They say stay home. I’ve not been following orders. I have been one of those miscreants who has run errands, albeit minimal. So I am going to stay inside my home for fourteen days. I will not leave the house.

Day One: Five Loads of Laundry

Day Two: When the World Lets You Stay in Bed All Day

seventeen weeks, two days

that's how long it's been since i've posted anything. seventeen weeks. that's a LONG time. i'm sorry to have been so absent. i haven't had anything new to say.

i spent much of march and april fighting a hellacious and tenacious sinus infection. it was so severe it caused significant bouts of vomiting. i was unthrilled. i've never been that sick for that long in my life. i'd started to worry it was something more severe, but no... it's just allergies.

i've rejoined bumble. because i'm an idiot. glutton for punishment. i actually drove to katy to meet a guy last weekend. i drove. something's wrong with this, right? when... W H E N is a guy i find interesting going to think enough of me to make the effort? when am i going to get a damned clue that if I'M the one making the effort, he's not worth the time and energy. WHY, W H Y do always, A L W A Y S feel as though i've to convince a dude of my worth.

and, goddammit, i have value.

of course there are those dudes who make the effort, and the words that come out of their mouths are so wrong... and then i feel guilty for being so judgmental. i don't need a man to impress me with this exhaustive, fifty-dollar-word vocabulary. i've spent years studying english and creative writing from some of the finest professors in the state, and one of the first rules they teach you in writing is don't use fifty-dollar words when fifty-cent ones will do. if you use fancy schmancy words in dialogue, i'm going to assume you're a pretentious son of a bitch, and i don't need that kind of man in my life. on the other hand, if you spell words like later like l8r, i'm going to assume you're a lazy son of a bitch, and i don't need that kind of man in my life, either.

i keep doing this. i keep hoping it will be different, and it never is.

see? nothing new. but it's been seventeen weeks and two days... i didn't want yall to think i'd forgotten about you or that i'd disappeared. i'm here.

the least of my brethren

friday started out well enough. work then pappadeaux's to kill time -- ericka had written a post about the eight songs to which she wanted to see skaters perform in the olympics, and i was going through my itunes library, writing down the songs i'd include in a post: boom boom by big head todd and the monsters; the devil went down to georgia by the charlie daniels band; you haven't seen the last of me by cher; arms by christina perri; a common disaster by cowboy junkies; too late for love by def leppard. i'd intended to tackle this post at some point, and maybe i will some day because it's just my kind of thing, but... i stopped at three because a friend was allowing me to tag along to the mercyme concert at smart financial center in sugar land that night, and i needed to go get ready. her oldest daughter wasn't able to go; my friend's husband suggested she give the ticket to me. wasn't that nice?

so christian music isn't something to which i normally listen. i have a few albums: hillsong united; audrey assad; ellie holcomb; michael w. smith. that's about it.

i'd heard the song i can only imagine before. i hadn't known of the sources of inspiration for that song until i'd seen the trailer a few months ago. it's a film i'm eager to see, actually. but it still didn't dawn on me that the song and the band were connected. that's how in tune i am to christian music.

it was a good show. i'd recommend catching their act if you can. what i loved most about the event was when the lead singer would talk about the things that had inspired him to write songs that were more important to him, like i can only imagine. like even if.

my left leg's been bothering me quite a bit lately. and i know i'm to blame for some of the cause: i've bitched about what it's like to have cerebral palsy and major depressive disorder enough on here before, so i won't regale you with the biological and lifestyle factors again. it hurts to walk right now. a lot.

by the end of the night i was limping. horribly. my friends had left because they were eager to get to their hotel (they were leaving early the next morning to drive to san antonio, and their younger daughters are in elementary school). it was near midnight. i was eager to get off my feet. to get home. to down some advil and rub some ben-gay all over my knee (that shit reeks, yall; i hate using it... but i didn't give a damn about the stench just then). they were selling cds in the lobby for five bucks. i stood in line. waiting my turn to grab a few -- i'd gotten lifer free for sponsoring a child through world vision (one could argue that i'll be paying forty dollars a month for the thing because of that sponsorship, so it's not really free, but... whatever). i fished twenty dollars out of my wallet to pay for two cds: the hurt and the healer and a best of compilation called i can only imagine.

but the song i most wanted to hear was on the lifer album: even if.

his oldest son has type one diabetes. the singer had written it after a particularly bad day.

god, when you choose to leave mountains unmovable

give me the strength to be able to sing it is well with my soul

i know you're able, and i know you can

save through the fire with you mighty hand

but even if you don't...

during the performance of this song that night, i wept. i wept because i thought of how difficult their son's days might be, how difficult their days might be. i wept because i thought of all the battles my parents have fought for me. all the times they've had to push to get what i needed when i wasn't strong enough or willing to push myself. of how there must certainly have been more of those times than not.

when i bought those two cds, i was so eager to hear them, so eager to get out of that crowded arena -- even so close to midnight -- to hobble across the parking lot to my car that i didn't want to wait for my change. i told the man who took it to apply to the next person's cd purchase, turned and pushed my way past the others, pushed the doors open and walked out into the night. alone, like i so often am.

thankfully, a woman saw me struggling to cross the pavement, asked if i were okay and offered to give me a ride to my car. she was driving a white van full of adolescent girls. she was eager to get the door for me, to help me inside, to help me out... it was more help than i needed, and i was grateful for it. she wondered why i didn't have a handicapped plate.

i don't want one yet, i said. there are too many days where i don't look like i have a disability, and i don't want to deal with the reactions from others who might be offended to see me park in such a place. and really, i don't want one. i'm doing the best i can to live as normal a life as possible. that plate would only serve to encourage me to take advantage of things i don't need or want.

i drove home with that song on repeat. i cried the whole way.

i had it on repeat saturday, too. went to pappadeaux's to work on a bible study (one of the things the speaker had mentioned last week was that god doesn't owe you happiness; that may not be his plan for you. i've been trying to come to terms with this.) i read up on an individual who's made quite a name for himself in the publishing world because one of the professors at the local college here wants me to interview this man. it's been quite some time since i've grilled people. i was good at it. this professor and a colleague of his relayed this input to my father: we both think she is the best interview journalist we have ever worked with.

it pleases me immensely that these men think so highly of my work that they would say such a thing, would ask me to conduct this interview. i feel so fortunate that i've been given the opportunity. but also, i'm supremely intimidated. so... sitting at deaux's, reading up on this man, occupying two bar stools (my left leg's elevated on one because the pain was worse saturday than it'd been the day before).

i'd sat at three different locations at the bar saturday. first in my usual spot. i'd gotten up to use the restroom, and when i returned, a gentleman had sat on the stool i'd been using to prop up my leg, so i gathered my things and relocated. i like to sit by the taps, and all those seats were occupied, so i moved again when another seat by one of them came available. i sat in that third spot for the rest of the evening.

i've got my leg propped on a stool in front of the tap, where people don't normally like to sit. a woman sits to the left of that stool, then proceeds to set her gigantic and heavy bag on my leg, looks at me and asks if it's okay that she put her purse there. i glare at her and tell her that there are hooks beneath the bar top, that i need the stool because my leg is hurt. she bitches to her spouse about me while she hunts for the hook. throughout the course of her meal and for the remainder of my time there, she throws glances at me that make me uncomfortable. i do my best to ignore them.

it gets busy. the dinner time rush starts abnormally early -- before five. i wasn't expecting it. a couple notices that the barstool to my right is empty and asks if i could scoot over one so they could sit there. i tell them that i need this barstool because of my leg. he mutters something about how they were just asking.

fifteen minutes or so go by. they've still not found a place to sit. one of the bartenders comes up behind me and asks if i could scoot down.

here's the thing... all those experiences in my life where others have pushed me around, like the time my peers had said that i should go kill myself because the world would be better off without me in it or that i should go kill myself because i was taking up valuable air and space and there were more important people who needed it...

as much as i would love to brush this shit off, to bury it, i can't. one reason i can't is because of instances like these.

in my adolescence, i'd clung to the notion that life would be better for me once i became an adult. the reason i had this idea is because the adults in my parents' circles were respectable, respectful people. it never occurred to me that not all adults were this way. i was convinced ugliness was a thing one outgrew. i was convinced i would outgrow it because my father'd been telling me the story of the ugly duckling and how one day i'd be a swan since i was eight. i was convinced others would outgrow it because of who my mother and father knew.

but also... for so much of my life i've felt like one of those electrons floating out there that never attaches to anything. useless. when people give me such wonderful feedback, such great opportunity as those two men have, as others have, it's difficult for me to understand why so many more can't see the good in me. when they treat me as though i'm taking up valuable air and space needed by more important people.

i'm alone. saturday, i didn't mind this. saturday i was comfortable enough in my aloneness. that's a really hard thing for me to be, by the way. and it's so easy for that ease to evaporate.

the couple went to one of the bartenders and asked her to ask me to move. they are lurking nearby, waiting for me to vacate the premises.

i turn off my laptop, pack up my shit. as i'm doing so, i'm hearing that bartender talk to her coworkers about the couple who needs a place to sit. i call out that i'm leaving, they can have my spot.

moving is difficult. standing is worse. walking is excruciating. i move the barstools, stand, heft my backpack and haul it over a shoulder. the woman is standing behind me. her husband is a few feet away, leaning against a post. i glare at the woman and say sit in the meanest, coldest way i can. i hobble out. i relay these events to my mother, who says, again, that i need to put my past down.

she cleans out her garden tub, shows me the epsom salts and the lotions and says to get a glass of wine (beer, i say) and take a hot bath, to stay in there as long as i need and keep adding hot water as needed.

i cry. for a long time. i sing the words from that song over and over and over again.

i went to bed with those lyrics in mind. with the thought that as empathetic a woman as i can be, i should imagine scenarios in which people are struggling the next time i've to relinquish my ground: they've just come from the hospital and want sixty minutes of not being there, of not being in a room where his mother is hooked up to machines and not responding and they've just been told they may have to pull the plug... or they've just flown back from three days in north carolina after having to pack up a dead relative's house... or they just lost their son a few weeks ago, and the husband was taking his wife out even though she didn't want to go because he doesn't want her to have to cook and clean up the mess... i can fashion some pretty damned tragic scenarios, yall. i'm good at it. i need to get in the habit of doing it without putting pen to paper.

(it dawned on me just now that i've probably hopped back and forth from past to present tense several times in this post. fuck it.)

i awoke with miley cyrus' the climb in my head:

there's always gonna be another mountain

i'm always gonna wanna make it move

always gonna be an uphill battle

sometimes i'm gonna have to lose

i slathered ben gay on my leg again. ate my breakfast at the bar with my leg propped on a bar stool, moving a bag of frozen blackeyed peas from one spot to another to another.

i wasn't going to go to deaux's today. i was going to spend the day doing laundry and digging in the dozens of boxes stashed in my closet for my w-2, but i found it in the first box i tried.

so i dressed, packed up my shit and headed out. somewhere between my front door and deaux's, it dawned on me that maybe the least of my brethren doesn't mean the ones who live under freeways or in shelters or battle mental illnesses or physical disabilities much more significant than mine. the least of my brethren could be those people i've encountered in my life who aren't capable of showing others kindness or compassion. the least of my brethren could have been those peers who told me i should kill myself, that i was nothing. the ones who stand too close to me in public spaces. the ones who want to sit where i am. the ones whom i feel see me as though i am less than. those who gawk at me, who whisper to their friends or family about me as i hobble from one side of a room to the other.

i found a spot at the bar, opened up my bible to read. and caught myself staring at the number 3:12. three. twelve. the third month, the twelfth day. the day my older brother died. it's by itself, this 3:12. so i look to the line above and see that it's a passage from proverbs.

i'd come to deaux's on valentine's day, ash wednesday, to read my bible, to dig into the word. as i read those pages, i thought of all the times i'd failed in relationships with men. i flipped and flipped and flipped. the last one i'd come to was a bit from proverbs 4:23:

guard your heart above all else,
for it determines the course of your life.

my bible's one of those that has passages you can color. that day, i'd colored the words guard your heart. i cried as i did so because i've done a really shitty job of guarding my heart, and this is the course my life has taken. this one of anger and resentment and fear, of negligence and hopelessness and hatefulness.

and today when i flipped through it to find what i feel like my older brother, what god wanted me to see, and i saw those words again, i was sad.

and then i read proverbs 3:12:

for the lord corrects those he loves,

just as a father corrects a child in whom he delights.

things i wish would die

so i used to work at pottery barn kids, and the chevron print was all over everything: chevron curtains; chevron fitted crib sheets; chevron rugs; chevron blankets; chevron canvas storage; chevron diaper bags. it got to be that i loathed those stripes, that word. it got to be that i don't even like to buy gas at chevron stations. it was so prevalent in our store that associates and even customers would utter i wish the chevron trend would die.

i wish partisan politics would die. i wish people who run for office, who seek to serve this country would SERVE this country, the people they represent. NOT their party, their lobbyists, their campaign contributors. THEIR PEOPLE. 

this afternoon senators and representatives gathered to present the congressional gold medal to senator robert dole. i listened as they lauded his service and sacrifices. i watched chuck schumer gab with nancy pelosi about god knows what during those speeches. i watched as paul ryan sat there looking bored out of his mind, as mitch mcconell sat there looking a hell of a lot like a shell. i listened as schumer spent half his speech talking about how dole had once joked about the space between chuck and the camera, as pelosi insisted people applaud during parts of her speech. all paul ryan did was introduce dole... as if he couldn't put a half dozen sentences of praise together. these people, they're commending this senator for his ability to cross party lines and get shit done. i couldn't help but think they're all a bunch of hypocritical asshats. we're facing yet another government shutdown because they'll be damned if they budge an inch.

i wish to god our congress would have that same ability. i wish they'd hold more regard for their constituents than their campaign hopes and promises. it's bullshit. all of it. there's not one good seed in the bunch right now. not. one.

i wish people would stop, please god STOP comparing the president of the united states of america to fucking HITLER. the two are NOTHING alike, jackasses. NOTHING. it's incendiary and revolting, and goddamn, there are still survivors of the holocaust on this earth and those we have lost have loved ones. it's an insult to what they've endured. it's disgusting and deplorable and childish and just. FUCKING. STOP. NOW. please. you don't have to like trump. i didn't like president obama, but i would NEVER dare to call him anything so vile as that, not anything that comes anywhere close to that. EVER. he's the PRESIDENT, for christ's sake. he was elected to that office. maybe not by you, but by somebody. and don't you dare come at me with those who voted for him are FASCISTS. they're human beings. they're AMERICAN CITIZENS. they've reasons for their choices, and by god they don't have to defend them to you. 

i wish people would stop insisting their way's best and everyone else's is wrong. that they would stop being such insensitive fucking assholes, stop losing their shit over petty things, stop being bitches to each other.

i've seen this pinned on people's twitter feeds with comments on how it's the best thing ever. 

no. NO, it's not. i can name about a million things that are better than this trash.

spouting opinions about how vile our president is MAKES YOU LOOK JUST AS VILE. the ones who appreciate that gif? they're hulk in that scenario. of all the avengers, he's my least favorite. why? because his anger gets the better of him ALL THE TIME. that's not brute strength. that's rage. that's how bruce banner becomes the hulk. he gets SO pissed off that he can't control himself, and then he breaks shit. smashes it to bits. is that the kind of person you want to be?

i know how powerful rage is. i struggle to contain it on a daily basis. most days i can. other days are like this. and i'm embarrassed by my behavior on those days.

barack obama was granted eight years to serve as president of these united states. he believed he could offer something of value. he said and did what he could to provide the american people what he thought was best.

for better or worse, donald trump has been given the opportunity to serve. maybe you didn't vote for him. maybe you did. either way, it's okay. if hillary clinton had been given the opportunity, i'd feel the same. these were our choices in the end. these were the candidates for president. this is how our democratic republic works. one winner, one loser.

i'd written those words days after the election. i felt like saying them again. i wish all this hatred and animosity would die.

hold your tongue

the first crucial instance in which i know i raised my voice for good, in which i attempted to stand up for myself was in third grade, when my mother picked me up from school and asked how my day was and i'd replied that it was fine except i don't like being in that box. i've no memory of this. we were living in natchitoches, louisiana; i don't have many good memories from there as i'd had no friends and my teacher visibly detested me. there's the sensation of being excluded, of being set apart, but i've no concrete memory of the box or of that conversation with my mother. the teacher had put my desk in an appliance box because she hadn't wanted me in her classroom; she'd tried to have me placed in special education, and when that failed, she must've brought the box to class and put my desk in it and there is where i sat. until i'd found the courage to confess my dislike for the box to my mother. in doing so, my parents addressed the matter with my teacher and learned that i -- who was quite capable of telling stories, even then -- was telling the truth; they took my older brother and i out of that private catholic school and enrolled us in a public one.

there's a blue-gray spot on my left cheek, about the size of a freckle. it's lead from a pencil. graphite. one of my fifth grade classmates jammed one of my perfectly sharpened pencils in my face because he was tired of having to wait on me to finish sharpening my pencils. i had a fistful of them; i wanted to sharpen them before we'd taken our standardized test to determine whether we were placed in honors, level or special education classes the following year -- a test that i later learned was a crucial one for me, as my teachers had again recommended i be placed in special education. that test, by the way, got me in honors classes the next year. got me in pauline elliott's classroom. got me a teacher who praised me and my talents -- a beautiful thing, considering i'd had some of the worst teachers in the world in the past two years. anyway, i wanted perfect points. i didn't want to have to sharpen them during the thing because i didn't want to distract my peers' thoughts during the test. i wanted sharp pencils so my bubbles were perfect and would be scored properly. i'd tried to stand up for myself, to say that he should wait his turn. he didn't like that i'd said so, so he grabbed one of my pencils and jammed it in my left cheek. the next memory i have is sitting in my desk bubbling in my name, being annoyed that there weren't enough spaces for me to bubble all of it and so i'd had to leave the r off, making my name jennife. i've no memory of what happened immediately after he'd hurt me. i've no memory of his doing so, really, except that i know he did it -- the fucked-up freckle's there as evidence. the only clear memories i have of that day are standing at the sharpener, knowing which boy it was who'd caused me harm and the bubbles. and thirty-four years later, every time i look in the mirror, my eyes are instantly, subconsciously drawn to that blue-gray dot.

this is the last instance from childhood that i remember standing up for myself.

so i'm not good at that. but i don't like feeling that i can't speak my mind. that i can't say what i think. that one of the qualities i love about myself, my ability to be direct, that i have to mask that and so often with meekness. that if i don't do so, i'm seen as argumentative, disrespectful, hurtful, bitchy, selfish, thoughtless, insensitive... pick an adjective. if those don't suit you, feel free to supply your own.

a woman lectured me on empathy today, about how i should be more empathetic. i've a vast capacity for empathy. if someone's hurt, i hurt for them. if my words have been the cause of that pain, then pile on guilt along with the hurt and regret that i've said a thing that has offended.

another lectured me a few weeks ago on having respect for others.

here's the thing... i'm being lectured about respect by someone who has no regard for my thoughts and feelings. i'm being told i lack empathy by someone who clearly hasn't considered how her words might make me feel. i'm not a patient woman. i've little tolerance for hypocrisy. i've no tolerance whatsoever for others forcing their beliefs upon me.

yall, the only folks who have the right to lecture me are my mama and my papa. that's it. they're the only ones whose nagging and request for behavioral change i must heed. they're pretty proud of the woman i've become, so they don't lecture me all that often.

i've learned to pick my battles. the greatest one i fight, the one whose victory is most important to me, is the one against the darker aspects of my character -- the depression that's plagued me since i was eight, the physical challenges that have plagued me since birth. i've learned to extract myself from situations that are unpleasant.

in eighth grade, i couldn't do the latter. i was sitting on a row of tires on the football field during lunch break. the day was gorgeous: bright and blue and beautiful. my mood was not: i sat out there wishing a lightning bolt could somehow magically appear and strike me dead because i'd had enough of all the bullshit. the physical and mental challenges i faced were just too great right then, or so it seemed, for my feeble body and brain to handle. i prayed for the bolt. i cried because i knew it wouldn't come, that the request was utterly ridiculous. and of course, a group of the most popular kids in school chose that moment to exit the cafeteria, stroll across the football field and form a semi-circle before me, standing so close that i could not rise, could not turn and walk away. they looked down upon me and slung their insults at me, and i sat there, helpless -- a fragile runt of a girl battling life from within and without and losing on both fronts. there was such rage within me, such hate for their behavior, for them but i could not, would not unleash it upon them.

i know i've mentioned these incidences before. they are defining moments for me. they are the times when i know i should've shown my strength and found the right words but didn't. they are the reasons i strive to say something now. they're the reasons i prefer to speak plainly whenever possible.

i've grown weary of the rage. i've grown tired of not being able to say what i think.

sure i could be more tactful. sure i should do a better job of considering the repercussions of my words before i use them. but if i've been asked my opinion, if i've been asked to voice my concerns, i'm going to do so and in as succinct a fashion as i can. i don't like to mince words. i don't like to be politically correct, and i've been lectured for that, as well. i shouldn't be made to feel guilty for having articulated my thoughts, especially when others have asked for the opinion.

it's taken me thirty years to find my voice. i'll be damned if i stop using it. that said, my moral, political and religious beliefs are my own; i don't generally feel the need to voice them.

writers join critique groups for the betterment of their craft. we are sensitive souls. we're supposed to go into those groups prepared to hear criticism and take what we need from what's offered to make our stories better. we're supposed to be able to handle it when others offer their opinions. these two instances i've referenced -- the ones about empathy and respect -- both involved other writers.

i'd said i choose the battles i fight. i've not been terribly fond of my facebook and twitter feeds in the past year or so because of the sentiments expressed there. but here's the thing: those are my friends, for the most part, or fellow bloggers about whom i've chosen to care. they can say what they think. god love'm for it. i don't have to. i don't have to engage. very often i don't, mostly because i don't want to lose a friend just because his or her beliefs, whatever they may be, differ from mine. they say what they think, and the less i like it, the faster i scroll past it. that's how i've chosen to play that. that is the best way i know to respect them, to extract myself from a potentially unpleasant entanglement.

it's so much easier to do that than it is to engage in actual conversation with those i call friends who aren't being friendly.

i used to pray, desperately, for friends. for a group of girls i could call my allies. and finally, the good lord has seen fit to give me a handful of them, some of whom i love more than others, but i'm sure that's normal. i hadn't realized just how much of a pain in the ass it can be having friends and maintaining those friendships. now i have them... now i have what i thought was becoming a pretty healthy social life, but it's so fucking exhausting, this walking on coals. if that's what friendship really is, then i don't know that i want a part of that. if my friends are implying that i should hold my tongue, how can i call them friends?

on a happier note, when i asked a friend this evening what she liked best about me, her response: that you're genuine. that was exactly what i needed to hear right then. :]

cross to bear

right now i'm sitting on my bed with my mac on my lap. it's been a long day and not really a pleasant one, which bums me a bit because it was gorgeous outside and while traveling to and fro, i've been listening to jenna lamia read the secret life of bees by sue monk kidd to me (which i'm loving, by the way. this is one of the best narrated books i've heard). i've had good company today.

but certain events in the day have caused me to think of the mild case of cerebral palsy doctors diagnosed at my birth, of how that's affected me. of how my thoughts rush out of my mouth too quickly, of how clumsy with my thoughts and actions i can be, of how i'm too quick to anger, too easily wounded. of how my body aches. all the time.

i was seeing a chiropractor once a week to try to alleviate the pain in my back, but you know what that did? you lessen the pain in one place, and you're too aware of the pain you have in others, of how great that pain is. i don't want to know what hurts and where. i'd rather go through my days thinking it's just my neck and shoulders, or just my knees and ankles. or just the right side of my face. because if you lessen the pain in those places, if you give them some relief, it somehow calls attention to pain in other places, pain i hadn't realized was there. like the middle of my back. granted i only saw him a half a dozen times, but in those times, he could never crack the middle of my back. my neck? i'd hear that thing pop seven different ways. my lower back, too. my muscles are so tense in my body, so contracted, so bent out of shape that the middle of my back, my spine can't be put back to normal.

but you know what? that pain's the easiest with which to cope. i've gotten so used to it i don't even feel it anymore. at least not unless you make that shift, bring that relief. so i stopped going.  i'd rather not think of how the pain in my knees and ankles is making my legs and thighs hurt, too. or how the pain in my back's probably the reason why there's pain in my neck. it doesn't do me any good to think about that, anyway. it's probably better that i don't, actually.

i've gotten used to it.

just like i've gotten used to people being unkind to me. it pisses me off when it happens, yes. but that's the normal for me. i'm not like the others, and so i don't expect to be treated like them. i've gotten so tired of being too sensitive that i do my damnedest to ignore it, to carry on despite it. we are all equally incapable of kindness and unkindness. i've resigned myself to the notion that i'll see more unkindness than not. so be it. i don't look like my body is broken, but my limitations make my behavior odd, and the words that come out of my mouth sometimes are so bizarre that... people have treated me like i'm a freak since i was in grade school. i've come to expect it. so. be. it.

i try to be respectful of others. but i fall short. all the time.

i've had to suck up so much in my life that it bothers me when others can't.

people get so upset by so many things these days. i can't help but think that if sue monk kidd tried to get that beautiful story published today, she'd have a hard time. if harper lee tried to get to kill a mockingbird published she wouldn't be able to do so because so many would be up in arms over the language, the story. same with twain's the adventures of tom sawyer and huckleberry finn.

maybe it's just that people are getting so fed up with having to suck this shit up that they can't stomach it anymore. and some of these people who are crying out, they're not in pain themselves. they're bitching because they're incensed by what they see on tv, by the stories others have told them. sometimes, sometimes i just want to scream because all this seems so stupid to me.

i'm in pain right now. i'll be in pain an hour from now, a day, a week, a month, a year... but that's my life. this is never gonna go away. ever. in fact, even though cerebral palsy's not a degenerative disability, i think my body will just become more and more tired and in more and more pain because of it.

we all have our crosses to bear. this is mine. it's not in my nature to bitch to my friends when i'm hurting. in fact, i hardly ever do it. i'll tell my parents when my head hurts, but even that's infrequent because they can't understand the pain. their answer is to ask whether i took some pain reliever for it. sometimes i don't want to have to take the stuff. sometimes having to take the stuff makes me angry. sometimes i just want to be normal. and i've been living with this shit for four decades and then some. i have to remind myself that this is normal. it's my normal.

i'm in a bible study on the gospel of john, and one of the things we keep marveling at is how jesus acted with such grace. that he suffered in silence, and how we should strive to do the same.

i wrote that post this morning, and part of the reason i think i did so is because i'm tired of people calling attention to other people's crosses. that's what body shaming is to me. i'm tired of people preaching to others that they should be more respectful; my asking that people stop wasn't the intent of that post. i just want people to worry about themselves, their own lives. i want them to be the best possible versions of themselves. you're not gonna get someone to behave more graciously by belittling or berating them. but if you set an example, if you lead rather than lecture, then maybe you can make that change. you don't have to be a crusader for those who don't have a voice or are unwilling to use theirs. it took me decades to raise my voice. i don't think i really used mine until about ten years ago; it wasn't because people said i should but because i saw what could happen if i didn't. you don't have to get on twitter and facebook and preach to the public about the good you've done or that others should do. words can be meaningless and forgettable. it's true that people don't remember what you tell them, but they remember how you make them feel. when i encounter those from my childhood who were incredibly cruel to me, showing kindness is a great challenge for me, one i cannot always meet. when i can't, i almost always regret it later. that goes with the cross i bear. be an encouragement, not an adversary. the best way to encourage someone to be better is to show them how, not tell.

i'm in pain right now. but we all are. we all have something that hurts. and crying out about it, calling attention to it, telling someone to basically take a pain reliever isn't necessarily going to make the pain go away. i want us to be stronger. i want us to be able to take the hits, to live with the pain. i've been doing it my whole life. and my disability? god knows there are people who have it a hundred times worse, whose pain is a thousandfold mine. god knows their crosses damned near break them. i knew a boy who had cerebral palsy. he went to my church. his case crippled him so much he couldn't walk or talk. the muscles in his hands and fingers were so spastic, so bent that he could not straighten them. the pain he was in must've been horrid. but oh my god, his smile was miraculous. i always marveled at its brightness and beauty. always. and his eyes... they had such light. as he got older, that light diminished and the smile all but disappeared. he's gone now. the good lord finally gave him peace. but the memory of that smile he bestowed upon us in his youth, it lives in my heart, and there it will stay. i know another man who's confined to a wheelchair. i've never once heard him complain. and his smile's gorgeous, too. he shares it so frequently, so easily. he's a wonder to me.

that's how we should be.

you need a radio, takes the pressure off everyone feeling they have to talk so much

in the past twenty-four hours, i've seen in my twitter and facebook feeds people posting pictures of heavyset women wearing unflattering clothing and videos poking fun of others having difficulty at atm machines. this morning i read an article about pepsi's failed attempt to create an advertisement encouraging cultural diversity and how heineken created one that succeeded.

stop telling others how they should live, goddammit. YOU DO YOU.

of course, saying this puts me in the same category, and i know how incendiary that is, but please, yall. that woman put that clothing on because she liked it. she LIKED IT. who gives a shit if it doesn't make her look good? she felt good wearing it. but you're gonna post the picture to your twitter account with your snark so you can feel good? how does that make you feel good? how? it didn't make me feel good seeing that in my feed. and a friend of mine did that. i was ashamed to see it, ashamed that she'd done it. and what the fuck does it matter what she's wearing? WHAT? do you know how many times i've looked back on pictures and wondered what made me think that was okay? (there's some really good examples in this post.) but AT THE TIME, i liked that clothing. plus, my mama picked it out for me.

if someone's having trouble with something, don't fucking record a video and post it to your facebook wall so others can laugh at that person's ineptitude. get out of your car, walk over and ask, can i help you? if the person's rude to you then, so be it. but maybe they'd appreciate the kindness? if you can't be kind enough to ask, then at least be considerate enough to shut up and keep your camera in your bag.

all this does is make someone's day uglier. and maybe their day was already ugly to begin with. no, they can't see your twitter and your facebook, but if you think they don't know that people are mocking them, you're STUPID.

put some music on. think on different things. SHUT UP.

(by the way... because it's no longer sitting well with me... that mismatch post on monday is the last of the batch.)

i am a free woman!

so on october sixth, i wrote this post. and for the six months since, i've been dreading that follow up appointment. it was a week ago monday. it was one of the worst well woman exams i've ever had, actually. had the student nurse practitioner not been there, it would've been fine. the woman who'd examined me previously was there again this time, supervising. and yeah, i was anxious. i'm always anxious in clinics, especially in situations like this, but then... what woman isn't? but i was more anxious than normal because... this was the third exam i'd had in eighteen months, and the last two hadn't been so awesome.

i was anxious. i wasn't crazy about having a student practitioner doing the exam. it didn't help that it was a guy. i was managing it, though. until crunch time. and there, when gentleness matter most... he had all the finesse of king kong. and then he had the audacity to say something about how i'd scooted back. i'd scooted back, jackass because you were stabbing then gouging my insides. and of course, i cried. i hate crying in front of others. it rarely happens, but when it does, i'm mortified that i couldn't keep the waterworks from working until i was alone.

the woman took over... did her thing... effortlessly. painlessly. graciously.

and then on friday, she called to say everything's negative.

i was lounging in bed, debating whether i should get up, get moving. it was pretty cozy... and then my mobile, and then those words. that one in particular...

N E G A T I V E

ever since, my brain's subconsciously been replaying that line of bianca piper's (portrayed by mae whitman in the duff). OVER and OVER and OVER again. if you've noticed, i hardly ever put gifs on picky. because really, the repetition of the thing annoys me, but... yall. I. AM. A. FREE. WOMAN.

i've been thinking of that line of scripture used in francine rivers' redeeming love...

you are all fair, my love; there is no flaw in you. song of solomon 4:7 (p. 305).

i haven't felt all fair. i haven't felt flawless. prior to last friday, neither of those words would i use to describe me. but since that phone call, i have been hearing that bit of scripture in my head on a constant basis.

and yall... this experience i have... this drama that's played out for me over the course of two years... it's nothing compared to what others face. N O T H I N G.

i spent a good bit of my day thanking god, praying to him. because i am free to FINALLY close this horrific chapter in my life. i'm done with it. i'm ready to write the next one.

there are way too many in this world that won't have that luxury. there are way too many women in this world who die because of the callousness and carelessness of their partners. i've spent two years reliving all those moments when i ignored the flags, when i ignored my gut, being angry with myself for giving up and giving in, for having gotten myself in this mess. i was out of it in two years. some will never be out of it. countless are dead now because of it.

today i came across this article on facebook. the whole time i read it, i was picturing the events. could see the chaos and the panic and the violence. could hear it. and the men, these attackers, the douchebag i'd been dating... his mental state where women are concerned, it's not so very different from those who'd victimized the author in that article.

i got off easy, all things considered. i've been praying again throughout the day. for that woman, for those in similar situations, and yeah, for myself. 

so pray with me, will you? that more women get to love that word negative. that they can have mae whitman's voice floating around in their subconsciousnesses: i am a free woman. or maybe belinda carlisle singing i feel free...

the pejoration of privilege

priv·i·lege

ˈpriv(ə)lij/

noun

1. 1.

   a special right, advantage, or immunity granted or available only to a particular person or group of people.

   "education is a right, not a privilege"

   synonyms:

   advantage, benefit;  prerogative, entitlement, right;  concession,freedom, liberty "senior students have certain privileges"

let's talk about privilege, yeah? i keep hearing people use that word, and the way it's thrown around these days you'd think it's as vile and offensive as a four-letter word that begins with c and rhymes with punt.

my ancestors are welsh, irish, scot, english and austrian. i am the middle child of an upper-middle class couple -- high school sweethearts who attended the same university because my father couldn't bear to be too far from my mother. my father likes to joke that he wasn't the smartest one in his class but he was smart enough to marry the smartest one. he played football and was in a band and a fraternity. she was in band as well and a sorority. they became teachers. he became a school superintendent. they had my brother, who seemed to be pretty perfect. my mother had two miscarriages -- one before my brother and one after. and then they had me.

let's talk about privilege. my face has been cut up three times. my stomach and left leg have been cut up once and my right leg twice. if it weren't for my parents' love, if they hadn't wanted a daughter so badly, if my mother's parents hadn't been a doctor and a nurse, if she hadn't helped in her father's clinic, if my father hadn't attained a master's degree in special education... if my body had demanded more medical attention than it has, i could be rotting away in some institution, which is where i'd be if my doctors had their way.

let's talk about the patches i had to wear on my face or the metal braces that were on my legs for god knows how long during my infancy that my mother threw away the moment i didn't need them anymore. the times i've had people ask me if i'm talking to them when i'm looking right at them only it doesn't look like i am because one eye's off in lala land. the number of times people have asked if i've asian heritage because my eyes look like they do. the times i fell off curbs in my youth because i couldn't see. the times i'd be walking... just walking and something in my leg would snap or slip just because, the way i'd crumple, clutching my knee and screaming obscenities because the pain was immense. the times i've had to glue myself against an aisle in a grocery store or the wall dividing the dining area from the ordering stations in chic-fil-a because i'd lost all cognizance of space and my place in it and felt like i was spinning and about to tumble... and maybe break something else... because things in me break so easily. let's talk about the times people stare at me like i'm a freak. the number of times they ask me what the hell is your problem? and driving at night on a freeway? that's fun stuff. really. i love it. i do it because i have to, because damned if i'm going to stay home when i want to be out. but it was a whole lot easier when my town had twenty-thousand in it instead of a hundred thousand. it was a whole lot easier when people could give each other some room.

let's talk about the times my teachers assumed that because my father was who he was i would be this exemplary student -- well-behaved with strings of a-pluses in their grade books. i would make them look GOOD. i didn't. and when i didn't, their response was to recommend i be placed in special education or relegated from honors to level classes.

sure, if i came home without my books on the weekends, my father would haul my butt to school after sunday mass, unlock the place and practically drag me to my locker. he would not be happy about it. sure, my mom would bench my butt at the kitchen table to work on an assignment that was due the week before because she was so pissed at me for being so thoughtless and disrespectful... and lazy.

god knows i'd be living under a bridge somewhere if it weren't for them. god knows if my father hadn't been who he was, the peers who'd bullied me in my youth would've done a lot worse. with the exception of one altercation in fifth grade in which a boy jabbed my face with one of my perfectly sharpened pencils that left a permanent mark, they never touched me. i think they were too afraid to do so. but you can maim a person's spirit with words, and those wounds never heal so well as the physical ones do. hell, if it weren't for my folks, i doubt i'd be here today, banging on these keys.

you think because my skin is white that i can't know tragedy?

let's talk about the time i came home from school sobbing and telling my mother i wish i could tear my skin off. or the time a teacher put my desk in an appliance box so she wouldn't have to look at me because she couldn't bear the sight, because she didn't want me in her classroom but was forced to keep me because i was too smart to be in a different one.

i've buried a brother, a man i spent a decade hating. i carry that guilt with me, and it weighs on my heart something fierce. i have lived my life without ever hearing a man other than those in my family say he loves me and mean it. i battle some godawful mental demons on pretty much a daily basis.

tragedy doesn't play favorites. it cares not for race or creed or culture. it doesn't give a damn about color or shape. it'll screw with you regardless of whether you're single or married, rich or poor, black or white, fat or thin, kind or callous. it. does. not. care.

i don't presume to think that my experiences are greater or lesser than yours. i know damned well they're not. my parents made sure of that. they've spent years, YEARS telling me i wasn't any different from anybody else. i'm not. i know the ways in which i have been blessed. i know the ways in which i have been burdened. my limitations may be different from yours, but the fact that i have them... we all do. every one of us. i wish we could be more tolerant of each other. i wish we could be more considerate.

today i learned a couple flying from sacramento to philadelphia were booed by passengers in first class because the pilot had requested that couple be allowed to deplane first so as not to miss their connection. so as not to miss their flight to dover where they were to claim their dead son, a soldier who'd been given a gold star for his service. the folks in first class booed them because of how inconvenienced they were at having to wait, that someone in coach should receive preferential treatment when they'd paid the exorbitant costs of flying first class so they could be more important.

the pilot gave that couple a privilege. because if ever there's a time one should be given it's then.

this is america. land of the free, home of the brave. i keep saying that. i know. i've used it one too many times. i will use it as many times as i must. we are for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness here. we are for life. we should be helping each other live and love. we should be helping each other.

i've had the youngbloods' in my head so often lately. come on people, now. smile on your brother. everybody get together. try to love one another right now.

an army of one

in the religion (renamed the politically-correct belief) section of the houston chronicle's sunday, november thirteenth issue, there's an article entitled the silent (mis)treatment: show hospitality to everyone you encounter by ben byrum. in it he talks about the experiment he conducted as a college freshman. new in town, new to the church and having difficulty making friends, he decided one sunday that if after services had gotten underway no one had greeted him he would walk out. he waited for five minutes and nothing. thirty seconds before the service, he began gathering his things.

i was planning to go back to my room and stay there for the rest of the day; after all, nobody seemed to pay attention to me. with fifteen seconds left, my math professor turned around in her chair, which was a couple of rows in front of me, and almost as if she had turned around just for me, she flashed a me a smile and said, "i'm glad you're here, ben."

he stayed. he couldn't tell you what the service was about, what songs were sung, but he remembers feeling noticed and how painful not being noticed was.

further in the article, byrum shares a tale from the seventies about a man in his thirties who wrote a letter, walked from his san francisco apartment to the golden gate bridge and jumped. byrum said the man had left the letter in his dresser.

it was discovered by investigators when they searched his apartment. it was a suicide letter that read, "i'm going to walk to the bridge. if one person smiles at me on the way, i won't jump." 

i wept when my mother told me about this article, these stories of invisibility. the writer had gone to that church on several occasions. he'd chosen it because it was the most popular among the student body. that man... i can't even begin to imagine how his despair must've grown with each step toward that bridge.

christ, how difficult is it to smile at someone? just smile? that simple act of kindness could've been the light for that man.

today, i spent my afternoon at pappadeaux's. i went to barnes and noble's for a couple of books. i got gas for the journey home. when i pulled into the station, i noticed a girl huddled on the corner of the curb. i asked her if she needed a ride. she asked me if i was going to tomball. i wasn't. that's twenty minutes southwest of where i was, and home is ten minutes north, but i told her i could take her wherever she needed to go. in my mind i'm praying please god, don't be some psycho bent on wreaking havoc. i mucked out my car, gave her a bag of chips, which was the only food i had on me. she'd not eaten all day. she had no money. her phone was dead. her friends had left her there. she was a twenty-seven-year-old psychology student and a mother of two. she reminded me a little bit of my brother's wife: petite, blonde with pigtails dyed blue, dressed in a sweatshirt, jeans and chucks. her birthday's in three days. her friends had left her there. i told her she needed to get some new friends.

she'd been waiting at that gas station since ten a.m. when i'd met it her, it was half-past eight.

now sure, a whole lot of bad shit could've happened. i can imagine all kinds of scary, yall. i knew the risks. i just kept thinking if someone had left me there, and i had no way of getting home, i would've been praying hard for someone to show me some kindness. i asked her if anyone had offered to give her a ride, thinking that maybe they'd asked and refused because it was out of their way. she said no. i thought of the story in the paper, of the man, and asked if anyone had even smiled at her. she said no.

i'm a christian woman, but i don't go around bragging about it. that's not how i define myself. those commandments? i'm pretty sure i've broken at least half of'm, some of'm i break with phenomenal consistency. i say god a helluva lot more than i should, which means i break that third commandment several times a day. my faith's a crazy mix of catholicism, astrology and greek mythology, which means i'm breaking the second one with pretty much every breath. and i love my mama and daddy, but i do not live the way they want me to, so... there's three of'm that i've all but obliterated. but that passage in matthew... twenty-five: forty: inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me... i'm not always good about it, but i try to keep that one in mind.

so there's that. but more... i've gone through too much of my life feeling as invisible as that author and the man who'd made that godawful trek to that bridge. nobody should ever have to feel like they don't matter.

can you imagine how many had gawked at that girl today? how they'd thought so little of her?

ain't no way in hell i would've left her sitting there. ain't no way.

i'm not some social justice warrior. i don't think i get up on my soap box too often. not nearly as much as some of my friends do, anyway.

but good god, yall... we can do better. we can do so much better. it just takes one person... one smile. one kind word. one gesture. it just takes one.

if you don't stand for something...

during the olympics last month, gabby douglas didn't put her hand on her heart while the national anthem played...

colin kaepernick sits on a bench or takes a knee while it's played, and the same damned shit happens. do i personally like that this was so? no. not so much. because to me that song is beautiful. do i personally like it that john legend tweets things like this:

 

John LegendVerified account‏@johnlegend

For those defending the current anthem, do you really truly love that song? I don't and I'm very good at singing it. Like, one of the best

no. not so much. because i truly love that song. i've stood at kyle field with my hand on my heart and the line, o, say does that star-spangled banner yet wave, there's a surge of emotion in me... nothing big, just a little ebb and flow of pride at how that might have looked to those men on the night of that perilous fight. how beautiful the flag was to them in that moment. and that happens every time. EVERY time. how beautiful that flag is to me, always, when the wind catches it. hell, i was at some event at one of the parks in the woodlands a couple of months ago that involved skydivers and some flags, one of which was the stars and stripes, and when the last one landed, when that glorious red, white and blue hit the ground, i instinctively took a step forward, put a hand to my heart and said aloud: get it off the ground. he was quick to gather it up because it was precious to him, too.

that anthem is precious to me. if i'm at an event and it's playing, i will not sit and my hand will be on my heart.

but damned if this ain't the land of the free and home of the brave. gabby douglas didn't put her hand on her heart. so what? SO WHAT? she's free to put her hand where she pleases. colin kaepernick chose to sit. HE HAS EVERY RIGHT TO DO SO. he knew the shit was gonna hit the fan, but HE DID IT ANYWAY. that's courage, yall. that's the kind of bravery francis scott key had in mind when he wrote those words. no, it's not some galant act. he didn't enlist in our armed forces and fight alongside those in iraq and afghanistan. he didn't pull a child from a burning building or save a woman from the violence caused by some pitiful excuse for a man.

but there are people who have called his actions pitiful. there are folks setting fire to his jersey. i've heard endless bitching from almost every direction about how stupid it looks that a man who makes so many millions a year playing a game, whose black parents gave him up, who was raised in a white family has the audacity to say black men are oppressed in this country. heads up, people, plenty of them ARE OPPRESSED. still. it's a damned disgrace. and if you don't think it's in your neck of the woods, go drive around the lesser affluent neighborhoods of your community... i guarantee you there are wards not so very far from you that are comprised of houses barely standing because the boards are so ancient, the materials so corroded by weather and time. there are people living in those homes, or trying to. some of them are scraping an existence with three jobs and the skin of their teeth. you can tell because their yards are tidy and those boards, as beaten as they are... the windows are clean and there are potted plants on the porch. others... you know the people inside are as dilapidated as the building in which they reside. they are bitter and full of blame; that's their right.

there was an instance last summer in which a man was offended that i'd asked him not to stand so close to me. i needed distance because of my own limitations. he'd thought i'd wanted distance because he was black and i was white. my mother had to point this out to me. i reread that post, and not once did i mention color. because my parents made damned sure their children didn't judge people by the color of their skin. i didn't see a black man that day. i saw a man standing too close to me. for me, that's all it was. but because of how i was raised, i forget to consider that others haven't been raised that way. so for him... white privilege raising its head again. i was oblivious to it. to this day, i'm ashamed of my behavior. still. it had NOTHING to do with who he was, but my panic made it appear otherwise.

sure, maybe there's a better way kaepernick could've said his piece. i understand and can respect what he's doing and why. he's standing for something. not literally. it's a fucking metaphor, folks. but this cause of his, it's good and deserving of the attention.

and as much as i don't like that john legend said he doesn't like the song... posting that on twitter's maybe a little courageous.

christine teigenVerified account‏@chrissyteigen

@johnlegend settle down, you're okay at it

god love chrissy for her sense of humor. the world needs more of that.

mama's gonna keep you right here under her wing

oh. dear. god. i have seen it all now. i have seen. it. all.

my facebook feed, like yours i'm sure, is filled with posts about that stanford swimmer. i haven't wanted to share my thoughts because mine certainly won't be so different from yours, but... i could not help myself after having read what that boy's mother wrote. i expected the father's attitude. i expected to read of his pathetic pleas for his son. i expected the father to view women with similar disdain.

but surely... the mother would not do so. surely not.

and yet, it is decidedly so that she is just as pathetic, if not more so, than the man she married and the child she bore.

she wrote this shit. about how her son shies away from any attention or recognition. about how he's endearing and kind. considerate and respectful.

she can't bear to decorate the new home she and her husband purchased the day before their beloved son--her heart and soul--used and abused an unconscious, intoxicated woman (the ten syllables by which the victim was known in media reports) beside a dumpster. she couldn't decorate it because she associates that home with the horror her son has been facing since dealing with the repercussions of his twenty minutes of action, as his father so eloquently put it.

this woman is appalled that her son will have to register as a sex offender for the rest of his life. he'll never get to take his children to the park.

wake up, lady. the chances of this boy EVER HAVING children are about as good as my chances of flying to the moon.

she whines about how her family now knows only despair, fear, depression, anger, doubt, anxiety and dread.

the victim came to in a hospital with pine needles in her vagina. she'd gone to a party with her sister, who was in town for the weekend, from what i understand. she'd gone to have a good time. i'm pretty sure being tossed on the ground beside a dumpster and violated, treated as though she is nothing more than a rag doll, is not quite what she'd had in mind. i imagine her understanding of despair, fear, depression, anger, doubt, anxiety and dread is a thousand... a million times better than this mother's.

how awful that this boy, WHO IS A SEX OFFENDER, has been tried and convicted as one, should have to register as one.

she has cried every single day since january eighteenth. i'd cry every day, too, if my loins had produced that spawn.

he was a shy and awkward nineteen-year-old, far away from home trying to fit in with the swimmers he idolized.

so the swimmers at stanford are rapists, are they? the olympians are, too?

he's lost everything?

and this woman he's violated has lost nothing, i take it... at least as far this mother's concerned.

i do not have children, but i imagine the inclination to protect a child is fiercely powerful.

two men happened upon this boy as he raped this woman. two men saved her from god knows what else this so-called kind, considerate and respectful boy would've done had they not done so.

i don't have children, but were that to have been the case... should i have had a son who made such an unspeakable, unbearable, GODAWFUL choice and witnesses could corroborate the occurrence, i would haul my boy's butt to the nearest hospital and emasculate the idiot. and then i would spend the rest of my days doing whatever the hell i could for the unfortunate soul who'd fallen victim to his callousness.

i cannot fathom how any woman could defend this boy.

strategy matters

excerpts of a guest editorial by the caledonian record of st. johnsbury, vermont:

"Black Lives Matter" student protests are happening on college campuses throughout the country. The following represents a small sampling of some of their demands:

Smith College: Media must pledge support for protests or they can't cover them.

Amherst College: President must make a written apology for "institutional legacy of white supremacy, colonialism, anti-black racism, anti-Latino racism, anti-Native American racism, anti-Native/indigenous racism, anti-Asian racism, anti-Middle Eastern racism, heterosexism, cis-sexism, xenophobia, anti-Semitism, ableism, mental health stigma, and classism; White students who put up "All Lives Matter" and "Free Speech" posters must be disciplined.

Emory: Raises and promotions for all black faculty.

Towson, Brown: White students stop protesting in favor of black students.

Kansas: A separate, black-only student government.

A number of protesters called for buildings to get name changes. Still others, ironically, have demanded separate buildings and/or campuses exclusively for minorities. In all cases, people who disagree with the protesters or who won't bow to their (often ludicrous) demands are being labeled bigots.

this post is not an attack of the editorial. the piece concludes with the counsel that a different strategy might be best.

i work for a newspaper. my job is to cover the news. i don't have to agree with or even like the people about whom i write. i don't have to attend the events i cover, unless i feel a personal interest in doing so; many of the articles i write are either about individuals who seek to raise awareness of a cause or have an impressive story to tell or about upcoming events of interest to a majority of the community's residents. my editor says write this; i write it.

the requests made by these individuals ARE ludicrous. a man should make more money because he's black? my standing with my black friends who feel slighted is offensive? a separate, black-only student government?

are you SERIOUS???

thousands of african-americans have fought for equality in this country. it's been sixty years since rosa parks was arrested for not giving up her seat on a bus. it's been fifty-two years since the march in birmingham.

martin luther king, jr. and his friends marched in suits. they presented reasonable, eloquent arguments to sway the majority to be better to each other. they had patience and class.

what the hell is this with wanting separate student governments? why are we regressing? why are these people so incensed by past tragedies they themselves have not experienced? how can they justify such egregious demands?

some citizens of this country have done AWFUL things to each other. SOME. the answer is not perpetuating this by exacting awful revenge on ALL people of a particular race by making such ridiculous requests. this disrespects everything for which king and other civil rights activists fought. there's a right way to fight. it's not this way.

. . .

this, yall... THIS. the president of oklahoma weslayan university nails it.

would that we could find a way to silence it

in my facebook feed this morning, i came across a post about an ou daily op-ed which claims that nude bras, band-aids and cosmetics advertisements are racist.

half the country's in an uproar because espn gave the arthur ashe courage award to caitlyn jenner.

south carolina took down the dixie flag because it's racist.

heads up, people, this is the confederate flag:

this is the one that shouldn't be flown anywhere. ever. 

and as a friendly reminder, the emancipation proclamation only freed the slaves residing in union-occupied territories of the south. the north could keep all theirs. it was a brilliant tactical move by president lincoln to help end the war quicker. a war, by the way, that was not about slavery. 

let me say that again: it was NOT about slavery.

it wasn't about people in chains, thought it damned well should've been. it was about states thinking they were better than the country and that they shouldn't have to be so regulated by the national government. it was about rebellion and ego and greed, and the self-righteous south lost because they didn't have the industry, thereby the money, to perpetuate the war they started.

the flag that is being hated upon by so many right now is the battle flag of confederate general robert e. lee.

because it has been tied to the domination and subjugation of a people for so long, people see red when they see it: they're angry because a symbol of what made the southern culture good is being desecrated by those who see it as a symbol of what made the southern culture bad. 

let me digress for a second...

i'm not the best at communicating, which is a horrible source of contention for me. i hate feeling so powerless. and i am. when i can't find the words to say what i want and need and think, when the only time i can raise my voice is when i'm sitting at a desk pounding on some keys, i am reminded of how much i lack.

yesterday, i took my car to get the tires rotated and balanced. i had tried to do this last weekend, but they were too busy, and i didn't feel like waiting, so i made an appointment to come back. when i got there, the guy started telling me something like well, you've not brought this car in before, and... it was the same thing i'd heard the week before. that guy was much more helpful, though. when this guy said it, he sounded like he only took care of customers who'd been there before. i just wanted the tires rotated and balanced; i'd made my appointment. i was late for it (and i was feeling guilty for that), but only by four minutes (so not that guilty), and i'd had to wait another ten to even be acknowledged by the staff because they were so busy. i'd begun to think that perhaps because i was late, they'd given my time to someone else. so i was perturbed by his can't do attitude and my tardiness. and i was short with him because of it. i managed not to cuss (hooray!). but he had to act like i had cussed him out, which annoyed me even more. but eventually, we came to an understanding.

i'd decided that while the tires were being tended to, i'd go get the man a drink. (it's fucking hot here right now, and he's working in it, in a hotter garage.) he wanted blue powerade.

so i go to the gas station and get it. and i'm standing in line, and this guy behind me is standing too close for my comfort. at first, i find a way to cope--i turn my back so that i'm looking out at the shelves of products and am leaning against the cash counter. i can see better this way. i have a better comprehension of the room, of the space. but i'm still anxious.

when it's my turn to pay though, i have to turn back round. so now, i can't see the floor because of the counter and because the register in operation is close to the station's door and because the man is standing too close. i have to see the floor in my peripheral or i lose all concept of the space in which i stand.

to put this in ways yall might better understand, this scenario would be like yall standing right in front of a movie screen with people on either side of you. 

everything is much too close, and you feel trapped.

the attendant's trying to ring me up, and she's telling me that the gatorade's on special and asking if i want that instead, but all i can think is get the fuck back.

i turn to him and ask, in the kindest voice possible, please don't stand so close to me.

his reply is that he's not standing too close.

i tell him that he is. 

he says that there's three feet between us. 

i don't understand three feet. that number, that measurement means absolutely nothing to me unless i've got a ruler in my hand. i should start carrying measuring tape in my bag.

i'm quite positive, though, if i were to reach out, i could touch him and my arm would not be straight. that's my bubble, folks. that's how big it is. if i can extend my arm completely and not touch you, i'm great. i understand that this means my personal bubble is huge, and probably unrealistic, but it's what i need to function without enduring panic attacks.

(i just measured three feet; there's no way there was that much room between me and him. i know this because my arm isn't three feet long. i'd venture a guess that there was barely a foot between us.)

he's reluctant to move and is being a dick about it, so i look to the attendant and tell her to ring him up. i step back, far away from him and gesture for him to go ahead as i do so.

and the guy's raised his voice now and is insisting that three feet's plenty of room, and i've raised mine and am yelling that i have no concept of that because i have no depth perception--

and yes, i know. those words, no depth perception, are as incomprehensible to many of you as three feet generally is to me. but i don't communicate well, remember?

as that guy's leaving, the guy behind him says, don't sweat that, man.

like the guy's in the right.

that pissed me off, too, because in my mind, all the first guy had to do was take one step back. if he'd done this, he wouldn't've been offended for whatever reason, i wouldn't've lost my temper with him and the other guy, whom i'd said was as much of a dick as the first guy was, i wouldn't've had the panic attack and been so frustrated that i'd cried in a public place. something that should've taken five minutes took twenty because i had to wait for everybody else to go, for the store to be empty of customers before i could approach the counter again. the attendant wouldn't've had to have to stop her work to calm my overly-sensitive self down.

maybe he was in the right. maybe i should've just found a way to endure the trapped sensation long enough to get my shit and go. it certainly would've taken less time. i could've gone outside after and stood there breathing in the air of the open space.

the point is--and i'm including myself here, folks... i certainly don't mean this to sound preachy, and i am most assuredly not without fault--all this is is hate.

all of it.

i hated that the man was so insensitive. he hated that i'd made such a big deal over three lousy feet. i hated that i'd lost my temper and made myself a spectacle... again. i hated that he couldn't take one step back. i hated that to feel better about the interaction i'd had with the attendant at the tire shop, i had to go buy him a beverage. that's not to say i minded doing it. i like doing nice things for people; i'm a firm believer that it's the right thing to do. but i don't like that i do them to assuage feelings of guilt and inadequacy.

i hate that the other night, after having watched trainwreck, as i left the theater and battled my way through the throngs of people to get to the bathroom and then the elevator, that i had another panic attack on the way to that elevator and was pressed up against the wall for much of the walk toward it. i hate that when a woman stopped because she was concerned for my well-being and asked if she could help, i very much appreciated the kindness but, because of her closeness and the throes of that attack, the only words i could muster were, you can move.

an african american woman hates that a bra, called nude, isn't nude for her, that stores don't stock enough bras that would be construed as nude for her skin type. that band-aids aren't. that, to her way of thinking, cosmetics advertisements only feature white women.

society hates a flag because it represents something ugly. and the re-runs of a popular television show have been pulled because the characters in it drive a car called the general lee that's painted like lee's battle flag.

an olympian's been given an award for courage because she has owned who she is, finally, and people have to belittle this because, to their way of thinking, that's not courageous. i read a post on facebook yesterday in which a man says that forty percent of the transgender population has attempted suicide, and that if even one person is saved from that because of caitlyn jenner, he'd call that a victory. he'd call it heroic. i concur, sir.

it's so easy to be ugly to each other. it's so easy to take up arms against each other and use such simple tools, like bras and band-aids, to do the wounding and the maiming. it's so easy to do this and then hide behind the first amendment and its privilege of free speech, as if it can justify that hatred and ugliness.

all any of this has done is feed the monster of animosity in each of us.