Don't judge. Just know I'm on the right track and getting help for myself to parallel the help Gary is getting for himself. We each have to run our own races in this track meet.
Having outlined my mixed feelings in detail, however, it is more than fair to point out that the great research of which I wrote earlier is fascinating to me because the moment I read it, all manner of affirming bells and whistles go off in my head. The lines jump out and instantly fall into step with a timeline of which I'm quite familiar: Gary's life from adolescent child to arrested development thirty-something man. The following quotes solidified a few key points for me and are worthy of being passed on.
On the matter of users, specifically those with undiagnosed underlying mental illnesses, who begin their drug use as kids and continue into their adult years:
"Many symptoms of these [mental] disorders appear to be identical to some of the symptoms of drug abuse. Also, by the time experts finally figure out that there's a problem, drug addiction may have exacerbated the underlying ailment and fused with it. It then becomes impossible to know where one leaves off and the other begins."
"Considering the level of maturity of young adolescents, the availability of drugs, and the age at which drugs are first used, it is not surprising that a substantial number of them develop serious drug problems . . . "
"Drugs shield children from dealing with reality and mastering developmental tasks crucial to their future. The skills they lacked that left them vulnerable to drug abuse in the first place are the very ones that are stunted by drugs. They will have difficulty establishing a clear sense of identity, mastering intellectual skills, and learning self-control. The adolescent period is when individuals are supposed to make the transition from childhood to adulthood. Teenagers with drug problems will not be prepared for adult roles . . . They will chronologically mature while remaining emotional adolescents."
"The worst time for a person to be tampering with their brains is when they are teenagers . . . Drugs radically alter the way teenagers' brains develop."
"Treating people whose drug use began when they were teenagers is further complicated because deconstructing or rerouting established pathways have biological as well as emotional and behavioral roots."
Pg. 98-99 from "Beautiful Boy" by David Sheff
This explains much.
In September, I touched on "Tweak" by Nic Sheff. A first person auto-biographical account of a young man's descent into, and eventual ascent out of, a serious drug addiction to meth and heroin. His father writes professionally and penned his own account on the matter: I'm finally digging into that. Page by page. Not so much a chapter at a time as a memory or feeling at a time. My own.
The senior Sheff incorporates detailed and well-researched information in his writing. I understand his brand of intellectualizing mixed with liberal doses of emotion. An attempt at balance in a wildly imbalanced world. I like what I'm learning, or rather THAT I'm learning. But I don't really like it. The book. The perspective. The parental posturing. That it is, or was, a New York Times Bestseller makes sense to me. That other sensitive writers and famous people lent their names and comments to its jacket in praise and appreciation, I get.
And I also get my lukewarm dislike. I believe I can slice that pie into distinctive thirds. The initial wedge: I read Nic's take on it all first. His stripped-down writing just brought it all home with the suddenness of a mainline injection. From a writer's perspective, he delivers the goods in a manner I generally don't use, maybe can't do, but I admire it greatly. His brevity is barren, direct, with no wiggle room for mental wandering from the thing at hand -- except to possibly wander ever deeper into his struggle.
The second wedge: David Sheff writes like a parent. Makes sense, seeing how he is, after all, Nic's dad. One would think that being a parent myself might induce more of a sense of simpatico with the patriarch's material. But reading of his mistakes -- he takes responsibility in hindsight for his errors along the way, some of them pretty significant -- positions me squarely into the role of child, shoving me several decades back into the era of errors me and my siblings experienced at the hands of our adult influences. They didn't generally intend to do harm, these loving grown-ups at the helm of our lives, but all the same damage was done, often with powerful impact. Sorting through it all, sifting the grain and leaving behind the chaff, has been a lifelong process. Some of us experienced more successful than others in emerging on the good side of things in less pieces. So, the kid in me commiserates with this young man long before the adult in me is able to align with the father.
Finally, the last in this trio: the germ of truth from which this entire book springs is the idea of how love meshes with co-dependency, how they become so enmeshed that making a positive identification of either element becomes impossible at a certain point, and how tortuous the path of extricating one from the other can be. With the proclamation from my baby brother about the real nature of his drug addiction, namely the fact that he IS an addict and he admits it and he's NOT even close to recovery and not even sure he is capable of going into recovery, I had to jumpstart an entirely new level of self-examination. It started out as a stall in the development of our book. No writing save for the blog has happened since that day of our conversation. That stall opened up the door for doubt as to who I ever was to Gary and who he ever was to me during all of these many years. That doubt engendered a moderate level of sustained depression that began to concern me and my husband. And, threading its way through all of that was the big bad foul word: co-dependency. I bristled at the thought that I could be that to him and vice-versa. It was a label for the subject of many of our in-depth conversations in the past months. It was the few strategically placed vertebra in the spinal column of our adult relationship. It was the elephant in the room of our presently evolving friendship. In a nutshell, it could kill or be killed.
I'm still figuring that one out. Don't judge. Just know I'm on the right track and getting help for myself to parallel the help Gary is getting for himself. We each have to run our own races in this track meet.
Having outlined my mixed feelings in detail, however, it is more than fair to point out that the great research of which I wrote earlier is fascinating to me because the moment I read it, all manner of affirming bells and whistles go off in my head. The lines jump out and instantly fall into step with a timeline of which I'm quite familiar: Gary's life from adolescent child to arrested development thirty-something man. The following quotes solidified a few key points for me and are worthy of being passed on.
On the matter of users, specifically those with undiagnosed underlying mental illnesses, who begin their drug use as kids and continue into their adult years:
"Many symptoms of these [mental] disorders appear to be identical to some of the symptoms of drug abuse. Also, by the time experts finally figure out that there's a problem, drug addiction may have exacerbated the underlying ailment and fused with it. It then becomes impossible to know where one leaves off and the other begins."
"Considering the level of maturity of young adolescents, the availability of drugs, and the age at which drugs are first used, it is not surprising that a substantial number of them develop serious drug problems . . . "
"Drugs shield children from dealing with reality and mastering developmental tasks crucial to their future. The skills they lacked that left them vulnerable to drug abuse in the first place are the very ones that are stunted by drugs. They will have difficulty establishing a clear sense of identity, mastering intellectual skills, and learning self-control. The adolescent period is when individuals are supposed to make the transition from childhood to adulthood. Teenagers with drug problems will not be prepared for adult roles . . . They will chronologically mature while remaining emotional adolescents."
"The worst time for a person to be tampering with their brains is when they are teenagers . . . Drugs radically alter the way teenagers' brains develop."
"Treating people whose drug use began when they were teenagers is further complicated because deconstructing or rerouting established pathways have biological as well as emotional and behavioral roots."
Pg. 98-99 from "Beautiful Boy" by David Sheff
This explains much.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Dear Donna . . . .
Dear Donna Gross:
Though I don't know you, and now will be denied that pleasure, I thank you for the heartfelt interaction you had with my brother, Gary, during the times your work schedule intersected with his present stay at the Napa Valley State Hospital.
You've been a constant on my mind and in my heart since Gary told me the news of your rape and death on the 23rd of this month. While I was preparing gifts and ice cream cake for the 21st birthday of my eldest child, you were engaged in a losing battle for survival. A schizophrenic patient with a violent history, including sexual assault and attempted murder of a woman, robbed you of chewing gum and $2 before also robbing you of your life by strangulation. There are other facts too sordid to immortalize here.
I've often been accused of exercising too much empathy and thinking too deeply into situations. But in your case, my empathy knows no bounds and my thoughts on your final moments lead only to terrible sorrow . . . and there is not a one who would accuse me of going too deep or feeling too much. From what I know of you through Gary, however, my lasting impressions regarding one Donna Gross will not be those of a discarded body thrown behind a hedgerow outside one of the many buildings on the enclosed forensic unit of a psychiatric facility.
I remember whole conversations about you, a woman I never met, with my brother. In his long career as a ward of the state of California in the capacity of prisoner, a social exile and outcast, he has long known only suspicion, mistrust, disregard, and judgement. For obvious reasons, personal revelations between him and anyone outside of his family circle or brotherhood behind bars was simply not going to happen. Not possible. For a variety of reasons which are sensible enough. But this specific isolation from social peers created a wedge between him and everyday citizens. Especially those with any kind of authority over him. Kind words delivered with any amount of true civility or concern were rare, and thus easy to recall with clarity. Especially if they were meted out by one of the fairer sex, as their presence is transient and limited in a prison setting.
The entire string of events leading up to his eventual release from prison, his short stint of freedom, the tragic episode leading to his return to jail, and the drawn out but incredible process by which he was declared a patient of the state as opposed to a convict, created further confusion and loneliness within my brother. He found himself a client at your place of employment for the past 14 years. And among the many employees with whom he made contact, there was you.
Gary says you were the kind of person who could find good in anyone. He said just the other day that you would have most likely had something positive to say about the man who killed you. There was pride and appreciation in his voice as he spoke. You earned his respect, his caring, and his grief.
What you did for him in those open talks in the halls of the hospital ward was to plant a seed which said, "A perfect stranger who knows my past and my present, where I come from, what I've done, is willing to treat me as a fellow human being. Maybe there IS hope for me. Maybe change IS on the horizon." You stood before him as a flesh and blood person. Making eye contact. Smiling. You shared your very personal story with him. The death of your son. The drug addictions which robbed you of meaningful relationships with two daughters. The grandchild you were raising. The fulfillment you genuinely felt in the daily enacting of your job there at the hospital with its varied residents. You opened up about your spiritual grounding in Christ. Speaking to your faith. Bearing witness to its power by your very life and presence. And you encouraged him to continue on his life's journey, all the while allowing him to express his doubts where his own faith was concerned, never once exerting pressure or lapsing into judgement.
Today, a memorial service was scheduled at the hospital for patients to attend. I do so hope it happened. I know that your tragic death has created a tense atmosphere in a place where tension and stress were the recipe of the day for both staff and residents. The community and the state are watching, alert, crying out for action and change. As in life, your passing will have an impact. Gary and I often wondered how this staff, with its high concentration of women, and often petite women at that, wandered the grounds alone without escort or buddy. By definition, a large portion of patients in a forensic ward will be there due to violence related to their illness. And not all patients are seeking to improve through medication and therapy; and a few patients are most likely unable to heal despite all measures to the contrary. It is beyond unfortunate that a financially burdened state's cutbacks resulted in a hiring freeze which directly affected the ratio of staff-to-client at the Napa facility. Obviously, the need to have this addressed is urgent.
What I hope, Donna, is that the reasons you expressed for working there are not lost in the melee of angry and scared voices. You knew the risks of your employment. Yet you took them each day. You witnessed the progression and eventual successful release of many patients there. You took the time to know the reality of rehabilitation and treatment. The men and women in your charge were not viewed as loss causes and societal write-offs by you. You were there, in the trenches, earning a paycheck and administering hope. The two can cohabit. You proved it.
I'm praying for the end result here. I pray you have found peace in a place those of us here can only contemplate either in faith or disbelief. My deepest condolences go out to your family. To that precious grandchild whose heritage through you is rich and real. Even through tragedy there can be beauty and growth. Of this I bear witness.
I'm so sorry for your loss. You were worthy beyond the price of rubies.
Godspeed,
Gary's grateful Sister G.
Learn More About Who Donna Was
Though I don't know you, and now will be denied that pleasure, I thank you for the heartfelt interaction you had with my brother, Gary, during the times your work schedule intersected with his present stay at the Napa Valley State Hospital.
You've been a constant on my mind and in my heart since Gary told me the news of your rape and death on the 23rd of this month. While I was preparing gifts and ice cream cake for the 21st birthday of my eldest child, you were engaged in a losing battle for survival. A schizophrenic patient with a violent history, including sexual assault and attempted murder of a woman, robbed you of chewing gum and $2 before also robbing you of your life by strangulation. There are other facts too sordid to immortalize here.
I've often been accused of exercising too much empathy and thinking too deeply into situations. But in your case, my empathy knows no bounds and my thoughts on your final moments lead only to terrible sorrow . . . and there is not a one who would accuse me of going too deep or feeling too much. From what I know of you through Gary, however, my lasting impressions regarding one Donna Gross will not be those of a discarded body thrown behind a hedgerow outside one of the many buildings on the enclosed forensic unit of a psychiatric facility.
I remember whole conversations about you, a woman I never met, with my brother. In his long career as a ward of the state of California in the capacity of prisoner, a social exile and outcast, he has long known only suspicion, mistrust, disregard, and judgement. For obvious reasons, personal revelations between him and anyone outside of his family circle or brotherhood behind bars was simply not going to happen. Not possible. For a variety of reasons which are sensible enough. But this specific isolation from social peers created a wedge between him and everyday citizens. Especially those with any kind of authority over him. Kind words delivered with any amount of true civility or concern were rare, and thus easy to recall with clarity. Especially if they were meted out by one of the fairer sex, as their presence is transient and limited in a prison setting.
The entire string of events leading up to his eventual release from prison, his short stint of freedom, the tragic episode leading to his return to jail, and the drawn out but incredible process by which he was declared a patient of the state as opposed to a convict, created further confusion and loneliness within my brother. He found himself a client at your place of employment for the past 14 years. And among the many employees with whom he made contact, there was you.
Gary says you were the kind of person who could find good in anyone. He said just the other day that you would have most likely had something positive to say about the man who killed you. There was pride and appreciation in his voice as he spoke. You earned his respect, his caring, and his grief.
What you did for him in those open talks in the halls of the hospital ward was to plant a seed which said, "A perfect stranger who knows my past and my present, where I come from, what I've done, is willing to treat me as a fellow human being. Maybe there IS hope for me. Maybe change IS on the horizon." You stood before him as a flesh and blood person. Making eye contact. Smiling. You shared your very personal story with him. The death of your son. The drug addictions which robbed you of meaningful relationships with two daughters. The grandchild you were raising. The fulfillment you genuinely felt in the daily enacting of your job there at the hospital with its varied residents. You opened up about your spiritual grounding in Christ. Speaking to your faith. Bearing witness to its power by your very life and presence. And you encouraged him to continue on his life's journey, all the while allowing him to express his doubts where his own faith was concerned, never once exerting pressure or lapsing into judgement.
Today, a memorial service was scheduled at the hospital for patients to attend. I do so hope it happened. I know that your tragic death has created a tense atmosphere in a place where tension and stress were the recipe of the day for both staff and residents. The community and the state are watching, alert, crying out for action and change. As in life, your passing will have an impact. Gary and I often wondered how this staff, with its high concentration of women, and often petite women at that, wandered the grounds alone without escort or buddy. By definition, a large portion of patients in a forensic ward will be there due to violence related to their illness. And not all patients are seeking to improve through medication and therapy; and a few patients are most likely unable to heal despite all measures to the contrary. It is beyond unfortunate that a financially burdened state's cutbacks resulted in a hiring freeze which directly affected the ratio of staff-to-client at the Napa facility. Obviously, the need to have this addressed is urgent.
What I hope, Donna, is that the reasons you expressed for working there are not lost in the melee of angry and scared voices. You knew the risks of your employment. Yet you took them each day. You witnessed the progression and eventual successful release of many patients there. You took the time to know the reality of rehabilitation and treatment. The men and women in your charge were not viewed as loss causes and societal write-offs by you. You were there, in the trenches, earning a paycheck and administering hope. The two can cohabit. You proved it.
I'm praying for the end result here. I pray you have found peace in a place those of us here can only contemplate either in faith or disbelief. My deepest condolences go out to your family. To that precious grandchild whose heritage through you is rich and real. Even through tragedy there can be beauty and growth. Of this I bear witness.
I'm so sorry for your loss. You were worthy beyond the price of rubies.
Godspeed,
Gary's grateful Sister G.
Learn More About Who Donna Was
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
An Accidental Reminder
Tonight was one of those times when pulling into the driveway after a round of evening errands to find the cars your children drive safely parked, floods the heart with relief.
Jimmy and I enjoyed our little shopping excursion just hours earlier on this Wednesday. Though not feeling energetic, he kept his promise to escort me on the balance of my appointed daily rounds when he returned home from work as I'd not completely finished my To-Do list. There's something a bit lonely about running around town alone in the dark. I'll do it if push comes to shove, but I don't like it.
We had only to maneuver the slightly curved and haphazardly lit stretch of Haynes Drive between Thompson Lane and our house in the eight-count cul-de-sac subdivision named after a local farming family. It's a 30mph road. A touch narrow in spots. Easy to speed up without realizing one's right foot has become leaden.
"What happened?" my husband asked. I didn't immediately see what he discerned just ahead and to the left . . . and I was driving. Two cars were pulled over. A teenage girl ran across the street to three other cars pulled into a side road. A woman spoke into a cell phone next to one of the cars and we asked if help was on the way. She mumbled something. As I was thinking to myself that things didn't look so bad, despite the scrim of smoky haze in the air and the greasy smear of skid marks on the pavement, our point of vantage changed as the truck cruised slowly forward.
And there it was. In a darkened yard, beyond the crushed mailbox, in front of a maple or oak tree, with more teens milling about in various states of being (where did they all come from?) -- sitting, standing, on the phone, quiet, dazed, chattering things like, "It's bad. Really bad!" -- the shadowed bulk of an overturned vehicle sat front and center. I later recalled it as a dark small SUV; my husband remembered it as a small black car. As they say, it all happened so fast: seeing it, digesting the images. Loud music thumped and threatened to drown out everything. It was coming from the wreck. The driver, a high school boy by the looks of him, lay perpendicular to his upended auto, unmoving, while an unknown person spoke to him at his head. Some of the people in the yard were residents of the homes. The carried home phones and wore shocked expressions. A few of the kids' faces appeared so slack, I wondered if they were involved somehow. Though it didn't seem feasible that anyone had come out of that pile of wounded metal and fiberglass in a safe manner. We must have missed the accident by less than a minute, two at the most. No emergency responders could be heard wailing in the distance, though by the time we got home, their siren calls broke the crispness of our fair fall night.
There's this thing I do whenever I come across such scenes as this. Or when I register the sounds of ambulance, police, fire, or medic. It started soon after my niece and nephew died in 2003. Because once you experience the unexpected tragedy, the kind which results in late night knocks at the door or unpleasant phone notifications while at work, you find that you are forever connected to every other tragedy by wit of unwillingly joining a sadly elite club. Tragedy ripples the pond, resonating to the far edges without fail, touching more than just those at the epicenter. So, I pray. Out loud. In the car. With or without the children or husband. For His grace and calm, His protection and comfort, to be present and in control. To halt any further trauma for everyone involved. I ask that He prepare families, emergency personnel, doctors and nurses, pastors and priests and the like, and even the auto and medical insurance companies. I thank Him. In the name of His son, Jesus. Amen. And then I move on because I can do no more.
Tonight, as I reel in the gratitude which accompanies the sure knowledge that my children are in the house and safe, I also wonder after the boy and his family. I cried for him. For me there is only a slight comfort in knowing it is another address where shock and pain will reside for a time. I want him to be okay. I wish I knew if he was alive. I contemplate what the good Samaritan who kept him company may have said or done. I am reminded of a very late-night scene upon which good friends of ours happened many years ago in Broomfield, Colorado. Two boys raced their cars down a deserted stretch of wide open road. When they crashed, our friends, a married couple with no kids at the time, discovered them before the EMT's arrived. While the entire story eludes me, what does stay fixed firmly in my mind is that the husband held one of the boys in his arms while he lay dying. Our friend realized that the boy's scalp was not attached to his skull; he tried to keep it on. Surreal. Unexpected. Heartbreaking. As you can imagine, this horrific chance encounter deeply impacted our friends for quite a long time.
There are no promises, folks. Because I have faith in a power outside of myself, I daily entrust my children to the Lord. Reminding them not to text and drive, stop for red and go for green, stay with the speed limit, etc. does not guarantee their safety. A deer or coyote, even a cat, could alter their trajectory in a hot second. I can't be next to them for every mile, each outing, all challenges. The picture I continue to see in my head of those tires in the air, no solid ground beneath them, urges me to forget not the swiftly changing nature of life.
But I didn't really feel I needed that reminder tonight.
Jimmy and I enjoyed our little shopping excursion just hours earlier on this Wednesday. Though not feeling energetic, he kept his promise to escort me on the balance of my appointed daily rounds when he returned home from work as I'd not completely finished my To-Do list. There's something a bit lonely about running around town alone in the dark. I'll do it if push comes to shove, but I don't like it.
We had only to maneuver the slightly curved and haphazardly lit stretch of Haynes Drive between Thompson Lane and our house in the eight-count cul-de-sac subdivision named after a local farming family. It's a 30mph road. A touch narrow in spots. Easy to speed up without realizing one's right foot has become leaden.
"What happened?" my husband asked. I didn't immediately see what he discerned just ahead and to the left . . . and I was driving. Two cars were pulled over. A teenage girl ran across the street to three other cars pulled into a side road. A woman spoke into a cell phone next to one of the cars and we asked if help was on the way. She mumbled something. As I was thinking to myself that things didn't look so bad, despite the scrim of smoky haze in the air and the greasy smear of skid marks on the pavement, our point of vantage changed as the truck cruised slowly forward.
And there it was. In a darkened yard, beyond the crushed mailbox, in front of a maple or oak tree, with more teens milling about in various states of being (where did they all come from?) -- sitting, standing, on the phone, quiet, dazed, chattering things like, "It's bad. Really bad!" -- the shadowed bulk of an overturned vehicle sat front and center. I later recalled it as a dark small SUV; my husband remembered it as a small black car. As they say, it all happened so fast: seeing it, digesting the images. Loud music thumped and threatened to drown out everything. It was coming from the wreck. The driver, a high school boy by the looks of him, lay perpendicular to his upended auto, unmoving, while an unknown person spoke to him at his head. Some of the people in the yard were residents of the homes. The carried home phones and wore shocked expressions. A few of the kids' faces appeared so slack, I wondered if they were involved somehow. Though it didn't seem feasible that anyone had come out of that pile of wounded metal and fiberglass in a safe manner. We must have missed the accident by less than a minute, two at the most. No emergency responders could be heard wailing in the distance, though by the time we got home, their siren calls broke the crispness of our fair fall night.
There's this thing I do whenever I come across such scenes as this. Or when I register the sounds of ambulance, police, fire, or medic. It started soon after my niece and nephew died in 2003. Because once you experience the unexpected tragedy, the kind which results in late night knocks at the door or unpleasant phone notifications while at work, you find that you are forever connected to every other tragedy by wit of unwillingly joining a sadly elite club. Tragedy ripples the pond, resonating to the far edges without fail, touching more than just those at the epicenter. So, I pray. Out loud. In the car. With or without the children or husband. For His grace and calm, His protection and comfort, to be present and in control. To halt any further trauma for everyone involved. I ask that He prepare families, emergency personnel, doctors and nurses, pastors and priests and the like, and even the auto and medical insurance companies. I thank Him. In the name of His son, Jesus. Amen. And then I move on because I can do no more.
Tonight, as I reel in the gratitude which accompanies the sure knowledge that my children are in the house and safe, I also wonder after the boy and his family. I cried for him. For me there is only a slight comfort in knowing it is another address where shock and pain will reside for a time. I want him to be okay. I wish I knew if he was alive. I contemplate what the good Samaritan who kept him company may have said or done. I am reminded of a very late-night scene upon which good friends of ours happened many years ago in Broomfield, Colorado. Two boys raced their cars down a deserted stretch of wide open road. When they crashed, our friends, a married couple with no kids at the time, discovered them before the EMT's arrived. While the entire story eludes me, what does stay fixed firmly in my mind is that the husband held one of the boys in his arms while he lay dying. Our friend realized that the boy's scalp was not attached to his skull; he tried to keep it on. Surreal. Unexpected. Heartbreaking. As you can imagine, this horrific chance encounter deeply impacted our friends for quite a long time.
There are no promises, folks. Because I have faith in a power outside of myself, I daily entrust my children to the Lord. Reminding them not to text and drive, stop for red and go for green, stay with the speed limit, etc. does not guarantee their safety. A deer or coyote, even a cat, could alter their trajectory in a hot second. I can't be next to them for every mile, each outing, all challenges. The picture I continue to see in my head of those tires in the air, no solid ground beneath them, urges me to forget not the swiftly changing nature of life.
But I didn't really feel I needed that reminder tonight.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Not Bad At All, Perez Hilton!
Leonard Pitts Jr. of the Miami Herald penned a column which appeared in Murfreesboro's local newspaper, the Daily News Journal, on what he calls 'citizen journalism.' Under this umbrella, he included bloggers. He opened with this salvo, "[Yet] I remain convinced that, with exceptions, citizen journalism is to journalism as pornography is to a Martin Scorsese film; while they may employ similar tools — i.e., camera, lighting — they aspire to different results." His very significant example of what he feels is a fad revolves around one James O'Keefe III, a blogger/filmmaker who employs journalistic-type practices, and last year garnered attention via an undercover camera sting operation of the ACORN group. Among other things, ACORN helped poor and middle income folks, and was rumored to have a hand in irregular voting.
I remember seeing this in the news though he does not report for any news organization. (No longer required to get the exposure.) O'Keefe posed as a pimp and his video shows him supposedly getting advice on how to run his business. A female cohort was trashily clad as one of his prostitutes. The ladies on 'The View' had a lively discussion about it. News organizations everywhere ran clips. That's about the extent of my memory.
But based on what Mr. Pitts had written, I thought to dig further. Online, of course, because that is what's at my disposal. The hits on O'Keefe are far too numerous to mention, though it is significant to note that the House of Reps and FOX news considered him to be somewhat of an investigative journalist hero after the story broke. And, being the right-wing media darling that he became for a time, the bias on either side could fill two separate library wings. However, I read enough, both in my online hunting and in this mentioned article itself, to discern what's at the heart of the matter. The sharp-edged object which sticks in the craw of the columnist, was, and is, the foundation from which O'Keefe's work springs and how he goes about the business of gathering his information and disseminating it. Near the end of the October 10th, 2010 column which started this whole blog entry of mine, I came across the perfect summation by a trained and practicing writer for the public, "You cannot be a journalist — citizen or otherwise — if credibility matters less to you than ideology."
There is evidence that young O'Keefe is not above possibly breaking the law by misrepresenting himself as a telephone company employee to gain access to a public officials lines, or trying to pull an elaborate prank on a female CNN reporter who he considered a vacuous blond only out to make him appear stupid in the liberal press. His ACORN footage, or rather the cut-and-paste job, is also in question. His brain power is not in question. His eagerness is not at fault. But he should probably decided if he wants to be taken seriously or not because there are people out there who were taking him at his word.
There's research, and then there's backing up that research with facts. There are interviews, and then there are the countless contacts with the interviewee subject(s) to clarify points. There often exists video documentation; it must be edited responsibly and without omitting key images, without the intent to mislead or further a cause. At least, that's the case in journalism. The model, let's say.
But maybe that's where it all goes wrong in the point of this article. Or maybe it was just a missing point. Or, more likely, the designated word count for the column space kept Leonard Pitts Jr. from venturing any further into the fray he so, for the most part, dislikes.
While in my role as a blogger I write for practice and to express opinions and feelings to a rather small group of readers, countless bloggers have more specific and finite purposes behind their Internet ventures. Quite often, that drive is generally spurred by a need to be widely seen and heard, and inflammatory language and provocative methods are enacted to further this cause -- whether that cause be political, religious, etc.
Case in point is Perez Hilton, a pop-culture blogger enjoying widespread fame and attention; he largely lambastes the famous and the closeted gay community without any reining in of expression. But recently he appeared on Ellen Degeneres' show and promised to turn over a new leaf, not wanting to appear bigoted or hypocritical any longer in light of recent stories in the news about youth suicides stemming from bullying, some of them gay kids. Now, though not a fan of his, I did like something he said about the future of his website, "I'm not going to go the mean route. I'm going to force myself to be funnier or smarter . . . not out people."
Because bloggers don't have any rules they must follow, the content of any site is only edited by the writer. This allows enormous openings for ego, slant, full-on lies, and all manner of personal perspective unfettered by possible discipline or loss of employment. And off of these qualities, more than a few individuals have managed to capture the attention, and intelligence, of the American reader. (I'm NOT addressing the entire planet here. Nor do I include the multitudes of delightful blogs on art, cooking, family, etc.)
In my writing, I attempt to research before I write on a subject outside of my own experience. Further, there is never an intent to inflict emotional harm on a person or group of persons to make my own writing sound juicier or more interesting. And guess what?! Even with those guidelines, I have managed to unwittingly injure a reader or two by crossing a line I didn't see; I absorbed those stings with a lesson learned, eager to fold it into my craft, ready to improve as necessary. Even apologizing as needed.
But in this day of 24-7 news and bully-pits, we are all subjected to vast amounts of information, not all of it good or healthy or worthy. It requires us to exercise insight to read between the lines. And more than a few pairs of sturdy canvas gloves to weed through the invasive overgrowth of pseudo-news. Where's the line, anymore? More than that, when did fairness and fair play, on all sides and the middle, go out of fashion? Not to mention true humor and circumspect intelligence, which is what Mr. Hilton intimated per his own desire to alter his methods. Honestly -- and quite surprisingly to me as I never saw myself praising Perez Hilton for anything -- the gauntlet has been thrown down. Whether it's in the rule book or not, bloggers should bear the burden of their writing in the enormous public forum of the Internet. It's been a free-for-all for far too long. Surely our brain cells can be stimulated without titillation every time we focus our eyeballs on the screen?!
Interesting, really. Smart and funny seems to be what a majority state as qualities they seek in a good friend or mate. It appears they can be applied elsewhere with the same effect. Hmmm.
I remember seeing this in the news though he does not report for any news organization. (No longer required to get the exposure.) O'Keefe posed as a pimp and his video shows him supposedly getting advice on how to run his business. A female cohort was trashily clad as one of his prostitutes. The ladies on 'The View' had a lively discussion about it. News organizations everywhere ran clips. That's about the extent of my memory.
But based on what Mr. Pitts had written, I thought to dig further. Online, of course, because that is what's at my disposal. The hits on O'Keefe are far too numerous to mention, though it is significant to note that the House of Reps and FOX news considered him to be somewhat of an investigative journalist hero after the story broke. And, being the right-wing media darling that he became for a time, the bias on either side could fill two separate library wings. However, I read enough, both in my online hunting and in this mentioned article itself, to discern what's at the heart of the matter. The sharp-edged object which sticks in the craw of the columnist, was, and is, the foundation from which O'Keefe's work springs and how he goes about the business of gathering his information and disseminating it. Near the end of the October 10th, 2010 column which started this whole blog entry of mine, I came across the perfect summation by a trained and practicing writer for the public, "You cannot be a journalist — citizen or otherwise — if credibility matters less to you than ideology."
There is evidence that young O'Keefe is not above possibly breaking the law by misrepresenting himself as a telephone company employee to gain access to a public officials lines, or trying to pull an elaborate prank on a female CNN reporter who he considered a vacuous blond only out to make him appear stupid in the liberal press. His ACORN footage, or rather the cut-and-paste job, is also in question. His brain power is not in question. His eagerness is not at fault. But he should probably decided if he wants to be taken seriously or not because there are people out there who were taking him at his word.
There's research, and then there's backing up that research with facts. There are interviews, and then there are the countless contacts with the interviewee subject(s) to clarify points. There often exists video documentation; it must be edited responsibly and without omitting key images, without the intent to mislead or further a cause. At least, that's the case in journalism. The model, let's say.
But maybe that's where it all goes wrong in the point of this article. Or maybe it was just a missing point. Or, more likely, the designated word count for the column space kept Leonard Pitts Jr. from venturing any further into the fray he so, for the most part, dislikes.
While in my role as a blogger I write for practice and to express opinions and feelings to a rather small group of readers, countless bloggers have more specific and finite purposes behind their Internet ventures. Quite often, that drive is generally spurred by a need to be widely seen and heard, and inflammatory language and provocative methods are enacted to further this cause -- whether that cause be political, religious, etc.
Case in point is Perez Hilton, a pop-culture blogger enjoying widespread fame and attention; he largely lambastes the famous and the closeted gay community without any reining in of expression. But recently he appeared on Ellen Degeneres' show and promised to turn over a new leaf, not wanting to appear bigoted or hypocritical any longer in light of recent stories in the news about youth suicides stemming from bullying, some of them gay kids. Now, though not a fan of his, I did like something he said about the future of his website, "I'm not going to go the mean route. I'm going to force myself to be funnier or smarter . . . not out people."
Because bloggers don't have any rules they must follow, the content of any site is only edited by the writer. This allows enormous openings for ego, slant, full-on lies, and all manner of personal perspective unfettered by possible discipline or loss of employment. And off of these qualities, more than a few individuals have managed to capture the attention, and intelligence, of the American reader. (I'm NOT addressing the entire planet here. Nor do I include the multitudes of delightful blogs on art, cooking, family, etc.)
In my writing, I attempt to research before I write on a subject outside of my own experience. Further, there is never an intent to inflict emotional harm on a person or group of persons to make my own writing sound juicier or more interesting. And guess what?! Even with those guidelines, I have managed to unwittingly injure a reader or two by crossing a line I didn't see; I absorbed those stings with a lesson learned, eager to fold it into my craft, ready to improve as necessary. Even apologizing as needed.
But in this day of 24-7 news and bully-pits, we are all subjected to vast amounts of information, not all of it good or healthy or worthy. It requires us to exercise insight to read between the lines. And more than a few pairs of sturdy canvas gloves to weed through the invasive overgrowth of pseudo-news. Where's the line, anymore? More than that, when did fairness and fair play, on all sides and the middle, go out of fashion? Not to mention true humor and circumspect intelligence, which is what Mr. Hilton intimated per his own desire to alter his methods. Honestly -- and quite surprisingly to me as I never saw myself praising Perez Hilton for anything -- the gauntlet has been thrown down. Whether it's in the rule book or not, bloggers should bear the burden of their writing in the enormous public forum of the Internet. It's been a free-for-all for far too long. Surely our brain cells can be stimulated without titillation every time we focus our eyeballs on the screen?!
Interesting, really. Smart and funny seems to be what a majority state as qualities they seek in a good friend or mate. It appears they can be applied elsewhere with the same effect. Hmmm.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
The Flavors Of A Sunday
My church had a baby dedication this morning. Unlike the Catholic church, this is not a baptism into the faith but a covenant between the parents and the church and the Lord: we mere mortals promise to exhibit and profess the love of Jesus Christ through action and prayer as the child grows, learns, and moves toward the day he is able to make his own profession of faith and THEN be baptized into His fold.
I was struck by the loveliness of it all. The young radiant mother so fresh faced and pretty as she stood by our pastor, who held her infant son as he entreated those of us in the seats to recognize this significant moment. In unison, we all agreed to do right by the child. He joked of how every baby he ever deigned to cradle during these dedications cried; there was no wailing or gnashing of gums this time around. Later, I learned that the mama -- who was once youth pastor to my kids more than a few years back -- had reworked the sleeping schedule to facilitate a more peaceful ceremony. Clever woman! Them there's mothering instincts at work.
I was moved by the display of freedom evident in the mere exercising of this event. That a group of fellow believers could leave their chairs and gather around four generations and pray for their lives and the future of their newest member with no fear of retaliation or negative consequences?! I never want to take that for granted. There was such power in being present and involved and a contributing part to the whole. And that it could be documented as a part of our church history through the photographic talents of our pastor's wife -- who, aside from being a fine pastor's wife, is a person of many other worthy facets -- makes it all the more meaningful.
From beginning to end, I was personally moved to tears and intense emotion. My heart and mind were about the business of internalizing, examination, recollection, and prayer. I hadn't known that this dedication was scheduled on this most auspicious date of 10/10/10. It dovetailed with the one year anniversary of the accidental death of our Cousin Josephine's eldest boy, Jonathon. And, for the past week, thoughts of my young niece and infant nephew, who were killed in 2003 by my little sister in a post-partum fit of psychosis, have kept me regular company. So today was the bitter with the sweet. As real as it gets.
At one point, a slide show played while a young woman sang. Images of the start of this baby's life came alive on double screens fully visible to everyone. There was a shot of our one-time little neighbor girl holding her tiny relative, her fall of white blond hair a perfect frame for their faces. I thought of Grace, my niece, when she sat in the rocking chair at the medical center in Lamar, and proudly held her new baby brother for the very first time. I took that picture. I remembered the tenderness with which my son held his infant cousin when it came his turn. I took that picture, too. I had been struck by the loveliness of those moments as well.
As the slides progressed, displaying various friends and family members enjoying their turn at celebrating this precious new arrival, another of my pictures came to my mind. A mother sitting on porch steps with her close-knit brood surrounding her, smiling into the camera, not thrilled with the paparazzi but clearly pleased to have her seven boys and girls in the shot. It was the last group photo taken of Cousin Josephine and her family before inclement weather and bad roads claimed the life of her college-aged son. The night before she buried her child, I had the privilege of praying for her in the quiet of her living room amidst laundry and a collection of mementos which had belonged to Jon. At the funeral, I joined others in singing songs intended to both soothe and stir. I watched the procession of grieving folks who mourned alongside this dear family. And no words would do.
The promise of a child, once as tender and newly welcomed as the baby at church this morning, cut short because there is no guarantee of everlasting life on this plane of existence. No momentous ceremony, no amount of planning, no safety course in anything has the power to hold our sons and daughters to us despite our desires to the contrary.
In a wave which threatened to overwhelm me, except for the grace of Christ which held me, the grief shook me in places where doors have not previously been open. There were entire rooms furnished in sorrow, accents of guilt hanging in the corners. I thanked the Lord for the brief gift of these lives He had allowed, lives partially grown and then lost. My limited mind imagined His hand reaching down to touch the faces of my cousin and my sister. Gently easing the lines around their eyes and the creases about their mouths. I saw my great-grandma seated with other elders long gone to us here, clapping their hands with joy as Grace twirled her petite self at the feet of God on His throne. I can only imagine as the modern song of worship goes. I can only go on the faith I choose to believe and profess despite the scoffing of intellectuals and the ridicule of non-believers.
I asked the Lord to air out those rooms, allow the grief to rise, be addressed and felt, and then to vacate and never return. Even as I cried, which I was a bit dismayed to do at this joyous occasion, I was grateful for the internal excavation. Once the cumbersome and weighty furnishings were removed, the spaces could be filled with the fully functional presence of a Lord who has sustained me and given me cause to comfort others from the well of my own experience.
For me, this was a day that the Lord hath made.
I was struck by the loveliness of it all. The young radiant mother so fresh faced and pretty as she stood by our pastor, who held her infant son as he entreated those of us in the seats to recognize this significant moment. In unison, we all agreed to do right by the child. He joked of how every baby he ever deigned to cradle during these dedications cried; there was no wailing or gnashing of gums this time around. Later, I learned that the mama -- who was once youth pastor to my kids more than a few years back -- had reworked the sleeping schedule to facilitate a more peaceful ceremony. Clever woman! Them there's mothering instincts at work.
I was moved by the display of freedom evident in the mere exercising of this event. That a group of fellow believers could leave their chairs and gather around four generations and pray for their lives and the future of their newest member with no fear of retaliation or negative consequences?! I never want to take that for granted. There was such power in being present and involved and a contributing part to the whole. And that it could be documented as a part of our church history through the photographic talents of our pastor's wife -- who, aside from being a fine pastor's wife, is a person of many other worthy facets -- makes it all the more meaningful.
From beginning to end, I was personally moved to tears and intense emotion. My heart and mind were about the business of internalizing, examination, recollection, and prayer. I hadn't known that this dedication was scheduled on this most auspicious date of 10/10/10. It dovetailed with the one year anniversary of the accidental death of our Cousin Josephine's eldest boy, Jonathon. And, for the past week, thoughts of my young niece and infant nephew, who were killed in 2003 by my little sister in a post-partum fit of psychosis, have kept me regular company. So today was the bitter with the sweet. As real as it gets.
At one point, a slide show played while a young woman sang. Images of the start of this baby's life came alive on double screens fully visible to everyone. There was a shot of our one-time little neighbor girl holding her tiny relative, her fall of white blond hair a perfect frame for their faces. I thought of Grace, my niece, when she sat in the rocking chair at the medical center in Lamar, and proudly held her new baby brother for the very first time. I took that picture. I remembered the tenderness with which my son held his infant cousin when it came his turn. I took that picture, too. I had been struck by the loveliness of those moments as well.
As the slides progressed, displaying various friends and family members enjoying their turn at celebrating this precious new arrival, another of my pictures came to my mind. A mother sitting on porch steps with her close-knit brood surrounding her, smiling into the camera, not thrilled with the paparazzi but clearly pleased to have her seven boys and girls in the shot. It was the last group photo taken of Cousin Josephine and her family before inclement weather and bad roads claimed the life of her college-aged son. The night before she buried her child, I had the privilege of praying for her in the quiet of her living room amidst laundry and a collection of mementos which had belonged to Jon. At the funeral, I joined others in singing songs intended to both soothe and stir. I watched the procession of grieving folks who mourned alongside this dear family. And no words would do.
The promise of a child, once as tender and newly welcomed as the baby at church this morning, cut short because there is no guarantee of everlasting life on this plane of existence. No momentous ceremony, no amount of planning, no safety course in anything has the power to hold our sons and daughters to us despite our desires to the contrary.
In a wave which threatened to overwhelm me, except for the grace of Christ which held me, the grief shook me in places where doors have not previously been open. There were entire rooms furnished in sorrow, accents of guilt hanging in the corners. I thanked the Lord for the brief gift of these lives He had allowed, lives partially grown and then lost. My limited mind imagined His hand reaching down to touch the faces of my cousin and my sister. Gently easing the lines around their eyes and the creases about their mouths. I saw my great-grandma seated with other elders long gone to us here, clapping their hands with joy as Grace twirled her petite self at the feet of God on His throne. I can only imagine as the modern song of worship goes. I can only go on the faith I choose to believe and profess despite the scoffing of intellectuals and the ridicule of non-believers.
I asked the Lord to air out those rooms, allow the grief to rise, be addressed and felt, and then to vacate and never return. Even as I cried, which I was a bit dismayed to do at this joyous occasion, I was grateful for the internal excavation. Once the cumbersome and weighty furnishings were removed, the spaces could be filled with the fully functional presence of a Lord who has sustained me and given me cause to comfort others from the well of my own experience.
For me, this was a day that the Lord hath made.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Not-So-Random Gay Thoughts Part 1
Dictionary.com app definition on the iPhone for the word 'gay':
1) having or showing a merry, lively mood: gay spirits; gay music
2) bright or showy: gay colors; gay ornaments
3) given to or abounding in social or other pleasures: a gay social season
4) licentious; dissipated; wanton: The baron is a gay old rogue with an eye for the ladies.
5) HOMOSEXUAL
6) of, indicating, or supporting homosexual interests or issues: a gay organization
7) a homosexual person, esp. a male
8) in a gay manner
Encarta World English Dictionary definition for the word 'gay': (my copy published in 1999)
1) HOMOSEXUAL homosexual in sexual orientation
2) MERRY full of light-heartedness and merriment (dated)
3) BRIGHT IN COLOUR brightly coloured (dated)
4) CAREFREE having or showing a carefree spirit (dated)
5) DEBAUCHED leading a debauched or dissolute life (dated)
6) HOMOSEXUAL especially a male homosexual
In the Random House College Dictionary given to me upon my high school graduation in 1988 by then vice-principal of Livingston High School, Joan Orr, the meaning for 'gay' still centered around a joyous mood or convivial aspect of person. The 5th definition, listed as a slang use, was for homosexual.
A Webster's New World Dictionary: Basic School Edition, copyrighted lastly in 1971 -- which was either found by me at a garage sale or given to me by a friend who herself unearthed it at a garage sale -- contains only two adjectival references referring to happy, and bright and showy. (An interesting sidebar: the printing company was based in Nashville, Tennessee. Just up the road from me.)
I won't test your patience with entries from my collection of thesauri (or thesauruses, take your pick) to point out the order over the decades of varied and sundry synonym forms for 'gay.' The message is clear: the English language has changed over time. And, depending upon the scope of the dictionary, whether published for an American readership or a more international audience, the use and significance attributed to the word can vary. This seems to dovetail with an e-mailed tidbit a friend shared with me recently, whereby he noted that American English seemed to differ from European English in key areas. Please note this is not a controlled scientific study, but more of an observation based on what I've come across in my research for this particular blog entry. But I do wonder what group of contemporary experts decided what definition would be best suited to the particular publication. And what were their criteria? Were any of them happy? Or homosexual? Or, perhaps, both?
The obvious question to anyone who doesn't know me very well or who has not exposure to my Facebook wall is why all of this somewhat academic attention to the word 'gay?' There may be a follow-up question concerning my familiarity with, and ownership of, dictionaries in general. Both are to be expected and welcomed.
In early July of this year, I began a daily feature on my Facebook page called 'Random Gay Pic of the Day.' It started with an exasperated comment made by my younger, but considerably taller and blonder, brother. I spent almost three weeks in California visiting him and our baby brother. In the process, my camera and iPhone were kept quite busy chronicling the journey. I may have crossed the line into paparazzi-ish type behavior every now and again, taking big sister special company liberties. It was our last night together. His wife had prepared a lovely supper which we ate on the patio in the mellowing sunset, accompanied by glasses of red wine and dishes of homemade vanilla ice cream.
In the middle of our conversation, I was struck by his casual pose and quickly took the shot so as to upload it for my fans of the Gloria status updates. In a tone encompassing a candid trifecta of sibling affection, brotherly annoyance, and personal resignation to circumstances beyond his understanding and control, he intoned, "Oh, great! Another random gay picture for your Facebook page." Though I knew his usage of the word to be in keeping with the modern perjorative employed mainly by middle and high school kids, but widespread in certain sectors of worldwide communities, I chose to post his picture with the phrase because his statement pleased me, tickled me, colored me happy. Yes, I really do give that much thought in the merest of seconds to any number of things which enter my brain through the senses God gave me.
By the next day, friends on my wall had commented with delight and the question was asked as to when the next Random Gay Picture would make an appearance: it had become a Title overnight! People specifically wanted to see it continue. They looked forward to checking in on a daily basis. I loved the idea. Facebook was, and is, my playground, open to friends and family and fun. Not to mention pictures upon pictures. To me, the online social site is a mode of connection and communication, usually more casual and less serious, though levity is at times temporarily suspended out of necessity. In general, my thought life, and much of what I deal with on an everyday basis, is quite serious and heavy. Facebook is one of the few regular forums at my immediate disposal for lightheartedness.
So, that one carefree photo post morphed into days, weeks, and almost three months of pictorial posts featuring very random moments, objects, and people in various states. There was no rhyme or reason other than they captured my attention in a small space of mental time and begged to be the subject for the day. One day's shot was a moist sponge -- humorous to me because a girlfriend of my daughter's had an aversion to the word 'moist' which I found peculiar. I had launched into a friendly defense of the word, pointing out that the best cakes and brownies could not be adequately described without employing it. I tagged her after uploading. Another time, more than once I believe, roadkill piqued my antennae. What can I say? It interests me, the way animals end up caught in these odd squashed poses of finality. They are almost beautiful. And, these days I can't see a dead-by-Michelin racoon or skunk without recalling a man I saw on 'Sunday Morning' who went about collecting freshly deceased highway fare and preparing it for his dining pleasure. His freezer was full of carefully cleaned and cut fauna of the less traditional sort.
My last official Random Gay Photo (I vacillated between 'pic' and 'photo') was a still life of my high school daughter's hair piece. She bought the thing to beef up her already long full locks for last year's prom. One of her girlfriends showed her how to maintain the rather costly piece of synthetic vanity, and she's taken to wearing it almost everyday since summer ended. It cracks me up. On this particular evening, I happened across it on the coffee table. All alone. Bereft without its owner. I tossed it on the carpet and forever captured it on digital. It's likeness on Facebook attracted several entertaining comments. Mission accomplished.
But I also received a very thoughtful and uncharacteristically long Facebook e-mail message from a friend who fits the aforementioned first and sixth definition of Encarta's entries. He was contacting me at the behest of several of his straight friends who had happened upon my feature and found it offensive. Though his personal knowledge of me had tempered his concern over my use of the word 'gay,' and he actually found himself defending me, they brought up valid points which he gamely tried to convey. He included a link to a website which he felt stated more clearly what he was attempting to carefully but emphatically express: http://www.thinkb4youspeak.com/glsen/consequences/ .
Reading that e-mail and checking out the website enhanced my perspective and instantly changed my playground into an internal forum for an intense, and not altogether comfortable period of time.
More on that tomorrow.
1) having or showing a merry, lively mood: gay spirits; gay music
2) bright or showy: gay colors; gay ornaments
3) given to or abounding in social or other pleasures: a gay social season
4) licentious; dissipated; wanton: The baron is a gay old rogue with an eye for the ladies.
5) HOMOSEXUAL
6) of, indicating, or supporting homosexual interests or issues: a gay organization
7) a homosexual person, esp. a male
8) in a gay manner
Encarta World English Dictionary definition for the word 'gay': (my copy published in 1999)
1) HOMOSEXUAL homosexual in sexual orientation
2) MERRY full of light-heartedness and merriment (dated)
3) BRIGHT IN COLOUR brightly coloured (dated)
4) CAREFREE having or showing a carefree spirit (dated)
5) DEBAUCHED leading a debauched or dissolute life (dated)
6) HOMOSEXUAL especially a male homosexual
In the Random House College Dictionary given to me upon my high school graduation in 1988 by then vice-principal of Livingston High School, Joan Orr, the meaning for 'gay' still centered around a joyous mood or convivial aspect of person. The 5th definition, listed as a slang use, was for homosexual.
A Webster's New World Dictionary: Basic School Edition, copyrighted lastly in 1971 -- which was either found by me at a garage sale or given to me by a friend who herself unearthed it at a garage sale -- contains only two adjectival references referring to happy, and bright and showy. (An interesting sidebar: the printing company was based in Nashville, Tennessee. Just up the road from me.)
I won't test your patience with entries from my collection of thesauri (or thesauruses, take your pick) to point out the order over the decades of varied and sundry synonym forms for 'gay.' The message is clear: the English language has changed over time. And, depending upon the scope of the dictionary, whether published for an American readership or a more international audience, the use and significance attributed to the word can vary. This seems to dovetail with an e-mailed tidbit a friend shared with me recently, whereby he noted that American English seemed to differ from European English in key areas. Please note this is not a controlled scientific study, but more of an observation based on what I've come across in my research for this particular blog entry. But I do wonder what group of contemporary experts decided what definition would be best suited to the particular publication. And what were their criteria? Were any of them happy? Or homosexual? Or, perhaps, both?
The obvious question to anyone who doesn't know me very well or who has not exposure to my Facebook wall is why all of this somewhat academic attention to the word 'gay?' There may be a follow-up question concerning my familiarity with, and ownership of, dictionaries in general. Both are to be expected and welcomed.
In early July of this year, I began a daily feature on my Facebook page called 'Random Gay Pic of the Day.' It started with an exasperated comment made by my younger, but considerably taller and blonder, brother. I spent almost three weeks in California visiting him and our baby brother. In the process, my camera and iPhone were kept quite busy chronicling the journey. I may have crossed the line into paparazzi-ish type behavior every now and again, taking big sister special company liberties. It was our last night together. His wife had prepared a lovely supper which we ate on the patio in the mellowing sunset, accompanied by glasses of red wine and dishes of homemade vanilla ice cream.
In the middle of our conversation, I was struck by his casual pose and quickly took the shot so as to upload it for my fans of the Gloria status updates. In a tone encompassing a candid trifecta of sibling affection, brotherly annoyance, and personal resignation to circumstances beyond his understanding and control, he intoned, "Oh, great! Another random gay picture for your Facebook page." Though I knew his usage of the word to be in keeping with the modern perjorative employed mainly by middle and high school kids, but widespread in certain sectors of worldwide communities, I chose to post his picture with the phrase because his statement pleased me, tickled me, colored me happy. Yes, I really do give that much thought in the merest of seconds to any number of things which enter my brain through the senses God gave me.
By the next day, friends on my wall had commented with delight and the question was asked as to when the next Random Gay Picture would make an appearance: it had become a Title overnight! People specifically wanted to see it continue. They looked forward to checking in on a daily basis. I loved the idea. Facebook was, and is, my playground, open to friends and family and fun. Not to mention pictures upon pictures. To me, the online social site is a mode of connection and communication, usually more casual and less serious, though levity is at times temporarily suspended out of necessity. In general, my thought life, and much of what I deal with on an everyday basis, is quite serious and heavy. Facebook is one of the few regular forums at my immediate disposal for lightheartedness.
So, that one carefree photo post morphed into days, weeks, and almost three months of pictorial posts featuring very random moments, objects, and people in various states. There was no rhyme or reason other than they captured my attention in a small space of mental time and begged to be the subject for the day. One day's shot was a moist sponge -- humorous to me because a girlfriend of my daughter's had an aversion to the word 'moist' which I found peculiar. I had launched into a friendly defense of the word, pointing out that the best cakes and brownies could not be adequately described without employing it. I tagged her after uploading. Another time, more than once I believe, roadkill piqued my antennae. What can I say? It interests me, the way animals end up caught in these odd squashed poses of finality. They are almost beautiful. And, these days I can't see a dead-by-Michelin racoon or skunk without recalling a man I saw on 'Sunday Morning' who went about collecting freshly deceased highway fare and preparing it for his dining pleasure. His freezer was full of carefully cleaned and cut fauna of the less traditional sort.
My last official Random Gay Photo (I vacillated between 'pic' and 'photo') was a still life of my high school daughter's hair piece. She bought the thing to beef up her already long full locks for last year's prom. One of her girlfriends showed her how to maintain the rather costly piece of synthetic vanity, and she's taken to wearing it almost everyday since summer ended. It cracks me up. On this particular evening, I happened across it on the coffee table. All alone. Bereft without its owner. I tossed it on the carpet and forever captured it on digital. It's likeness on Facebook attracted several entertaining comments. Mission accomplished.
But I also received a very thoughtful and uncharacteristically long Facebook e-mail message from a friend who fits the aforementioned first and sixth definition of Encarta's entries. He was contacting me at the behest of several of his straight friends who had happened upon my feature and found it offensive. Though his personal knowledge of me had tempered his concern over my use of the word 'gay,' and he actually found himself defending me, they brought up valid points which he gamely tried to convey. He included a link to a website which he felt stated more clearly what he was attempting to carefully but emphatically express: http://www.thinkb4youspeak.com/glsen/consequences/ .
Reading that e-mail and checking out the website enhanced my perspective and instantly changed my playground into an internal forum for an intense, and not altogether comfortable period of time.
More on that tomorrow.
Thursday, September 30, 2010
Letters Are Never Enough Part 2
Glor: Thursday, June 29th, 2006
Hey, busy bee, I can’t explain prison, what it’s like, the way people think in here, what it does to you, or even who I am now. It’s why I’m trying to distance myself as I get closer to getting out. I’ll never be able to leave it behind, make it go away, or change how people think of me.
Take care, -- Love Gary
Dear Brother: July 6th, 2006
I agree . . . that you will not be able to make your prison years go away. And, yes, you [can’t] alter how people think of you through sheer force of will . . . But you can make those years work FOR you. You can affect the people around you through action and reaction, give and take. Often, our flexibility and strength, our resolve in the face of extreme duress, is what rubs against those around us and sands them down to a smoother, more desirable finish . . .
If you experience resentment towards me, some dormant seed within, sowed the moment I had to alert the police to your whereabouts, I’ll deal with that. You can find my suburban spoiled life totally disgusting and . . . still be my brother. Tell me stories when you want; tell me to back-off when you want. I realize I [can’t] ever know what these past years have been for you. I’d probably be afraid of most of it if I did know. . .
Love ya and toodles, --Sister G.
Glor: Wednesday, July 2nd, 2006
Hey. It’s hard. Hard to relate, to think of someday having to try to relate on a more intimate, everyday level. I know how hard you try, how bad you want to be helpful & all. But you don’t know me anymore. No one does . . . You’ve done a lot of changing in the last couple of years. Me too, I imagine. I wish things were easier, that we could be more comfortable . . . Maybe someday we will be again.
I watched . . . ‘The View’ this morning . . . the blonde one went on a rampage, & no matter how any of the other women tried, they could not get their views in edgewise. What she thought was the end, right for everyone. Period.
If your children . . . required protection, you’d break the law in a heartbeat . . . if you were helpless and hopeless and on the mental edge, there’s no tellin’. Stay away from [saying] never. Felt like you were droppin’ bugs left & right in that last letter [about Cousin B’s situation]. I got your opinion/feelings about the pill/drug selling, law-breaking, etc. We all do what we feel we gotta do.
I always felt like you were in my corner. A sister, friend, & second mom. You hurt my feelings & pissed me off. If you don’t trust me, if you’re gonna judge me because of my past, or my habits/choices/lifestyle, whatever, then we’ll have the same relationship as I do with the rest of my siblings, which is not to have one.
I love you. I have many, many fond memories of you. I’ve always felt close & comfortable, when it comes to our relationship. I don’t think you comprehend what year after year after year of prison life does to someone, & I’m not gonna try to explain it. I’m not gonna apologize for who I am, and if the only person who will stand by me is me, then so be it.
You are a great sis . . . a genuinely good person . . . I’m grateful for your daily notes, attention, etc . . . you don’t have to. You have plenty to do.
I’m worn out . . . not a day goes by that I don’t have some cop givin’ me a hard time . . . for no other reason than they can say & do whatever they want . . . so you can see where I get upset when I have a chance to come up a bit, with the help of someone in my family, & I get the same mistrust & hesitation, judgment, or whatever.
I would do anything for you, mom, your kids, if it meant breakin’ the law, coming back to prison, so what? . . .
I don’t resent you . . . it just reminds me of how far the gap between us is . . . so maybe I’ll drop out for awhile. Too much emotions & inability to communicate, & it’s not pleasant . . . give my love to the kids. I love you Glor.
Glor: Sunday, August 20th, 2006
Hey, I don’t know. That’s my whole trip now. I don’t know. I should be a better brother & son. A better person . . . My mind is so messed up. My feelings & reactions, thoughts and worries about everything are all screwed up. I probably hurt your feelings. I apologize. Confusion & fear aren’t an excuse to hurt the people you love.
I have a pet praying mantis. She (I think it’s a she) is green, still really small, about two inches long. She’s on my finger, now my hand, while I’m writing . . . now on the end of my pen. I love playing with her, letting her crawl all over me. At night, her big eyes turn from green to dark. When she looks at me, I can see her tiny pupils following me. [She’s] actually a very beautiful creature.
[I wish] to be not so messed up. To even remember what it’s like to have a normal conversation with someone who doesn’t already have a label on me. To be unknown and unjudged. My edges are rough, my manner anymore abrupt & sometimes harsh . . . I don’t mean to be a negative space in your head or heart. You deserve better.
I’m gonna lie back and listen to Stevie Ray Vaughn . . . send me pics from your party & the Tracy Byrd concert, huh?
L8R, Love Gary
Dear Gary: August 25, 2006
Even if you did hurt my feelings, you are allowed. [It’s] a part of any relationship. Maybe we were overdue for such an incident as your venting letter. Lord knows, I have plenty of vents with and from Jimmy and the kids. . . we work through and past the episode, learn, forgive, apologize, and continue on . . . [you and I] can do that, too . . .
The content of your letter did sear a considerable hole into my tender heart. We’ll call it a burning arrow of pain and confusion. I walked down to the end of the cul-de-sac and sat on the curb to cry. I tried to wait for the big rain storm, hoping the waters would come and wash me into the sewer and carry me off to the ocean . . . far away from anyone I could possibly screw up with my words and good intentions. Sarah actually walked over to me to see how I was . . . Or maybe she asked in the kitchen and Zachary walked over to me in the cul-de-sac.
Regardless, all I could think was that I might say something that would screw them up in my efforts to love them . . . so earnestly. I felt like I had done that to you. If I could cause you to think I had withdrawn my support for you . . . what was I capable of making them think? And if I had indeed changed so drastically, demeaning myself by becoming some shallow, shadow version of who I once was, or who I was intended to be, how could I be good enough to be their mother, since I had so obviously failed as your sister? I reexamined my reasons for calling the police on you back in Colorado . . . I went all out, mentally and emotionally, allowing myself to spin way-y out there, feel a few things I had either . . . tucked away or thought I had prayed . . . through.
Eventually, however, I had to come back down into the reality of the situation. Separate myself from the emotion and look at it from the perspective of two people trying to stay connected within the framework of two drastically differing lives. It took me several days of intense examination to come out of my grief for what I felt I had lost. Probably more than a week to really feel my head was screwed on straight.
I decided that you needed to be able to do what you felt you had to do if it would help you to survive and leave that prison alive: even if that meant disconnecting from me. Your wholeness could be dealt with later, I reasoned. As for me, I would continue to write and allow you to decide if you wanted to read or not. For me, the writing is necessary. Right next to God, you are the most conversed with in my brain . . . I don’t write you out of guilt . . . I love my brother. I LIKE my brother. He’s worthy of knowing . . . and of the work it takes to maintain a close relationship . . .
I think the reality is that we can’t get everything across in our complex lives within the context of a few letters and scattered, SHORT, interrupted phone calls. You express some very intense and sharp views on a variety of topics. I don’t look at them and think how very wrong or judgmental of you. I just read, glad you thought to share something, hoping for a chance in your free future to truly hear the full version of that particular thought or opinion.
I wait for the days when we can have real discourse and truly hear each other out. For now, I think of our meager communication as a tether that keeps us from floating away, until such time as the earth can be brought to meet our feet in unison with actual gravity. Make sense?
Gary, I would not want you to do anything illegal for me or the kids or mom. I never want to see you in prison again. It would wreck me to think of you stuck there for a lifetime. . . I’ve developed enough in my personal faith . . . to believe the Lord will help to take care of things if I do my part. I don’t lie for my kids to get them out of jams or misrepresent myself to other people to make my family look better than it is. I try to help the kids face what they must for what they did; I try to figure out who I really am and represent that person. Make amends when I don’t represent who I really am . . .
I have no interest in doing anything that might be construed as illegal in order to help you. My greatest fear . . . that it would come back on you and get you more time in prison. My second[ary] fear (maybe not the best word here) is that of doing something I don’t believe in. Can you really penalize me for desiring to be a law-abiding citizen? Can you really be ticked off at me for hating drugs and the cycle of dealing/selling that keeps it in society? What goes on in prison in order for you to survive the experience is NOT the same yardstick you, or I, would use outside of prison.
I . . . hope that you would not decide to engage in illegal activities upon your release in order to make a living . . . I KNOW there will be a way provided for you . . . But you will have to be patient. Let conditions and situations be created and put into place.
Last time, you bolted before I could do anything concrete to help you . . . I was so desperate to help you then . . . I am determined to help you, now.
September 6, 2006 8:26PM (still Gloria*)
Well, that was written . . . over a week ago . . . I read my letter, again, and decided to let it stand. I’m more than just those thoughts . . . definitely NOT LESS . . . but I can’t expect to make myself totally understood by you. I think there are times when I try so hard to be understood – for the sake of the other person and for the situation – that I overshoot the target. Too earnest. Too zealous.
I was slicing garden tomatoes and putting the crumb coat on my cake before coming up here. (An aside: The crumb coat is a thin layer of frosting that goes on the cake first and sets up. Then, the decorative and thicker second layer goes on without any crumbs to mar the look of the surface. My neighbor is having a “Friendship Dessert Party” tonight. I broke out all of my fancy dessert recipes and settled on a labor intensive 3-layer cake: orange chiffon with a buttercream frosting and an orange filling between all layers and on top. I’ll be bringing home 8 samples of desserts for the family. And they best hurry and eat them! Save me!)
Okay, I could ramble forever. But I have to get other things done today. And I’m sure you do, too. This letter ain’t that riveting!
Oh, I’m enclosing a page on praying mantis’. I asked mom to look up a few sites so I could give you some info. How is your pet? Still around? If not, how long did it last, or stay with you? We have a multitude of stick bugs in my garden. I see the mantis every now and again. Bugs are pretty cool . . . Though all of my children would say otherwise . . .
[Well] Over and out. I love you, mucho. Millions and billions and cotillions! – Sister G.
Hey, busy bee, I can’t explain prison, what it’s like, the way people think in here, what it does to you, or even who I am now. It’s why I’m trying to distance myself as I get closer to getting out. I’ll never be able to leave it behind, make it go away, or change how people think of me.
Take care, -- Love Gary
Dear Brother: July 6th, 2006
I agree . . . that you will not be able to make your prison years go away. And, yes, you [can’t] alter how people think of you through sheer force of will . . . But you can make those years work FOR you. You can affect the people around you through action and reaction, give and take. Often, our flexibility and strength, our resolve in the face of extreme duress, is what rubs against those around us and sands them down to a smoother, more desirable finish . . .
If you experience resentment towards me, some dormant seed within, sowed the moment I had to alert the police to your whereabouts, I’ll deal with that. You can find my suburban spoiled life totally disgusting and . . . still be my brother. Tell me stories when you want; tell me to back-off when you want. I realize I [can’t] ever know what these past years have been for you. I’d probably be afraid of most of it if I did know. . .
Love ya and toodles, --Sister G.
Glor: Wednesday, July 2nd, 2006
Hey. It’s hard. Hard to relate, to think of someday having to try to relate on a more intimate, everyday level. I know how hard you try, how bad you want to be helpful & all. But you don’t know me anymore. No one does . . . You’ve done a lot of changing in the last couple of years. Me too, I imagine. I wish things were easier, that we could be more comfortable . . . Maybe someday we will be again.
I watched . . . ‘The View’ this morning . . . the blonde one went on a rampage, & no matter how any of the other women tried, they could not get their views in edgewise. What she thought was the end, right for everyone. Period.
If your children . . . required protection, you’d break the law in a heartbeat . . . if you were helpless and hopeless and on the mental edge, there’s no tellin’. Stay away from [saying] never. Felt like you were droppin’ bugs left & right in that last letter [about Cousin B’s situation]. I got your opinion/feelings about the pill/drug selling, law-breaking, etc. We all do what we feel we gotta do.
I always felt like you were in my corner. A sister, friend, & second mom. You hurt my feelings & pissed me off. If you don’t trust me, if you’re gonna judge me because of my past, or my habits/choices/lifestyle, whatever, then we’ll have the same relationship as I do with the rest of my siblings, which is not to have one.
I love you. I have many, many fond memories of you. I’ve always felt close & comfortable, when it comes to our relationship. I don’t think you comprehend what year after year after year of prison life does to someone, & I’m not gonna try to explain it. I’m not gonna apologize for who I am, and if the only person who will stand by me is me, then so be it.
You are a great sis . . . a genuinely good person . . . I’m grateful for your daily notes, attention, etc . . . you don’t have to. You have plenty to do.
I’m worn out . . . not a day goes by that I don’t have some cop givin’ me a hard time . . . for no other reason than they can say & do whatever they want . . . so you can see where I get upset when I have a chance to come up a bit, with the help of someone in my family, & I get the same mistrust & hesitation, judgment, or whatever.
I would do anything for you, mom, your kids, if it meant breakin’ the law, coming back to prison, so what? . . .
I don’t resent you . . . it just reminds me of how far the gap between us is . . . so maybe I’ll drop out for awhile. Too much emotions & inability to communicate, & it’s not pleasant . . . give my love to the kids. I love you Glor.
Glor: Sunday, August 20th, 2006
Hey, I don’t know. That’s my whole trip now. I don’t know. I should be a better brother & son. A better person . . . My mind is so messed up. My feelings & reactions, thoughts and worries about everything are all screwed up. I probably hurt your feelings. I apologize. Confusion & fear aren’t an excuse to hurt the people you love.
I have a pet praying mantis. She (I think it’s a she) is green, still really small, about two inches long. She’s on my finger, now my hand, while I’m writing . . . now on the end of my pen. I love playing with her, letting her crawl all over me. At night, her big eyes turn from green to dark. When she looks at me, I can see her tiny pupils following me. [She’s] actually a very beautiful creature.
[I wish] to be not so messed up. To even remember what it’s like to have a normal conversation with someone who doesn’t already have a label on me. To be unknown and unjudged. My edges are rough, my manner anymore abrupt & sometimes harsh . . . I don’t mean to be a negative space in your head or heart. You deserve better.
I’m gonna lie back and listen to Stevie Ray Vaughn . . . send me pics from your party & the Tracy Byrd concert, huh?
L8R, Love Gary
Dear Gary: August 25, 2006
Even if you did hurt my feelings, you are allowed. [It’s] a part of any relationship. Maybe we were overdue for such an incident as your venting letter. Lord knows, I have plenty of vents with and from Jimmy and the kids. . . we work through and past the episode, learn, forgive, apologize, and continue on . . . [you and I] can do that, too . . .
The content of your letter did sear a considerable hole into my tender heart. We’ll call it a burning arrow of pain and confusion. I walked down to the end of the cul-de-sac and sat on the curb to cry. I tried to wait for the big rain storm, hoping the waters would come and wash me into the sewer and carry me off to the ocean . . . far away from anyone I could possibly screw up with my words and good intentions. Sarah actually walked over to me to see how I was . . . Or maybe she asked in the kitchen and Zachary walked over to me in the cul-de-sac.
Regardless, all I could think was that I might say something that would screw them up in my efforts to love them . . . so earnestly. I felt like I had done that to you. If I could cause you to think I had withdrawn my support for you . . . what was I capable of making them think? And if I had indeed changed so drastically, demeaning myself by becoming some shallow, shadow version of who I once was, or who I was intended to be, how could I be good enough to be their mother, since I had so obviously failed as your sister? I reexamined my reasons for calling the police on you back in Colorado . . . I went all out, mentally and emotionally, allowing myself to spin way-y out there, feel a few things I had either . . . tucked away or thought I had prayed . . . through.
Eventually, however, I had to come back down into the reality of the situation. Separate myself from the emotion and look at it from the perspective of two people trying to stay connected within the framework of two drastically differing lives. It took me several days of intense examination to come out of my grief for what I felt I had lost. Probably more than a week to really feel my head was screwed on straight.
I decided that you needed to be able to do what you felt you had to do if it would help you to survive and leave that prison alive: even if that meant disconnecting from me. Your wholeness could be dealt with later, I reasoned. As for me, I would continue to write and allow you to decide if you wanted to read or not. For me, the writing is necessary. Right next to God, you are the most conversed with in my brain . . . I don’t write you out of guilt . . . I love my brother. I LIKE my brother. He’s worthy of knowing . . . and of the work it takes to maintain a close relationship . . .
I think the reality is that we can’t get everything across in our complex lives within the context of a few letters and scattered, SHORT, interrupted phone calls. You express some very intense and sharp views on a variety of topics. I don’t look at them and think how very wrong or judgmental of you. I just read, glad you thought to share something, hoping for a chance in your free future to truly hear the full version of that particular thought or opinion.
I wait for the days when we can have real discourse and truly hear each other out. For now, I think of our meager communication as a tether that keeps us from floating away, until such time as the earth can be brought to meet our feet in unison with actual gravity. Make sense?
Gary, I would not want you to do anything illegal for me or the kids or mom. I never want to see you in prison again. It would wreck me to think of you stuck there for a lifetime. . . I’ve developed enough in my personal faith . . . to believe the Lord will help to take care of things if I do my part. I don’t lie for my kids to get them out of jams or misrepresent myself to other people to make my family look better than it is. I try to help the kids face what they must for what they did; I try to figure out who I really am and represent that person. Make amends when I don’t represent who I really am . . .
I have no interest in doing anything that might be construed as illegal in order to help you. My greatest fear . . . that it would come back on you and get you more time in prison. My second[ary] fear (maybe not the best word here) is that of doing something I don’t believe in. Can you really penalize me for desiring to be a law-abiding citizen? Can you really be ticked off at me for hating drugs and the cycle of dealing/selling that keeps it in society? What goes on in prison in order for you to survive the experience is NOT the same yardstick you, or I, would use outside of prison.
I . . . hope that you would not decide to engage in illegal activities upon your release in order to make a living . . . I KNOW there will be a way provided for you . . . But you will have to be patient. Let conditions and situations be created and put into place.
Last time, you bolted before I could do anything concrete to help you . . . I was so desperate to help you then . . . I am determined to help you, now.
September 6, 2006 8:26PM (still Gloria*)
Well, that was written . . . over a week ago . . . I read my letter, again, and decided to let it stand. I’m more than just those thoughts . . . definitely NOT LESS . . . but I can’t expect to make myself totally understood by you. I think there are times when I try so hard to be understood – for the sake of the other person and for the situation – that I overshoot the target. Too earnest. Too zealous.
I was slicing garden tomatoes and putting the crumb coat on my cake before coming up here. (An aside: The crumb coat is a thin layer of frosting that goes on the cake first and sets up. Then, the decorative and thicker second layer goes on without any crumbs to mar the look of the surface. My neighbor is having a “Friendship Dessert Party” tonight. I broke out all of my fancy dessert recipes and settled on a labor intensive 3-layer cake: orange chiffon with a buttercream frosting and an orange filling between all layers and on top. I’ll be bringing home 8 samples of desserts for the family. And they best hurry and eat them! Save me!)
Okay, I could ramble forever. But I have to get other things done today. And I’m sure you do, too. This letter ain’t that riveting!
Oh, I’m enclosing a page on praying mantis’. I asked mom to look up a few sites so I could give you some info. How is your pet? Still around? If not, how long did it last, or stay with you? We have a multitude of stick bugs in my garden. I see the mantis every now and again. Bugs are pretty cool . . . Though all of my children would say otherwise . . .
[Well] Over and out. I love you, mucho. Millions and billions and cotillions! – Sister G.
Letters Are Never Enough Part 1
*The following writing -- rough draft -- is a part of a chapter in progress per the book my brother and I are putting together. It correlates with the next entry, which is what I read for my public reading selection in my writers workshop. Sharing with those of you not able to be at the reading, so as to include you in the process.
_____________________
I have my own box of letters from my brother. Unlike him, they’re not kept beneath my bed. Opened and read. Kept together for company. I’ve never bothered to count them but it wouldn’t matter. It’s like counting sorrows or numbering the sadnesses of a life. Because though my hope has pushed me onward and my faith has forced me upward, my very frail and human heart has often dragged along the lowest points of emotion where Gary is concerned.
They were never enough. The letters, I mean. Much like the sporadic fifteen minute calls which dotted our means of communication, they seemed to just get started in the job of bringing us to that spot where conversation hits its stride, when he would sign off. Didn’t matter it was one page or six. When I had time, which became less and less a commodity as the years fell away from his sentence and his life, as the years heaped people and activity into mine, I hunted for the unsaid between the lines. Wishing for more. Wanting to see him in the words, a face emerging from the familiar pages provided him via the courtesy of the State of California. Though his writing was often refreshing and good company, I knew these few sentences strung into paltry paragraphs, which often encompassed entire days or weeks of incidents and emotions, were not adequately expressing what his life was for him in there. And without that full expression, I could not empathize and understand in the circumspect way that I wished. That meant my help would be lacking. Not without merit but simply and sorely lacking.
It took energy for him to write on a regular basis. I realize now that his mind must have often raced far ahead of his hand as he fought to capture his thoughts between bouts of mania and depression, sometimes violent drug-enhanced mood swings within a twenty-four hour period, and secure them in ink for the long ride out of California and into my awaiting mailbox. But I didn’t have that awareness before October of 2008. Though I could decipher changes in his temperament by the tilt and sway of his penmanship – one week neat, concise, straight across, another week messy, wandering, sharply angled – the way one understands a child or spouse is of sunny or somber disposition by the timbre and sound of their voice, I did not detect the circular path of his constantly cycling mind. I put it off to the stress of prison life; to the on and off abuse of illicit drugs; or even on the physical discomfort resulting from his liver issues or propensity for gathering random infections to his body. Never did mental illness present itself before me in my hunts to better know my brother through his own hand.
My letters to him were usually lengthy affairs. If they weren’t at least five pages, I didn’t consider them good enough though I knew he’d eagerly accept one paragraph per envelope as long as they just kept coming. He had a lot time to kill, to put it mildly; I figured time spent with me and the stories of my kids, husband, friends, and the hundreds of other everyday topics I peppered him with, could go a small distance to fill a portion of those hours and minutes. When I wrote, especially when my stream-of-consciousness sent me meandering here, there, and everywhere, it was as if we were together, chatting in person in a manner which has yet to happen in our very real physical lives.
Not even as kids was I able to step into an intimate sisterly discourse with him the way I could in my writing. The very act transported us both to the double rocking chairs on the back porch of my hopeful mind. Ice cold beers or lemonade in hand. Nowhere to be but with one another. Taking in the occasional child who might run in to the scene. Perhaps Gary jammin’ with my husband on the guitar they picked out together when he was released from Pleasant Valley State Prison. Or admiring the dancing clouds in the wide open sky overhead in companionable silence; his eyes tracking the birds in flight, drawing parallels between their freedom and his. This was my safe place of connection.
The computer greatly enhanced my ability to fill line after line with everything fit to print, and then some. Unlike Gary, my hands had the chance to keep up with my mind. I loved the fact that I could hunt down information for him with the click of the mouse and the flip of a browser all in one place. I was able to cut n’ paste to my heart’s content. If I purchased a package for him online, rest assured that the detailed invoice of every pair of slippers, summer sausage and Snicker’s bar ordered was going to print right behind my letter. Any bit of paper I could add to an outgoing envelope, any item of interest, any picture, any quote or Word-of-the-Day – I considered it tinder to feed the ever diminishing spark in his soul. I’d been known to heft the filled envelope in one hand, seconds away from sealing it shut, debating whether or not it contained enough. If it was found wanting, I’d hurriedly rummage through my e-mails or scan headlines in the paper or dig through the photo archives for that for the one extra thing which would make it complete. It had to be complete because my letters were all on a single-minded mission. They spoke of the life out here which was not forgetting him. My entire reason for being in those mailed missives was to keep him tightly knitted into the fabric of an existence beyond the dull gray and brown walls of incarceration.
I spent early mornings, up before the sun and family, hunched over the keyboard, getting in my hour or two with Gary. Still in my nightgown. If an afternoon presented an opening, I’d step in and hammer out an update on the garden – he recently admitted that doesn’t particularly interest him – or regale him with a tale of one, two, or three children. He was so much a part of my thoughts each day. On walks with our dog, I’d form paragraphs in my head, describing colors and textures on homes and in yards and within tree-lined meadows. On drives to the grocery store, I’d render an image of the sights and sounds of the mundane taken-for-granted taking place all around me. And outside of the pen and keyboard, not conveyed by Hallmark or Georgia font size 12, were the countless ‘good mornings’ and ‘good nights’ to him as I began and ended my days. The anchors holding him in the realm of the remembered. Me, sending out into the vast universe of the unspoken thoughts of billions, my personal reminders that he was not, and would never be, forgotten.
_____________________
I have my own box of letters from my brother. Unlike him, they’re not kept beneath my bed. Opened and read. Kept together for company. I’ve never bothered to count them but it wouldn’t matter. It’s like counting sorrows or numbering the sadnesses of a life. Because though my hope has pushed me onward and my faith has forced me upward, my very frail and human heart has often dragged along the lowest points of emotion where Gary is concerned.
They were never enough. The letters, I mean. Much like the sporadic fifteen minute calls which dotted our means of communication, they seemed to just get started in the job of bringing us to that spot where conversation hits its stride, when he would sign off. Didn’t matter it was one page or six. When I had time, which became less and less a commodity as the years fell away from his sentence and his life, as the years heaped people and activity into mine, I hunted for the unsaid between the lines. Wishing for more. Wanting to see him in the words, a face emerging from the familiar pages provided him via the courtesy of the State of California. Though his writing was often refreshing and good company, I knew these few sentences strung into paltry paragraphs, which often encompassed entire days or weeks of incidents and emotions, were not adequately expressing what his life was for him in there. And without that full expression, I could not empathize and understand in the circumspect way that I wished. That meant my help would be lacking. Not without merit but simply and sorely lacking.
It took energy for him to write on a regular basis. I realize now that his mind must have often raced far ahead of his hand as he fought to capture his thoughts between bouts of mania and depression, sometimes violent drug-enhanced mood swings within a twenty-four hour period, and secure them in ink for the long ride out of California and into my awaiting mailbox. But I didn’t have that awareness before October of 2008. Though I could decipher changes in his temperament by the tilt and sway of his penmanship – one week neat, concise, straight across, another week messy, wandering, sharply angled – the way one understands a child or spouse is of sunny or somber disposition by the timbre and sound of their voice, I did not detect the circular path of his constantly cycling mind. I put it off to the stress of prison life; to the on and off abuse of illicit drugs; or even on the physical discomfort resulting from his liver issues or propensity for gathering random infections to his body. Never did mental illness present itself before me in my hunts to better know my brother through his own hand.
My letters to him were usually lengthy affairs. If they weren’t at least five pages, I didn’t consider them good enough though I knew he’d eagerly accept one paragraph per envelope as long as they just kept coming. He had a lot time to kill, to put it mildly; I figured time spent with me and the stories of my kids, husband, friends, and the hundreds of other everyday topics I peppered him with, could go a small distance to fill a portion of those hours and minutes. When I wrote, especially when my stream-of-consciousness sent me meandering here, there, and everywhere, it was as if we were together, chatting in person in a manner which has yet to happen in our very real physical lives.
Not even as kids was I able to step into an intimate sisterly discourse with him the way I could in my writing. The very act transported us both to the double rocking chairs on the back porch of my hopeful mind. Ice cold beers or lemonade in hand. Nowhere to be but with one another. Taking in the occasional child who might run in to the scene. Perhaps Gary jammin’ with my husband on the guitar they picked out together when he was released from Pleasant Valley State Prison. Or admiring the dancing clouds in the wide open sky overhead in companionable silence; his eyes tracking the birds in flight, drawing parallels between their freedom and his. This was my safe place of connection.
The computer greatly enhanced my ability to fill line after line with everything fit to print, and then some. Unlike Gary, my hands had the chance to keep up with my mind. I loved the fact that I could hunt down information for him with the click of the mouse and the flip of a browser all in one place. I was able to cut n’ paste to my heart’s content. If I purchased a package for him online, rest assured that the detailed invoice of every pair of slippers, summer sausage and Snicker’s bar ordered was going to print right behind my letter. Any bit of paper I could add to an outgoing envelope, any item of interest, any picture, any quote or Word-of-the-Day – I considered it tinder to feed the ever diminishing spark in his soul. I’d been known to heft the filled envelope in one hand, seconds away from sealing it shut, debating whether or not it contained enough. If it was found wanting, I’d hurriedly rummage through my e-mails or scan headlines in the paper or dig through the photo archives for that for the one extra thing which would make it complete. It had to be complete because my letters were all on a single-minded mission. They spoke of the life out here which was not forgetting him. My entire reason for being in those mailed missives was to keep him tightly knitted into the fabric of an existence beyond the dull gray and brown walls of incarceration.
I spent early mornings, up before the sun and family, hunched over the keyboard, getting in my hour or two with Gary. Still in my nightgown. If an afternoon presented an opening, I’d step in and hammer out an update on the garden – he recently admitted that doesn’t particularly interest him – or regale him with a tale of one, two, or three children. He was so much a part of my thoughts each day. On walks with our dog, I’d form paragraphs in my head, describing colors and textures on homes and in yards and within tree-lined meadows. On drives to the grocery store, I’d render an image of the sights and sounds of the mundane taken-for-granted taking place all around me. And outside of the pen and keyboard, not conveyed by Hallmark or Georgia font size 12, were the countless ‘good mornings’ and ‘good nights’ to him as I began and ended my days. The anchors holding him in the realm of the remembered. Me, sending out into the vast universe of the unspoken thoughts of billions, my personal reminders that he was not, and would never be, forgotten.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Tweaked over "Tweak"
I'm trekking through an audio book called "Tweak: Growing Up On Methamphetamines" by Nic Sheff. I dug it up on the READS online library program for literary listening. All through the day, starting the moment my husband walked out the door for work this morning until this evening after dark when the battery monitor on my iPhone registered in the 10% RED-alert mode, my ears have burned with the bleakly barren story that was this guy's life from the age of 17 up into his early 20's. Though the book is not over yet -- but I guarantee by tomorrow afternoon it will be -- I know he makes it because he a) wrote the book, and b) had a blogsite up and running until November of 2008. I've not had time enough to research to discover what has happened with him since.
When I checked at Amazon.com to see what the book would cost to send to my brother, Gary, I was surprised to realize that I knew of this young man, Nic, in a roundabout way because his father wrote the same story about Nic's addiction but from the perspective of the family member trapped on the other side of meth's vicious grip. Somewhere, whether it was "The Today Show" or some such television vehicle, I caught an interview with this David Sheff and thought I'd like to read his take on what his son went through. And I will . . . as soon as I'm finished hearing what his son has to say.
"Tweak" is not a light read. Nor is it for children. Though if the child is 15 or older, I'd say he or she should have a listen or turn the pages. Nic does not embellish, nor does he downplay. Just the raw unvarnished facts which show how brutally quick a life can be changed by the very first encounter with illicit drugs. Though as a teen I feared drugs enough to keep me from trying them, outside of alcohol and cigarettes -- nope, not even a toke -- a significant number of my peers were adventurous, or foolhardy, enough to 'experiment' as they liked to put it. But for Nic, experimentation was NOT an option; crystal meth was, and is, an equal-opportunity destroyer of mind and body.
I realize that my exposure to his descent has made me irritable today. (The unending sinus headache and twinging joints of my gardening/typing fingers played minor roles, undoubtedly.) Because try as I might, I couldn't keep him in his own skin. Every deal he made; every vein he hit; every mishap and misstep along the twisting wretched path of his increasing dependency on the cycles of heroine and crystal meth: it wasn't Nic Sheff that I saw but my own brother. It didn't matter that Nic's privileged life of comfort, travel, and fatherly attention contrasted so greatly with Gary's history of an unstable childhood and an absentee father -- an addict is an addict is an addict. The sway of these drugs takes a hold of the individual and transmogrifies him or her into a zombie held captive by base urges and primal needs.
It wasn't difficult to imagine my brother wandering unsafe streets at night, unable to sleep, penniless, just waiting until his body allowed him to crash after his fix. Whenever and wherever that might be. Inserting himself into ridiculous, sometimes downright dangerous, situations because he wasn't capable of rational thought. I could see him trying to put together a deal, saying too much, caring too little for himself, making the choices he would later regret with equal parts shame and disgust. Stealing from loved ones just to make the next score. Lying about the severity of his condition. Casting stones to divert attention from the truth of his actions. Hating himself for it. Understanding that blame and distrust and heartbreak was the wake he left behind. But powerless to bring it all to a halt.
I consider my exposure to this book a part of my ongoing research for the story my brother and I are putting together. I also consider my exposure to this book a part of my ongoing therapy. Though I knew in what I thought was large part about Gary's addiction issues, I've come to realize over the course of months from April 2010 to now -- when he entered the state hospital after leaving the prison system -- that a voluminous amount of information was not made privy to me. And I understand why. That ironclad hope that I'm known for may have surrendered to the seemingly hopeless nature of his life if I had been in possession of the certain knowledge concerning his daily ongoing activities that filled the days, weeks, months, and years of his youth and adult life up until now.
Within this past week, my brother has made a huge step in his therapeutic process by admitting that he has been lying to himself, and to me, about the severe nature of his drug addiction. Yes, he has a problem, and it has been living in him and feeding on him. He's tried to downplay it. He's accused the hospital ward hierarchy of spending too much time focused on addictions and not enough on mental illness. He's bucked the dual diagnosis of bi-polar AND drug dependent. He was protesting TOO much. When he copped to that and gave voice to what me and my family have always known is true for him, that he is, indeed, a drug addict, there was a huge internal shift for me, too. It was no longer just stories told and lived by a user of near-suicide and joy rides and botched parole. It was, and is, now a matter of a grown man struggling to accept the truth of his entire 34 years of pained and strained life. It was, and is, a matter of a compassionate and caring sister eager to stay as far away from the role of co-dependent as possible.
The irony is that despite the myriad insane adventures which seem to accompany the stuporous life of a user, they find real everyday life a fearful unsure bag of tricks. Yes, they can OD multiple times and narrowly escape death, but no, they can't hold down a job every day for the next few years. Yes, they'll risk personal safety handing over their money to perfect strangers who might mug them or run off with the cash instead of reciprocating with a baggie of instant nirvana, but they're not so very sure about regularly doling out a paycheck to gas, groceries, and toothpaste. None of it is logical. All of it is riddled with fear and paranoia and the obstinate belief that getting high is far better than any of us squares can possibly comprehend. It is a seduction -- slow, serious, scandalous. Though the addict tries to look away, his or her gaze is continually pulled back to lock eyes with the upper or downer, all the while hearing the siren call of instant serenity or escape, riding the high wave of 'everything is okay right now' or 'I can do anything,' and feeling the wash of opiates, or whatever else, as it flushes reality from veins, limbs, organs, and spirit.
********************
I fell asleep at the wheel writing this entry. This line denotes a new day. A fairly warm afternoon in Middle Tennessee. I've continued my journey through Nic's dereliction from responsibility and self awareness. And I realize I'm far from all right. I thought I understood what my brother has thus far endured. I don't. I didn't. That scares me. At this very moment, with fingers poised over my keyboard in the comfort of my pretty yellow kitchen, it frightens me into tears and threatens to halt my progress in this entry. But since the opening lines of this book ran through the earbuds of my iPhone and hit my mind, I knew I had to see this through. And, I'll have to see it through, with the abundant grace of Christ as my companion, to whatever ending there is. Because with Gary's huge declaration regarding his issues with heroin and meth specifically, any addictive substance in general, this is out of my hands. Not only does he have to deal with his mental illness and reprogram to operate safely and peacefully within its parameters, he must, must, must surrender, down to the last kernel and seed within him, his perceived need and deep-seated desire for the suffocating screaming cocoon he has allowed to form around him courtesy of the needle. All he has done is to trade in the pain of real life for the agony of an illusory existence.
My life has been nothing short of a testimony to the power of Christ: He has been the omniscient aid in powering through and overcoming the barrage of arrows and stones this earthly life has inflicted upon people whom I love more than the air I breathe. And, yes, a few have been hurled my way, but I consider their damage to me less penetrating than the wounds of others. What good is the air if there is no one around on the exhale? I was not put here to exist in solitude, therefore when one I love is in pain, I, too, experience that pain in some discomfiting measure. Having stated all of that, I put my faith in the basket labelled 'Gary's successful recovery and rehabilitation.' And I believe in the enormous possibility of that future. However, I also believe Gary must come willingly and do the work of his own accord so that his life may, indeed, be his own.
The God I have studied in scripture, heard about in church and from those who speak of such things, and who has been a presence in my life, does not force our hand. He does present consequences. He does not guarantee joy and peace in the physical realm -- just look at the state of our world and its nations throughout history -- but offers a very valid calm in the eye of the storm if we choose to partake. No one can make that choice for any other. And THAT is what I continue to accept at my core in regards to Gary. It all reads so well and easy but man! oh man! is it ever hard to put down.
For the here and now, I'll soldier on. Nic Sheff will continue to pull me along, back through time, so that I might walk with my brother through the life I did not fully comprehend he was leading while I was busy picking and choosing my own successes and failures in high school, and as a young mother and newlywed. Forge ahead with my research and writing. Dial up those two pay phones in Gary's ward at Napa State Hospital and await his familiar voice, vacillating between full-on clarity and prescriptively doped-down lethargy, and fill his ears with encouragement, truth, reality checks, and, yes, lots and lots of love. Regardless of what comes down the pike.
When I checked at Amazon.com to see what the book would cost to send to my brother, Gary, I was surprised to realize that I knew of this young man, Nic, in a roundabout way because his father wrote the same story about Nic's addiction but from the perspective of the family member trapped on the other side of meth's vicious grip. Somewhere, whether it was "The Today Show" or some such television vehicle, I caught an interview with this David Sheff and thought I'd like to read his take on what his son went through. And I will . . . as soon as I'm finished hearing what his son has to say.
"Tweak" is not a light read. Nor is it for children. Though if the child is 15 or older, I'd say he or she should have a listen or turn the pages. Nic does not embellish, nor does he downplay. Just the raw unvarnished facts which show how brutally quick a life can be changed by the very first encounter with illicit drugs. Though as a teen I feared drugs enough to keep me from trying them, outside of alcohol and cigarettes -- nope, not even a toke -- a significant number of my peers were adventurous, or foolhardy, enough to 'experiment' as they liked to put it. But for Nic, experimentation was NOT an option; crystal meth was, and is, an equal-opportunity destroyer of mind and body.
I realize that my exposure to his descent has made me irritable today. (The unending sinus headache and twinging joints of my gardening/typing fingers played minor roles, undoubtedly.) Because try as I might, I couldn't keep him in his own skin. Every deal he made; every vein he hit; every mishap and misstep along the twisting wretched path of his increasing dependency on the cycles of heroine and crystal meth: it wasn't Nic Sheff that I saw but my own brother. It didn't matter that Nic's privileged life of comfort, travel, and fatherly attention contrasted so greatly with Gary's history of an unstable childhood and an absentee father -- an addict is an addict is an addict. The sway of these drugs takes a hold of the individual and transmogrifies him or her into a zombie held captive by base urges and primal needs.
It wasn't difficult to imagine my brother wandering unsafe streets at night, unable to sleep, penniless, just waiting until his body allowed him to crash after his fix. Whenever and wherever that might be. Inserting himself into ridiculous, sometimes downright dangerous, situations because he wasn't capable of rational thought. I could see him trying to put together a deal, saying too much, caring too little for himself, making the choices he would later regret with equal parts shame and disgust. Stealing from loved ones just to make the next score. Lying about the severity of his condition. Casting stones to divert attention from the truth of his actions. Hating himself for it. Understanding that blame and distrust and heartbreak was the wake he left behind. But powerless to bring it all to a halt.
I consider my exposure to this book a part of my ongoing research for the story my brother and I are putting together. I also consider my exposure to this book a part of my ongoing therapy. Though I knew in what I thought was large part about Gary's addiction issues, I've come to realize over the course of months from April 2010 to now -- when he entered the state hospital after leaving the prison system -- that a voluminous amount of information was not made privy to me. And I understand why. That ironclad hope that I'm known for may have surrendered to the seemingly hopeless nature of his life if I had been in possession of the certain knowledge concerning his daily ongoing activities that filled the days, weeks, months, and years of his youth and adult life up until now.
Within this past week, my brother has made a huge step in his therapeutic process by admitting that he has been lying to himself, and to me, about the severe nature of his drug addiction. Yes, he has a problem, and it has been living in him and feeding on him. He's tried to downplay it. He's accused the hospital ward hierarchy of spending too much time focused on addictions and not enough on mental illness. He's bucked the dual diagnosis of bi-polar AND drug dependent. He was protesting TOO much. When he copped to that and gave voice to what me and my family have always known is true for him, that he is, indeed, a drug addict, there was a huge internal shift for me, too. It was no longer just stories told and lived by a user of near-suicide and joy rides and botched parole. It was, and is, now a matter of a grown man struggling to accept the truth of his entire 34 years of pained and strained life. It was, and is, a matter of a compassionate and caring sister eager to stay as far away from the role of co-dependent as possible.
The irony is that despite the myriad insane adventures which seem to accompany the stuporous life of a user, they find real everyday life a fearful unsure bag of tricks. Yes, they can OD multiple times and narrowly escape death, but no, they can't hold down a job every day for the next few years. Yes, they'll risk personal safety handing over their money to perfect strangers who might mug them or run off with the cash instead of reciprocating with a baggie of instant nirvana, but they're not so very sure about regularly doling out a paycheck to gas, groceries, and toothpaste. None of it is logical. All of it is riddled with fear and paranoia and the obstinate belief that getting high is far better than any of us squares can possibly comprehend. It is a seduction -- slow, serious, scandalous. Though the addict tries to look away, his or her gaze is continually pulled back to lock eyes with the upper or downer, all the while hearing the siren call of instant serenity or escape, riding the high wave of 'everything is okay right now' or 'I can do anything,' and feeling the wash of opiates, or whatever else, as it flushes reality from veins, limbs, organs, and spirit.
********************
I fell asleep at the wheel writing this entry. This line denotes a new day. A fairly warm afternoon in Middle Tennessee. I've continued my journey through Nic's dereliction from responsibility and self awareness. And I realize I'm far from all right. I thought I understood what my brother has thus far endured. I don't. I didn't. That scares me. At this very moment, with fingers poised over my keyboard in the comfort of my pretty yellow kitchen, it frightens me into tears and threatens to halt my progress in this entry. But since the opening lines of this book ran through the earbuds of my iPhone and hit my mind, I knew I had to see this through. And, I'll have to see it through, with the abundant grace of Christ as my companion, to whatever ending there is. Because with Gary's huge declaration regarding his issues with heroin and meth specifically, any addictive substance in general, this is out of my hands. Not only does he have to deal with his mental illness and reprogram to operate safely and peacefully within its parameters, he must, must, must surrender, down to the last kernel and seed within him, his perceived need and deep-seated desire for the suffocating screaming cocoon he has allowed to form around him courtesy of the needle. All he has done is to trade in the pain of real life for the agony of an illusory existence.
My life has been nothing short of a testimony to the power of Christ: He has been the omniscient aid in powering through and overcoming the barrage of arrows and stones this earthly life has inflicted upon people whom I love more than the air I breathe. And, yes, a few have been hurled my way, but I consider their damage to me less penetrating than the wounds of others. What good is the air if there is no one around on the exhale? I was not put here to exist in solitude, therefore when one I love is in pain, I, too, experience that pain in some discomfiting measure. Having stated all of that, I put my faith in the basket labelled 'Gary's successful recovery and rehabilitation.' And I believe in the enormous possibility of that future. However, I also believe Gary must come willingly and do the work of his own accord so that his life may, indeed, be his own.
The God I have studied in scripture, heard about in church and from those who speak of such things, and who has been a presence in my life, does not force our hand. He does present consequences. He does not guarantee joy and peace in the physical realm -- just look at the state of our world and its nations throughout history -- but offers a very valid calm in the eye of the storm if we choose to partake. No one can make that choice for any other. And THAT is what I continue to accept at my core in regards to Gary. It all reads so well and easy but man! oh man! is it ever hard to put down.
For the here and now, I'll soldier on. Nic Sheff will continue to pull me along, back through time, so that I might walk with my brother through the life I did not fully comprehend he was leading while I was busy picking and choosing my own successes and failures in high school, and as a young mother and newlywed. Forge ahead with my research and writing. Dial up those two pay phones in Gary's ward at Napa State Hospital and await his familiar voice, vacillating between full-on clarity and prescriptively doped-down lethargy, and fill his ears with encouragement, truth, reality checks, and, yes, lots and lots of love. Regardless of what comes down the pike.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
If Mohammed Won't Come To The Mountain . . .
It seems that the modern Holy War hatred is coming to a nasty head in our country. Continued rumours that our president is a practicing follower of Mohammed cannot be dispelled even by his own lips. Citizens refuse to allow him to say otherwise; or, though he says he is a Christian, what he says is not recognized and recorded in the public record with any real belief. At least not the e-mail forwarding public record -- which is taken for the God's-honest truth by many folk unwilling to do any research or more than willing to believe conspiracy theories and end-of-days preaching.
Let me just state for my own written record that my intent here is not to throw my hat in, or out, of the ring concerning President Obama. Nor is it to opine on my beliefs concerning Christianity and those of the Islam faith. It is the atmosphere of hate, which stems from fear, which bothers me.
9/11 only brought to the general public forefront of America an awareness of a culture and religious clash which has spanned hundreds of years after the birth of Christ, with several eras of Crusade wars as historical proof. I'm not an expert, so I'll refrain from venturing too far into that time period. Most of us aren't experts, and our memory of history classes is vague in light of all that we fight to keep in minds during the course of everyday life. So, much of what mainstream society relies upon is what we see, hear, and read from the media, our religious publications, and people around us willing to speak whether or not they postulate from a foundation of knowledge or ignorance.
Recently, three separate news items have incited a national discourse which has moved out of the arena of circumspect debate and into the fighting field of irrational thought and enmity.
1) The proposed Islamic center near Ground Zero -- which I do find to be a very bad idea in light of the location and the general propriety of honoring the feelings of the people involved who are left to bear the loss caused by the tragedy. Though I've not read every article and blog written on the subject, I get the sense there is a stubbornness behind all of this which lacks true hindsight OR foresight. A religion of peace will not gain the understanding of suspicious outsiders when certain members create distrust by maintaining a pitbull-like hold on an iffy-from-the-start proposition.
2) The planned bonfire of Qurans, the holy book of Islam, by the 50-member strong Dove Outreach Center in Florida led by the Reverend Terry Jones -- again, I have to disagree, because based on what Christianity states, though we may hate the spirit of a thing, we are not called to foster an atmosphere of hate to make a point. Not to mention the possible danger this could cause for our troops and private sector citizens in the Middle East. In a press statement today, the reverend stated, "As of right now, we are not convinced that backing down is the right thing." From WHAT can he not back down, exactly? Why did he feel the need to 'stand up' to begin with? How does this honor the memory of, or bring useful attention to, the world event that is 9/11? Again, it seems to me that there is a need for attention at the root of this 58 year-old man's agenda. I wonder how far an Iman would get if he led his mosque of followers to set fire to a pile of Bibles?
3) The ongoing conflict over the mosque attempting to go up in my town of Murfreesboro, Tennessee -- which started with contentious city commission meetings and culminated in arson at the dig site this past week. For over 25 years there has existed a community of Muslims here, small in comparison to the widespread presence of Baptist and Church of Christ and multiple other Christian worshippers liberally (no pun intended) peppered throughout this overall peaceable spot on the Tennessee map. Until recently, we've not had this outward expression of anti-Islamic feeling in such numbers, garnering such a high level of attention, engendering both perceived and very real violence. The ATF and FBI are now involved. Have we stepped back into the Dark Ages? Or worse, for this region of the country, have we rekindled the malevolent spirit of racism which held so many in bondage during our nation's time of early growing pains?
The radical and extremist groups which exist to stamp out any and all non-Islamic believers must rejoice when they view the images of discord and hostility being fostered and fed on American soil as of late. Perhaps they are patting themselves on the back in congratulations of a job well done; the seeds they planted on September 11, 2001 are bearing heavy fruit. The angry Americans launching this three-pronged attack on the Muslims in our midst will play well on the television sets and computer screens of training centers and back rooms in places where military and religious leaders work diligently and with great intelligence to fill the minds of young men and women with the rhetoric which will launch thousands into suicide bombings and the like.
It would appear that they know us better than we know ourselves. Where we react emotionally, they sit back and study. We would do well to learn from that particular model. We can learn from the enemy without surrendering to the misinformation and poisoned mindsets. I don't hold all of the answers. I'm not fully certain just exactly what the questions should be. But what my mind AND my heart tell me is that this goes beyond a simple exercise in First Amendment rights. Though there is most certainly a compelling need for action that should be taken here, I don't believe these particular actions reflect the need.
Christians would do well to allow the Holy Spirit to have a pow-wow at their spiritual core and examine the line between human frailty and Godly strength. Americans in general would benefit from taking an emotional step back and injecting a bit of intellectual contemplation into the mix -- wisdom is a useful by-product of such reflection. Fear is never a sound game plan nor a sole basis for solid strategy. Enough said.
Let me just state for my own written record that my intent here is not to throw my hat in, or out, of the ring concerning President Obama. Nor is it to opine on my beliefs concerning Christianity and those of the Islam faith. It is the atmosphere of hate, which stems from fear, which bothers me.
9/11 only brought to the general public forefront of America an awareness of a culture and religious clash which has spanned hundreds of years after the birth of Christ, with several eras of Crusade wars as historical proof. I'm not an expert, so I'll refrain from venturing too far into that time period. Most of us aren't experts, and our memory of history classes is vague in light of all that we fight to keep in minds during the course of everyday life. So, much of what mainstream society relies upon is what we see, hear, and read from the media, our religious publications, and people around us willing to speak whether or not they postulate from a foundation of knowledge or ignorance.
Recently, three separate news items have incited a national discourse which has moved out of the arena of circumspect debate and into the fighting field of irrational thought and enmity.
1) The proposed Islamic center near Ground Zero -- which I do find to be a very bad idea in light of the location and the general propriety of honoring the feelings of the people involved who are left to bear the loss caused by the tragedy. Though I've not read every article and blog written on the subject, I get the sense there is a stubbornness behind all of this which lacks true hindsight OR foresight. A religion of peace will not gain the understanding of suspicious outsiders when certain members create distrust by maintaining a pitbull-like hold on an iffy-from-the-start proposition.
2) The planned bonfire of Qurans, the holy book of Islam, by the 50-member strong Dove Outreach Center in Florida led by the Reverend Terry Jones -- again, I have to disagree, because based on what Christianity states, though we may hate the spirit of a thing, we are not called to foster an atmosphere of hate to make a point. Not to mention the possible danger this could cause for our troops and private sector citizens in the Middle East. In a press statement today, the reverend stated, "As of right now, we are not convinced that backing down is the right thing." From WHAT can he not back down, exactly? Why did he feel the need to 'stand up' to begin with? How does this honor the memory of, or bring useful attention to, the world event that is 9/11? Again, it seems to me that there is a need for attention at the root of this 58 year-old man's agenda. I wonder how far an Iman would get if he led his mosque of followers to set fire to a pile of Bibles?
3) The ongoing conflict over the mosque attempting to go up in my town of Murfreesboro, Tennessee -- which started with contentious city commission meetings and culminated in arson at the dig site this past week. For over 25 years there has existed a community of Muslims here, small in comparison to the widespread presence of Baptist and Church of Christ and multiple other Christian worshippers liberally (no pun intended) peppered throughout this overall peaceable spot on the Tennessee map. Until recently, we've not had this outward expression of anti-Islamic feeling in such numbers, garnering such a high level of attention, engendering both perceived and very real violence. The ATF and FBI are now involved. Have we stepped back into the Dark Ages? Or worse, for this region of the country, have we rekindled the malevolent spirit of racism which held so many in bondage during our nation's time of early growing pains?
The radical and extremist groups which exist to stamp out any and all non-Islamic believers must rejoice when they view the images of discord and hostility being fostered and fed on American soil as of late. Perhaps they are patting themselves on the back in congratulations of a job well done; the seeds they planted on September 11, 2001 are bearing heavy fruit. The angry Americans launching this three-pronged attack on the Muslims in our midst will play well on the television sets and computer screens of training centers and back rooms in places where military and religious leaders work diligently and with great intelligence to fill the minds of young men and women with the rhetoric which will launch thousands into suicide bombings and the like.
It would appear that they know us better than we know ourselves. Where we react emotionally, they sit back and study. We would do well to learn from that particular model. We can learn from the enemy without surrendering to the misinformation and poisoned mindsets. I don't hold all of the answers. I'm not fully certain just exactly what the questions should be. But what my mind AND my heart tell me is that this goes beyond a simple exercise in First Amendment rights. Though there is most certainly a compelling need for action that should be taken here, I don't believe these particular actions reflect the need.
Christians would do well to allow the Holy Spirit to have a pow-wow at their spiritual core and examine the line between human frailty and Godly strength. Americans in general would benefit from taking an emotional step back and injecting a bit of intellectual contemplation into the mix -- wisdom is a useful by-product of such reflection. Fear is never a sound game plan nor a sole basis for solid strategy. Enough said.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
Bad Mornings Require Goodness
"I'll tell them how I survive it. I'll tell them that on bad mornings, it feels impossible to take pleasure in anything because I'm afraid it could be taken away. That's when I make a list in my head of every act of goodness I've seen someone do. It's like a game. Repetitive. Even a little tedious after more than twenty years." -- the final paragraph in Mockingjay, the third in The Hunger Games series by Suzanne Collins
The heroine in the story, Katniss Everdeen, shares these thoughts in the closing moments of the book I just finished earlier tonight. They struck a chord, stirring a hum which resonated to the very core of me, the way lines of truth tend to do when I come across them in my literary outings. I highlighted them in orange. Tucked them away for later contemplation for this blog. There's something there which needs saying.
Only I'm not sure just what. But if I wait, it may not be allowed the chance to flesh out the skeleton of an idea, my days being what they are in this chaotic unnatural suburban landscape, so I'll attempt to describe what is barely there.
Katniss' childhood was a bleak existence. She found ways to move within that bleakness and still retain a measure of who she was. At some point, she became a pawn in a game not within her control though she exerted great effort to regain a portion of control. People, those close to her, many who were not, were lost along the way. Her guilt over surviving, misplaced feelings that her ability to keep her head above water while often better folks around her succumbed to great pain and death, made life an impossible bit of business for her internally. Externally, she kept about the actions of living and rolling with the bruising punches. This is a gross simplification without benefit of the complicated plot line.
I identify with Katniss in those words of hers. A great many unknown to me likely do, too. A difficult childhood. The isolation which can come with that. The supreme effort to rise above and even appreciate the lessons of that childhood. Working through experience and faith to build an understanding of past events in order to translate them into an operational vehicle for future events. Coming to a place at some point where the two collide with a thunderous clap which leaves the ears ringing. Looking around with the realization that though you now stand, several in the collision did not emerge as whole as you. Or at least as whole as you appear. The scene of the accident must be cleared, bodies dragged to the side, glass and debris swept away, and witnesses debriefed. When the emergency crew finally leaves with the unfortunate victims, you are able to walk away with only the collective dust about your person. And the memories for everlasting company.
When you know that while you narrowly escaped an existence of desperation and strife that has succeeded in trapping others, large numbers of others on a world scale, a significant gallery of others in your close circle, it is difficult to enjoy the the life on the other side of that escape. No matter if you tried to save the others. No matter if you were willing to sacrifice yourself. No matter if you, too, bear scars of a lesser degree but painful all the same. No matter if you pulled yourself up by the bootstraps to make the most of your blessed lot. But unlike Katniss' words, it's more than the fear that you might lose it all. It's even more than fear, really. It's the expectation that anyone's carpet can be pulled from under them at any given moment, and with so many suffering so much so regularly, why get too comfortable.
But even more than that, it's unfair. To have wonderful friends, a spacious home, food whenever the belly desires, safety to be a woman and a Christian and an individual, while over 90% of the world's population struggles just to find adequate water or shelter or food for a day. To sit securely at a laptop and discuss with an invisible audience a reflective moment while a brother and sister wrestle the demons which followed them up through the years of their youth into their troubled adult lives. And even this is a gross simplification of an infinitely complex timeline which is yet projecting into the years ahead. All of it unfair. Not fair. Which I tell my kids constantly is how it is. I want them to be prepared when it hits. Over and over and over again.
So there are mornings when I rise, mornings when people in other myriad walks of life rise, and we begin the difficult chore of accepting the next 24 hour stretch as a gift of which we are worthy to partake. We remind ourselves of the goodness out there being enacted by others, even trying to believe that we might have done a few good things along the way, to balance the paralyzing awareness that incredible amounts of suffering go on way beyond our power to control or change. Without my faith in the Lord, I would be paralyzed; with it, I yet struggle with holding on to hope. It is a bit repetitive. It can be a tedious exercise as the decades stack up.
And it is survival, if not of the fittest, at least of the 'attempting to be fit.'
The heroine in the story, Katniss Everdeen, shares these thoughts in the closing moments of the book I just finished earlier tonight. They struck a chord, stirring a hum which resonated to the very core of me, the way lines of truth tend to do when I come across them in my literary outings. I highlighted them in orange. Tucked them away for later contemplation for this blog. There's something there which needs saying.
Only I'm not sure just what. But if I wait, it may not be allowed the chance to flesh out the skeleton of an idea, my days being what they are in this chaotic unnatural suburban landscape, so I'll attempt to describe what is barely there.
Katniss' childhood was a bleak existence. She found ways to move within that bleakness and still retain a measure of who she was. At some point, she became a pawn in a game not within her control though she exerted great effort to regain a portion of control. People, those close to her, many who were not, were lost along the way. Her guilt over surviving, misplaced feelings that her ability to keep her head above water while often better folks around her succumbed to great pain and death, made life an impossible bit of business for her internally. Externally, she kept about the actions of living and rolling with the bruising punches. This is a gross simplification without benefit of the complicated plot line.
I identify with Katniss in those words of hers. A great many unknown to me likely do, too. A difficult childhood. The isolation which can come with that. The supreme effort to rise above and even appreciate the lessons of that childhood. Working through experience and faith to build an understanding of past events in order to translate them into an operational vehicle for future events. Coming to a place at some point where the two collide with a thunderous clap which leaves the ears ringing. Looking around with the realization that though you now stand, several in the collision did not emerge as whole as you. Or at least as whole as you appear. The scene of the accident must be cleared, bodies dragged to the side, glass and debris swept away, and witnesses debriefed. When the emergency crew finally leaves with the unfortunate victims, you are able to walk away with only the collective dust about your person. And the memories for everlasting company.
When you know that while you narrowly escaped an existence of desperation and strife that has succeeded in trapping others, large numbers of others on a world scale, a significant gallery of others in your close circle, it is difficult to enjoy the the life on the other side of that escape. No matter if you tried to save the others. No matter if you were willing to sacrifice yourself. No matter if you, too, bear scars of a lesser degree but painful all the same. No matter if you pulled yourself up by the bootstraps to make the most of your blessed lot. But unlike Katniss' words, it's more than the fear that you might lose it all. It's even more than fear, really. It's the expectation that anyone's carpet can be pulled from under them at any given moment, and with so many suffering so much so regularly, why get too comfortable.
But even more than that, it's unfair. To have wonderful friends, a spacious home, food whenever the belly desires, safety to be a woman and a Christian and an individual, while over 90% of the world's population struggles just to find adequate water or shelter or food for a day. To sit securely at a laptop and discuss with an invisible audience a reflective moment while a brother and sister wrestle the demons which followed them up through the years of their youth into their troubled adult lives. And even this is a gross simplification of an infinitely complex timeline which is yet projecting into the years ahead. All of it unfair. Not fair. Which I tell my kids constantly is how it is. I want them to be prepared when it hits. Over and over and over again.
So there are mornings when I rise, mornings when people in other myriad walks of life rise, and we begin the difficult chore of accepting the next 24 hour stretch as a gift of which we are worthy to partake. We remind ourselves of the goodness out there being enacted by others, even trying to believe that we might have done a few good things along the way, to balance the paralyzing awareness that incredible amounts of suffering go on way beyond our power to control or change. Without my faith in the Lord, I would be paralyzed; with it, I yet struggle with holding on to hope. It is a bit repetitive. It can be a tedious exercise as the decades stack up.
And it is survival, if not of the fittest, at least of the 'attempting to be fit.'
Thursday, September 2, 2010
REMINDER of ALTERNATIVE
Dear Readers of THE RELUCTANT SUBURBANITE,
I wanted to bring to your attention my second blog, Push-Ups, also here on blogger.com under my name. Where this blog tends to be lengthy and deal with more weighty subject matter, the Push-Ups blog is usually brief -- comparatively speaking -- and lighter in tone and subject. The entries also tend toward a daily habit as I consider it an exercise in writing; entries here make appearances every week or two.
Take a peek. Less time. Smaller bites. Easier to digest. Think of it as a snack in between meals.
Thank You for Reading . . . and Still Returning!
-gsv, Our Lady of Reluctance in all Things Suburban
I wanted to bring to your attention my second blog, Push-Ups, also here on blogger.com under my name. Where this blog tends to be lengthy and deal with more weighty subject matter, the Push-Ups blog is usually brief -- comparatively speaking -- and lighter in tone and subject. The entries also tend toward a daily habit as I consider it an exercise in writing; entries here make appearances every week or two.
Take a peek. Less time. Smaller bites. Easier to digest. Think of it as a snack in between meals.
Thank You for Reading . . . and Still Returning!
-gsv, Our Lady of Reluctance in all Things Suburban
Monday, August 30, 2010
On The Being Of Women
I've been chewing on this subject for over a week. A bit of personal distance, for objectivity's sake, was required. I simply did not have it. It's probably more of a compound subject: women supporting women AND friendship. Though they are not mutually exclusive, one can exist without the other.
In the course of relaying sensitive information to a friend I don't see very often regarding her child, I felt the need to disclose uncomfortable feelings I'd had in regards to what I felt were her perceptions of my parenting and of me in general. There was a substantial amount of background involved, and there was a need to be extremely clear and precise, so I sent her a lengthy e-mail. In the past, we've communicated quite well in this manner. (As it was a complicated matter, I've simplified for privacy and the sake of space on this blog.) I wondered if I had done anything to cause her to feel irritated with me. She works full-time; I'm a stay-at-home mom. In the past year, the tone of her comments and conversations seemed to suggest I had it easier than her. Was there a grain, or more, of truth to any of this? Was I sensing correctly?
And, as time went on, I sensed that she felt I was giving more energy to my brother and sister than to my children or husband; in her mind, my siblings with dubious backgrounds are getting what they deserve and are lost causes. Though I don't force my viewpoint concerning my brother who spent half of his life in prison or my sister who suffered a post-partum psychotic episode and drowned my niece and nephew, the people I keep close understand my commitment even if they don't share the perspective. So, while I have no problem with her divergent opinions, the idea that I wasn't giving enough focused attention to my children was sticking in my craw. Though I tried to brush the tremors of concern I was feeling off to the side, I couldn't rid myself of the discomfit. I'd reached a point where I had to unload the burden and clear the table of our friendship. It all felt too secretive in the holding -- the table was pretty darned crowded.
For three days, I received no reply. Then, a text one afternoon saying she was not ignoring me but between work, talking with her child, and going about her regular busy-ness, she didn't have time for an adequate response. That I could believe. I waited.
Finally, her return volley across the bow arrived in my MSN inbox. Overall, it was an exceptional e-mail; I let her know as much. She covered the drama behind the news I'd had to share. She reminded me that many people disagree with the parental decisions of others though they support them as parents overall. (I agree, totally.) And then she proceeded to unload her issues with the typical frankness which marks her personality.
First, she acknowledged that I worked very hard to maintain my household. She also wanted me to acknowledge right back that she had far less free time to do things like baking, exercising, entertaining friends, gardening, etc. "There is huge difference in the life of a stay at home mother and working mother. I do think you are a valuable, caring, giving and wonderful person. I know the Lord is proud of all you do. You have been through a bunch of touch times and tragedy in your life but you still have a positive attitude."
I felt dismissed in that moment. Her statement reminded me of the time my basically absentee father last saw me at my brother's college graduation over thirteen years ago. While he seemed quite entranced with John's academic accomplishments at Cal-Poly and spent hours conversing with him, the few minutes he gave me consisted of noting my kids were healthy and good-looking and stating I was a good mother. That hurt. I knew my decision to ditch college had miffed my dad, but I didn't realize how low on the totem pole my stay-at-home status placed me. My friend's words had the same effect though it was not her intent. It hit my sensitive bullseye regarding the intellectual and life sacrifices I made to remain at home instead of striking out in the big world of outside work. Early on in my marriage, I worked while my husband also worked his way up through entry-level jobs. When he reached a certain breadwinning capability, we decided that it was important for one of us to remain at home with our three children. It was a conscious decision which we were willing to support financially as necessary.
But I took a giant step back and absorbed the panoramic view. I'm very fortunate to lead the life that I do. It has allowed me to help my children over and through a few substantial roadblocks; it has gifted me with the time to help others in my community, extended family, and church as needed; it provided me with the emotional space to heal from my childhood and develop strong roots upon a rebuilt foundation. There are times when I experience guilt over this life I've been given. But my friends remind me that I didn't just luck into it. Thank God for them. It is unfortunate that these lifestyles create fissures between women. There are pros and cons, stresses and conditions, to both ways of life. Neither should be snubbed or judged.
Then, she said that she didn't bother to make any friends because she had no space in her life for them. It was work all day during the week, followed by time centered around her child, husband, and house. That was it. I must have read those lines several times over. I ran a mental finger down the list of working friends I knew. Especially those with children under the age of eighteen. Did they stick strictly to the homefront? Were they friendless? Did they accept that working precluded any outside acquaintances? The answer to each question was, "No."
The woman down the block meets her bevy of gal pals once a week at a local establishment for a few drinks and lots of laughter. One of my out-of-state friends seems to meet new acquaintances every other week, scoring more buddies than my social butterfly high schoolers; though come to think of it, she WAS a social thing in high school. Another woman, a working professional long before marriage and motherhood, maintains her stable of friends and has added a few who are connected to her son's life. Their husbands and children are not suffering. In fact, I contend that women with ongoing friendships make for happier husbands and children. Sharing the load with our girlfriends, getting feedback, receiving our strokes, and releasing the emotional hounds onto trusted ears, allows us to lead fuller lives. They assist us in stepping out of the boundaries our homes and families can often impose on us before we know it has even happened. We need fresh air to break up the staleness that stress and busy can cause. Regardless of the time commitment to our connections -- an hour a few times a week by phone or the weekend girl trip to the beach. It hurt me to to contemplate the isolation my friend was imposing on herself, all the while believing it to be a necessary sacrifice. I told her as much.
In closing her honest communication with me, she revealed that I often made her feel stupid and inferior in countless areas, including my immediate family and friend relationships, fitness, recycling, housekeeping, intelligence, entertaining, cooking and nutrition, and wardrobe. I must say I was dumbfounded. Mainly because I actually go out of my way to ensure people don't think I feel superior. Never would I put down another woman to feel better about myself. That action, in and of itself, would cause me to hold myself in the lowest of esteem. There was a time in our lives, before everything went into mutual hyperdrive, where the two of us walked and talked about every topic under the sun. Anyone who knows me knows that I fully disclose. I'm open. Perhaps more than is deemed appropriate by some. I get that. So, I was shocked to realize that this poor woman had developed this perception of me in relation to her. "It is really hard to explain . . . you probably don’t mean to do it on purpose but sometimes you make me feel worthless. I am not even sure how this can change. Maybe it is just me."
Her final line is the key. The misconceptions that she held concerning my regular everyday self were originating from within herself. I realize this is not always the case, but for many of us it is. In the areas where we are lacking or unable to meet goals we've set, there's a sensitivity which causes us to react in a negative manner with other women. What we misconstrue as failures, weaknesses, or absences in our character or affect, cause us to key in on the perceived success in which we think others are reveling. Ordinary comments take on extraordinary meaning. Small cracks of insecurity broaden into chasms of regret and envy. Before you know it, two perfectly good and striving women, both solid to the core, are awash in a sea of misunderstanding which leads to underlying, unnamed, toxic tension. We simply can't afford to have this continue. The buck needs to stop here before we pass it on to our daughters.
We must be willing to lay it out there for examination. As did my friend and myself in the course of several heartfelt e-mails. Usually, it pales when removed from the doubtful darkness and placed in the litmus of light. We need one another. Only a woman can truly comprehend what another woman is going through. And men, who also require the company of other men, would prefer we discuss certain female issues with a fellow female. Period. No pun intended.
Whether a deep bond is formed or not, where one or more women are gathered there should exist an atmosphere of support and respect for the lives we all lead. It's called the sisterhood for a reason, ladies. Let us walk purposefully, all the while listening clearly, and responding with circumspection. It works.
In the course of relaying sensitive information to a friend I don't see very often regarding her child, I felt the need to disclose uncomfortable feelings I'd had in regards to what I felt were her perceptions of my parenting and of me in general. There was a substantial amount of background involved, and there was a need to be extremely clear and precise, so I sent her a lengthy e-mail. In the past, we've communicated quite well in this manner. (As it was a complicated matter, I've simplified for privacy and the sake of space on this blog.) I wondered if I had done anything to cause her to feel irritated with me. She works full-time; I'm a stay-at-home mom. In the past year, the tone of her comments and conversations seemed to suggest I had it easier than her. Was there a grain, or more, of truth to any of this? Was I sensing correctly?
And, as time went on, I sensed that she felt I was giving more energy to my brother and sister than to my children or husband; in her mind, my siblings with dubious backgrounds are getting what they deserve and are lost causes. Though I don't force my viewpoint concerning my brother who spent half of his life in prison or my sister who suffered a post-partum psychotic episode and drowned my niece and nephew, the people I keep close understand my commitment even if they don't share the perspective. So, while I have no problem with her divergent opinions, the idea that I wasn't giving enough focused attention to my children was sticking in my craw. Though I tried to brush the tremors of concern I was feeling off to the side, I couldn't rid myself of the discomfit. I'd reached a point where I had to unload the burden and clear the table of our friendship. It all felt too secretive in the holding -- the table was pretty darned crowded.
For three days, I received no reply. Then, a text one afternoon saying she was not ignoring me but between work, talking with her child, and going about her regular busy-ness, she didn't have time for an adequate response. That I could believe. I waited.
Finally, her return volley across the bow arrived in my MSN inbox. Overall, it was an exceptional e-mail; I let her know as much. She covered the drama behind the news I'd had to share. She reminded me that many people disagree with the parental decisions of others though they support them as parents overall. (I agree, totally.) And then she proceeded to unload her issues with the typical frankness which marks her personality.
First, she acknowledged that I worked very hard to maintain my household. She also wanted me to acknowledge right back that she had far less free time to do things like baking, exercising, entertaining friends, gardening, etc. "There is huge difference in the life of a stay at home mother and working mother. I do think you are a valuable, caring, giving and wonderful person. I know the Lord is proud of all you do. You have been through a bunch of touch times and tragedy in your life but you still have a positive attitude."
I felt dismissed in that moment. Her statement reminded me of the time my basically absentee father last saw me at my brother's college graduation over thirteen years ago. While he seemed quite entranced with John's academic accomplishments at Cal-Poly and spent hours conversing with him, the few minutes he gave me consisted of noting my kids were healthy and good-looking and stating I was a good mother. That hurt. I knew my decision to ditch college had miffed my dad, but I didn't realize how low on the totem pole my stay-at-home status placed me. My friend's words had the same effect though it was not her intent. It hit my sensitive bullseye regarding the intellectual and life sacrifices I made to remain at home instead of striking out in the big world of outside work. Early on in my marriage, I worked while my husband also worked his way up through entry-level jobs. When he reached a certain breadwinning capability, we decided that it was important for one of us to remain at home with our three children. It was a conscious decision which we were willing to support financially as necessary.
But I took a giant step back and absorbed the panoramic view. I'm very fortunate to lead the life that I do. It has allowed me to help my children over and through a few substantial roadblocks; it has gifted me with the time to help others in my community, extended family, and church as needed; it provided me with the emotional space to heal from my childhood and develop strong roots upon a rebuilt foundation. There are times when I experience guilt over this life I've been given. But my friends remind me that I didn't just luck into it. Thank God for them. It is unfortunate that these lifestyles create fissures between women. There are pros and cons, stresses and conditions, to both ways of life. Neither should be snubbed or judged.
Then, she said that she didn't bother to make any friends because she had no space in her life for them. It was work all day during the week, followed by time centered around her child, husband, and house. That was it. I must have read those lines several times over. I ran a mental finger down the list of working friends I knew. Especially those with children under the age of eighteen. Did they stick strictly to the homefront? Were they friendless? Did they accept that working precluded any outside acquaintances? The answer to each question was, "No."
The woman down the block meets her bevy of gal pals once a week at a local establishment for a few drinks and lots of laughter. One of my out-of-state friends seems to meet new acquaintances every other week, scoring more buddies than my social butterfly high schoolers; though come to think of it, she WAS a social thing in high school. Another woman, a working professional long before marriage and motherhood, maintains her stable of friends and has added a few who are connected to her son's life. Their husbands and children are not suffering. In fact, I contend that women with ongoing friendships make for happier husbands and children. Sharing the load with our girlfriends, getting feedback, receiving our strokes, and releasing the emotional hounds onto trusted ears, allows us to lead fuller lives. They assist us in stepping out of the boundaries our homes and families can often impose on us before we know it has even happened. We need fresh air to break up the staleness that stress and busy can cause. Regardless of the time commitment to our connections -- an hour a few times a week by phone or the weekend girl trip to the beach. It hurt me to to contemplate the isolation my friend was imposing on herself, all the while believing it to be a necessary sacrifice. I told her as much.
In closing her honest communication with me, she revealed that I often made her feel stupid and inferior in countless areas, including my immediate family and friend relationships, fitness, recycling, housekeeping, intelligence, entertaining, cooking and nutrition, and wardrobe. I must say I was dumbfounded. Mainly because I actually go out of my way to ensure people don't think I feel superior. Never would I put down another woman to feel better about myself. That action, in and of itself, would cause me to hold myself in the lowest of esteem. There was a time in our lives, before everything went into mutual hyperdrive, where the two of us walked and talked about every topic under the sun. Anyone who knows me knows that I fully disclose. I'm open. Perhaps more than is deemed appropriate by some. I get that. So, I was shocked to realize that this poor woman had developed this perception of me in relation to her. "It is really hard to explain . . . you probably don’t mean to do it on purpose but sometimes you make me feel worthless. I am not even sure how this can change. Maybe it is just me."
Her final line is the key. The misconceptions that she held concerning my regular everyday self were originating from within herself. I realize this is not always the case, but for many of us it is. In the areas where we are lacking or unable to meet goals we've set, there's a sensitivity which causes us to react in a negative manner with other women. What we misconstrue as failures, weaknesses, or absences in our character or affect, cause us to key in on the perceived success in which we think others are reveling. Ordinary comments take on extraordinary meaning. Small cracks of insecurity broaden into chasms of regret and envy. Before you know it, two perfectly good and striving women, both solid to the core, are awash in a sea of misunderstanding which leads to underlying, unnamed, toxic tension. We simply can't afford to have this continue. The buck needs to stop here before we pass it on to our daughters.
We must be willing to lay it out there for examination. As did my friend and myself in the course of several heartfelt e-mails. Usually, it pales when removed from the doubtful darkness and placed in the litmus of light. We need one another. Only a woman can truly comprehend what another woman is going through. And men, who also require the company of other men, would prefer we discuss certain female issues with a fellow female. Period. No pun intended.
Whether a deep bond is formed or not, where one or more women are gathered there should exist an atmosphere of support and respect for the lives we all lead. It's called the sisterhood for a reason, ladies. Let us walk purposefully, all the while listening clearly, and responding with circumspection. It works.
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