In The Dark

 Okay so I haven't blogged in two years. Can I skip the customary "where I've been" post and just share this poem I randomly wrote? Yeah okay awesome. 

 

Sometimes in the dark, I think about . . .

Softer skin, softer lips.

Flower petals and silken folds I’ve only felt from within.

My tongue longs for a taste

Sugar sweet ginger passion

Fruit.

I want . . .

Waterfalls and sighs,

Delicate fingers and vanilla-scents

Long hair tickling my skin as she trails lower . . .

Thoughts, fantasies, longings only

Because I crawled back in, hid, cowered

The devil was in me and the nightmares sank into my skin like

Vampire fangs

And I’m left only with the fires of desire and an imagination

That dreams of Her.

White People: We're all Amy Cooper, but let's work hard to change that

When I saw on the news the video of Amy Cooper calling the police on Christian Cooper for the grave offense of being Black and bird-watching, my first thought was "what a racist bitch, how dare she?" When I heard she was fired, I thought "good." I saw a lot of white people on Twitter with similar sentiments, everyone of course thinking how wrong and awful Any is, and how they of course are the good, pure white people that would never do that. I too thought, "I am a good, pure white person and would never do that."

Then I started thinking more deeply about it. What if I'm not all that different from Amy Cooper?

When I was growing up, I first learned about racism in elementary school. It was taught to me in a very simple, straight-forward way: Racism is when one race (generally white people) think they are better and worth more than another race (in America it's often Black people, but also stretches to other non-white races). Basically, I thought racism meant that you dislike someone based on their skin color. So for me, it was very simple. Of course I'm not racist. I like people based on their personality, not their skin color. Therefore I am not racist, I am not a part of the problem, end of story.

Unfortunately, it is not anywhere near this simple, and I think what I was taught was how many white people were taught about racism. We were never taught how insidious it is, how it goes so much deeper than liking or disliking someone based on skin color. We were never taught about institutional racism, systemic racism, or unconscious biases. The irony of that is that not teaching us these deeper, more complex kinds of racism fed into the problem.

I spent about thirty years thinking I'm not racist. The truth is, maybe I am. But I don't want to be. It wasn't until my thirties that I really began to understand the complexities of racism and how I was/am contributing to the problem. I still want to say I am not racist, but I can't. What I can say is, "I do not want to be racist. I will try very hard every second of every day to not be racist, to not contribute to the problem. I will continually look at my biases and actions and strive to be better.."

I have chronic ankle issues and can't do a lot of walking or standing, so protesting in public is not an option for me. So I fill fight against it with words, donations, and anything else I can do. I hope my blogs and poems can help get through to other white people similar to myself.

I'm going to share a story. This story does not show me in a good light. I am quite ashamed of myself and have only shared this story with people I'm very close to. But now, in light of everything, I think it's important.

This is my Amy Cooper moment.

In 2011 I applied for a grad program for psychology/counseling. I'd gotten an interview, which was done in a group format. One of the many portions of this was a group discussion about racism. My group consisted of mostly white people, one Black woman (we'll call her Tanya), an open lesbian, and there may have been a couple other minorities present, but it was a long time ago so I don't completely remember. We started by watching a five minute video showing a racist scenario in a workplace. When it was over, we were given ten minutes to discuss. I am very shy. It is hard for me to speak in groups, and I'm also not very skilled at knowing when to just hop in. So, I decided to speak first. I can't remember what I said, but a white man replied to my comment. I then responded to him. In my response I said something along the lines of "I think we . . ."

Tanya interrupted me and said, "Don't say 'we'! You are in a mixed group of people and saying 'we' is dis-including those of us who are not white."  (not her exact words, but the gist of them.)
I was shocked and mortified. I'd offended a Black woman, something I never thought I'd do because I'm not racist. Due to my shyness, I shut down after that and was completely quiet the rest of the interview.

I did not get into that program.

Now, as if that weren't shameful enough, here is the worst part. When talking to my family and friends about the interview I said, "I didn't get in because a Black woman jumped down my throat." Yes. I said that. Many times. It was a horrible, ignorant, racist thing to think and say. The thing is, I didn't fully believe it was all her fault, so I don't even know why I said it. I think honestly I was angry with myself for shutting down after that, but I wanted to blame someone else. This is an example of how insidious racism is. I genuinely thought it was okay for me to say these things because "I liked Black people" and "I wasn't racist".

It was not okay. Absolutely not okay. I'm embarrassed and ashamed of myself. It was not Tanya's fault that I did not get in. It was my fault. I could've handled that situation so much better. Instead of shutting down, I wish I'd said to Tanya, "But I was responding to this gentleman, who is white like me, that is why I said 'we'." Tanya may then have explained to me how many white people make this same mistake, or do things like this that cause Black people and other non-white people to be left out of this discussion. I could've thought more about it and responded. It could have led to a very powerful discussion, that may have led me to see things about myself I didn't want to see. Instead, I took the easy way out, the one so many white people take: blame the Black person. This is not okay. Blaming anyone else for your own short-comings is always bad, but blaming a Black person or another minority is even worse. It's racism at its most powerful, because it fuels dangerous ideas, ideas like "Black people are to blame for the failings of the world."

I hate that I contributed to that. I wish I could go back and change it, but I can't. What I can do is move forward. I can learn from this experience and take this shame and do better. I'm sharing this story so other white people can see it, and maybe it will make them think of their own similar experiences. Maybe it will help them do better. I hope so.

To "Tanya": The odds of you seeing this are slim, but I am truly sorry. I'm sorry for saying "we" and not understanding why that was harmful. I'm sorry for not engaging with you and learning more about it in the moment. I'm sorry for blaming you for my failure. It was racist, and it was wrong. I can only say that I've recognized how wrong I was, how I contributed to the problem, and that I will consciously strive be the person I thought I was: "not racist".

Now, back to Amy Cooper. It's so easy for white people to be disgusted by her actions and to think "I'm not her. I will never be her." But let's stop for a minute and think about how we are her. I am going to make some assumptions about her for the purpose of the point I'm trying to make. I'm guessing Amy was taught, much like myself, that racism is simple. It's "I like Black people" or "I don't like Black people". She probably thought she wasn't racist. After watching her become increasingly escalated in the video, I worry, "Could that be me? Could I do that?" I'd love to think I wouldn't. My guess is that Amy really was afraid of Christian Cooper, but maybe she at first didn't know why. Another product of the insidiousness of racism. Amy had an unconscious bias that caused her to be more fearful of this bird-watcher because he is Black than she would've been of a white bird-watcher. When she "went to a racist place" by saying "I'm going to tell them an African American man is threatening me" she probably went there on instinct because of that fear caused by her unconscious bias. Please don't misunderstand me. I am not saying that what she did was okay. I'm saying it's more complex than "Amy is a racist and hates black people."  I'm also saying that a lot of us white people probably have more in common with her than we think. And even though we'd like to think "I could never be that woman" let's change that. Let's think "What if I could do what Amy did?" Let's be aware of that, constantly. Many racist behaviors are brought on by these unconscious, underlying biases. So let's be aware of them. Let's stop and think "Would I feel this way if this person were white?" "How would I behave differently if this were a white person?"

I hope that Amy is learning from this experience. I hope she is examining herself and her understanding of racism. But even if she isn't, us white people who call ourselves allies can use her actions as a way to examine ourselves. To see how we are her, or could become her, and to strive to do better. Part of that is looking at ourselves and our actions where we've behaved in a racist way. Like my story above. These are hard things to think about, because along with being taught that racism is as black and white as "you either like Black people or you don't" we were taught that racist people are horrible, evil scumbags. And yes, many of them are. But not all of them. Many people who behave in racist ways believe themselves not to be racist, and have a hard time admitting to racist actions, because we were told this makes us evil. No one wants to think of themselves as evil. But it does not make us evil. It makes us wrong. It makes us ignorant. It makes us products of decades of systemic racism. The first step to being anti-racist and fighting against racism is to recognize how we've contributed to the problem. It does not make us evil. Recognize where you've failed and learn from it. Strive to do better. Share how you behaved in a racist way with other white people so they too can examine it and learn from it. Many racist acts are unconscious, so let's make our anti-racism conscious. Think about it all the time. Racism is an insidious enemy, so we must stay vigilant.

Please feel free to comment on this post. If you disagree with anything I've said, or feel that I am wrong or maybe something I said is racist, please let me know. I promise to think critically about all comments and feedback. Knowing that, please do not rip me apart and cuss at me. Passionate comments are fine, but not ones that are aggressive and mean. Present your thoughts constructively. I am trying to help the problem, but I know I still have unconscious racist biases that have become embedded in my brain, so I might be saying something ignorant unintentionally. So just please, stay civil, and I promise to give your comment careful thought and consideration.

Thank you for reading.

And Then The Howling Stopped

And Then The Howling Stopped

We saw it coming, but it never happens to us,

so we didn’t listen.

It never happens to us.

Until it did.

We thought we’ve seen suffering, we thought we knew disaster.

And then this came.

It came and we listened.

We stayed inside and cried,

Laughed.

We watched crazy rednecks streaming

and put teddy bears in windows and discovered technology we thought we already knew.

We came together when we fell apart.

We came together and we howled; a pack separated.

We howled for the pain, the suffering, the missed parties, graduations, weddings . . .

The doctors and nurses and grocery store employees . . .

We howled for those without homes and those stuck in bad homes . . .

We howled for those who lost their jobs, their houses,

Their Lives.

We howled because the pain was a living force that needed released,

And we did it together.

Nothing is more important than life.

We stayed in for our lives.

We howled for our lives.

We’re in this together. We’re going to be okay.

Wait . . .

Something is more important than life.

Money.

Money is more important

and they need money.

They.

That’s the irony.

Those who need it the most already have it.

They rule,

We follow.

And they need money.

So they take our blood.

“It’s okay, the suffering is over,” they say.

You can come out now.

“The numbers are low, you don’t have to suffer anymore,” they said.

They. The false prophet.

Come out and make your money.

You’re making it for us, they whisper, so low we don’t hear.

And we didn’t.

We didn’t hear and we listened.

We listened because the suffering hurt; it tore us apart.

The irony is that we haven’t seen anything yet.

The suffering is yet to come,

That’s what happens when you listen to false prophets.

We listened.

And then the howling stopped.

Happy Mother's Day

Aww, my poor neglected blog. Once I went back to work full time, it got very difficult to keep up on everything. Still is, but I do miss my blog.

I decided I wanted to share my eulogy that I wrote for my mom, and ironically realized that my last blog post was from Mother's Day 2018, sharing my eulogy. But I'm gonna share again anyway.  So here it is.

I wish you weren’t hearing this right now. I wish I’d never had to write it, not because I don’t want everyone to know how amazing Mom is, but because I want her to be here so you can see for yourselves. Though chances are, if you’re sitting in this room, you have some idea of how great Mom is. But I’m writing to tell you that she’s even more amazing than you know.

            When I say words like “great” and “amazing,” I don’t mean perfect. No one is perfect. What I mean is that Mom tried to be perfect. She put everything she had into everything she did. She learned from her mistakes, apologized when she knew she was wrong, and constantly strived to be better.

            I am proud to say that I have a lot in common with Mom. People say I look like her; they’ve been saying it my whole life. I got so used to hearing it, I took it for granted. But just this past week, several people have told me how much I look like her. Now I hear those words with fresh ears. The words are now more comforting than I ever could’ve imagined, because it’s as though she’s a part of me.

It’s not just looks we have in common. I inherited her ridiculously good memory for dates, times, what we were wearing, what we ate for dinner , and other random facts (it makes for a neat party trick). We’re both shy—insanely so—but quirky and funny when we’re in an environment we feel safe in. We don’t like to lead, but we can if we have to. My mom never stayed silent when something needed to be said, and she taught me to do the same.

            Some people think shy people are weak, that they can be walked on. This isn’t the case with Mom. She got very nervous about making phone calls, large work events, and anything else where she might have to speak or be put on the spot. But when it came to standing up for Angie and me, she never hesitated. She was fierce when it came to protecting us. Once, in middle school, I was selling Girl Scout Cookies door to door. We were fairly new to the neighborhood, so not everyone knew us yet. I went to the house two doors down from us, and the woman who answered the door started screaming at me and saying something along the lines of, “How dare you come to my door! This is my daughter’s neighborhood to sell cookies in! Get out of here!”

            I came home in tears. Mom immediately marched over there to give that woman a piece of her mind. I didn’t hear it (kinda wish I had), but the lady came over and apologized, and invited me to play with her daughter. I have many more memories like that one. If I shared them, we’d be here all day.

            The irony is that Mom didn’t know how good she was. She worried so much over all the things she did wrong. When her illness worsened, I started to think of some things I wanted to tell her, and I worried I wouldn’t get the chance. But one day in January, I had the gift of visiting with her while Scott was out, so it was just the two of us. I got to say the things I needed to. One of those things was telling her how lucky I was that she was always there for me and to thank her for being my mom. She said, “I can’t believe you love me. I was horrible.”

I told her, “Of course I love you.” It makes me sad to remember that she said that, but that was just who she was. She worried that she didn’t do well as a mother. She worried that she wasn’t good enough. But she was the best; I hope she knows that, wherever she is.

            No one knows how to be a parent until it happens. But parenting is even harder when you’re a single mother, and even harder still when a certain teenage daughter named Becky does everything she can to make it more difficult. I was a troubled teenager, and there were times when Mom feared what would become of me. There were probably times she wanted to rip her hair out and scream. Even though she didn’t know how to help me, she did. I got through what she called my “lost weekend.” I got through it because she never gave up on me.

She continued to be there for me, even once I was an adult. It’s a good thing to, because I’ve had my fair share of crap. I’ve walked through hell, swam through floods, sank into quicksand, and gotten lost in the labyrinth of life. I’m not exaggerating. I’ve been through so much, and boy do I have stories (it’s a good thing I’m a writer). But I’m not here to tell those stories. I’m here to tell you who carried me out of hell, who dove into the water and pulled me out—and she can’t even swim!— who rescued me from the quicksand, and who traversed the labyrinth to guide me home. That person is my mom, and I honestly don’t know where I would be without her. She gave me the strength to traverse the steepest mountains. I believe in myself today because she believes in me.  

I once told her I had her to thank for where I am today, for the accomplishments I made and the things I did. She said, “No. I didn’t do that. You did.” Maybe she was right, but I couldn’t have done it without her. Now, I’m terrified because I don’t know how to do this life thing without her. I’m afraid I might crumble to pieces, that I don’t know what to do or where to turn. I’m afraid, but just before she passed, I told her I’d be okay. I honestly don’t know if it’s true or not, but if it is, it will be because she gave me the strength to be okay, because she believed in me and stood beside me. She can’t hold my hand, or give me advice, but she’ll be in my heart. She gave me herself, and that is a gift I will keep forever.

My Mommy

I've wanted to share this, but I haven't put it up yet, because it's hard. But I feel like it's important to be shared, especially now that it's so close to Mother's Day, it's important that people know who my mom, who passed away 3/26/18, was. (I can't wait till I can stop seeing Mother's Day commercials.)

This is what I wrote and had read at the memorial service.

I wish you weren’t hearing this right now. I wish I’d never had to write it, not because I don’t want everyone to know how amazing Mom is, but because I want her to be here so you can see for yourselves. Though chances are, if you’re sitting in this room, you have some idea of how great Mom is. But I’m writing to tell you that she’s even more amazing than you know.

            When I say words like “great” and “amazing,” I don’t mean perfect. No one is perfect. What I mean is that Mom tried to be perfect. She put everything she had into everything she did. She learned from her mistakes, apologized when she knew she was wrong, and constantly strived to be better.

            I am proud to say that I have a lot in common with Mom. People say I look like her; they’ve been saying it my whole life. I got so used to hearing it, I took it for granted. But just this past week, several people have told me how much I look like her. Now I hear those words with fresh ears. The words are now more comforting than I ever could’ve imagined, because it’s as though she’s a part of me.

It’s not just looks we have in common. I inherited her ridiculously good memory for dates, times, what we were wearing, what we ate for dinner , and other random facts (it makes for a neat party trick). We’re both shy—insanely so—but quirky and funny when we’re in an environment we feel safe in. We don’t like to lead, but we can if we have to. My mom never stayed silent when something needed to be said, and she taught me to do the same.

            Some people think shy people are weak, that they can be walked on. This isn’t the case with Mom. She got very nervous about making phone calls, large work events, and anything else where she might have to speak or be put on the spot. But when it came to standing up for Angie and me, she never hesitated. She was fierce when it came to protecting us. Once, in middle school, I was selling Girl Scout Cookies door to door. We were fairly new to the neighborhood, so not everyone knew us yet. I went to the house two doors down from us, and the woman who answered the door started screaming at me and saying something along the lines of, “How dare you come to my door! This is my daughter’s neighborhood to sell cookies in! Get out of here!”

            I came home in tears. Mom immediately marched over there to give that woman a piece of her mind. I didn’t hear it (kinda wish I had), but the lady came over and apologized, and invited me to play with her daughter. I have many more memories like that one. If I shared them, we’d be here all day.

            The irony is that Mom didn’t know how good she was. She worried so much over all the things she did wrong. When her illness worsened, I started to think of some things I wanted to tell her, and I worried I wouldn’t get the chance. But one day in January, I had the gift of visiting with her while Scott was out, so it was just the two of us. I got to say the things I needed to. One of those things was telling her how lucky I was that she was always there for me and to thank her for being my mom. She said, “I can’t believe you love me. I was horrible.”

I told her, “Of course I love you.” It makes me sad to remember that she said that, but that was just who she was. She worried that she didn’t do well as a mother. She worried that she wasn’t good enough. But she was the best; I hope she knows that, wherever she is.

            No one knows how to be a parent until it happens. But parenting is even harder when you’re a single mother, and even harder still when a certain teenage daughter named Becky does everything she can to make it more difficult. I was a troubled teenager, and there were times when Mom feared what would become of me. There were probably times she wanted to rip her hair out and scream. Even though she didn’t know how to help me, she did. I got through what she called my “lost weekend.” I got through it because she never gave up on me.

She continued to be there for me, even once I was an adult. It’s a good thing to, because I’ve had my fair share of crap. I’ve walked through hell, swam through floods, sank into quicksand, and gotten lost in the labyrinth of life. I’m not exaggerating. I’ve been through so much, and boy do I have stories (it’s a good thing I’m a writer). But I’m not here to tell those stories. I’m here to tell you who carried me out of hell, who dove into the water and pulled me out—and she can’t even swim!— who rescued me from the quicksand, and who traversed the labyrinth to guide me home. That person is my mom, and I honestly don’t know where I would be without her. She gave me the strength to traverse the steepest mountains. I believe in myself today because she believes in me.  

I once told her I had her to thank for where I am today, for the accomplishments I made and the things I did. She said, “No. I didn’t do that. You did.” Maybe she was right, but I couldn’t have done it without her. Now, I’m terrified because I don’t know how to do this life thing without her. I’m afraid I might crumble to pieces, that I don’t know what to do or where to turn. I’m afraid, but just before she passed, I told her I’d be okay. I honestly don’t know if it’s true or not, but if it is, it will be because she gave me the strength to be okay, because she believed in me and stood beside me. She can’t hold my hand, or give me advice, but she’ll be in my heart. She gave me herself, and that is a gift I will keep forever.

The Cemetery in the Rain

I went to the cemetery today. I haven't been since the day we put my mom's urn in the ground. It was freezing that day. I chose today because it was raining and I love rain. It seemed appropriate, and I also really wanted to be alone, and I figured no one else would go to the cemetery in 45 degree rain. I was right, and that was nice. I brought an umbrella and my headphones, some paper (all I had in my car were random scrap papers and a wrinkled folder) and a pen, and a sweater to sit on.

Because I have no sense of direction, I couldn't remember where my mom's grave was, so I wandered around for about twenty minutes, stopping and sitting on the gravel path whenever inspiration struck me. I finally found my mom, after I decided to give up looking and head back to the car. Her grave was ten feet from the car and I'd walked right past it.

Anyway, here are the poems I wrote.

Raindrops Above You

I don't know who you were
but I cried for you today.
Or maybe that was just the rain;
but either way I thought of you--
who you were and what you once wanted.

An angel statue, and a cat, tall and majestic.
The cat drew me to you; it made me think of you and cry for you today.
Maybe others were thinking of you, but maybe not today.
Today it was cloudy
Today it was rainy
Today the mountains were shadowed and gray
and cold raindrops dampened the ground above you.
Today I walked by.
Today I thought of you.


Lost in the cemetery in the rain

Lost in the cemetery.
In the rain.
It's a great title. There's so much in that one sentence.
Or is it two?
How lost am I? In what way am I lost?
Have I lost my map or made a wrong turn?
Or am I lost in my grief, lost without you.

But maybe it's only a title.
Maybe there is nothing more.

I'm only lost.

In the cemetery.
In the rain.

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Thanks for reading! If you haven't seen it yet, here's a link to the Go Fund Me my friend set up to send me to writer's conferences. https://www.gofundme.com/help-this-amazing-writer?member=51762

Another Way To Help

Hi, everyone!

By now many of you may have seen the Go Fund Me my wonderful friend set up for me. If you haven't, I'll link it at the bottom. It's to help me raise funds to attend a couple of upcoming writer's conferences. These events are very important in helping me to achieve my goal of becoming a published and full-time author. I am very close to finishing my literary mystery "Pieces" and will soon be ready to shop it to agents. These events will allow me to meet with agents and editors, network with other writers of all skill levels, and attend workshops that will help me grow my craft. If you know me at all (online or IRL) you know how important writing is to me, and how hard I've worked over the years. You also know that it's been a rough three years for me, which is why attending these events without financial assistance is difficult. With the help of some friends, an anonymous person, and a former friend and coworker of my mom's, I am closer to having what I need to attend, but I'm not quite there yet.

Aside from writing, I've also been an avid jewelry maker. Some friends and I sell our jewelry for charity on our Etsy shop, Pins With Purpose. It's been very rewarding. To date, we've raised over $3000 for various causes. In addition to making jewelry for our shop, I also do much of the social media advertising. It's been great to know that I've been able to help people, especially while things haven't been going well for me. I've enjoyed making jewelry so much, that I have more than we really need for our charity. With the encouragement of my fellow craftivists, I've opened up my own for-profit Etsy shop, My Voice Boutique. There are just a few items up so far, but I'm always adding more.

I mention this here, because the money I would make from My Voice Boutique is extra money, therefore I could use it for things like writer's conferences. So, if you're not into just donating/giving me $ (which I totally understand) you can buy something from me. It's a win-win. Here are a couple of the items I have for sale:

You can view more at my shop: etsy.com/shop/myvoiceboutique

And here's the Go Fund Me page if you'd like to learn more:https://www.gofundme.com/help-this-amazing-writer?member=51762

Thanks!