Tag Archives: politics

The World Awaits You, or, Meeting Henry & Seeing His Travel Slideshow

09 Tuesday Jan 2018

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Prepare to be uncomfortable. Prepare to be challenged. Prepare to leave your Western constructs and ideals behind. Get a passport and go visit Kerala on Friday.  You will give me one hundred reasons why you can’t, and Henry Rollins will give you one hundred twenty reasons why you can and you should. You will be a changed person when you leave your doorstep Henry promises, just as J.R.R. Tolkien promised in his tales, but there’s more at stake here in terra firma of 2018.

I wanted so much to tell you what it was like listening to Mr. Rollins give us the backstory of the photos he’s taken on his Travel Slideshow tour. I wrote a pile of pages and when I took a breath, walked away, and came back all I could see was me fan-girling all over my Dad trying to get him to understand why it was so important that he listen to this rock band, see how smart and wise they are, full of boundless passion and world interest, won’t you love them just like me, Dad?

Henry doesn’t need anyone to fan-girl all over him, and he doesn’t need me to promote or explain him or his books or his tour. Henry has, however, explicitly asked all who will listen to get a passport and travel.  To get uncomfortable, to be challenged, to try to see the world without Western filters. To see the people who aren’t making headlines, the young and old, everyone in between whose clothes are clean though they sift through garbage for food, whose children are happy and playful though they play in graveyards, who sell their fresh foods at the market and have better diets than we do. Discover colors and tastes, notice the flesh, the sinews, the strength, the smiles, the customs that make us different and one.  That Ismail and Awa and Hai on the street ain’t the devil but just a dude, as we all are, having a life, doing their thing, and it’s the politicians that really fuck everything up. And we have the power to make a change, not a “Democracy or else you backwater jerks” kind of change, but the kind that brings access to clean water, food, healthcare, and school without fear.

For those of you who are already doing this, you get it. This is old hat for you.  For those who have a problem with anything that whiffs of globalism or liberalism, I hope you will still give travel a chance.  Anyone who hasn’t seen Mr. Rollins on his speaking tours, I say see him pronto. He’s an entertaining and insightful speaker, and you will not be unmoved one way or the other.

(And now for the fan-girl part, because I hafta, and you can skip this no problem.)  Through my Dad, I was able to get a VIP ticket to meet Henry after the show. About 25-30 other people were there. We lined up and got to meet him and he was no different on the floor as he was onstage. When you see him on TV, that is the real, authentic Henry, as every good punk knows, there is not one fake thing about him.  My turn came and I approached him sheepishly. We shook hands. I thanked him for all that he does (What does he do? Well go look it up, he’s laid hands on more of our servicemen than our current president will probably ever do). I asked could I hug him, he said yes, and we did and some pics were taken.  As I walked away I turned back and pointed and said loudly, “KEEP GOING!”  He looked at me and smiled and hollered, “I WILL!”  So wonderful.  Do I need to meet him and hug his hard body again? No. But I will keep reading his work and seeing him live when he comes around. He inspires me, and I hope to get uncomfortable and be challenged and write about it from another part of the world before I kick the bucket.)

Sexist Me

21 Tuesday Nov 2017

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In 1984, at the age of sixteen, I heard about female genital mutilation.  I was horrified and angry, but I had nowhere to share this information or how I felt, no way to make a change. People at home were too busy fighting, and everyone at school was all about everything you can imagine going on in high school. Horrified, angry, and helpless make for flinty bedfellows. I internalized and built me a case for hating men.

In 1991, five years after I graduated from high school, Anita Hill testified that Clarence Thomas, supreme court nominee, sexually harassed her.  I thought she was brave for coming forward, I believed her, and after he was confirmed my hatred for men accelerated.  How could anyone let this pig become a judge?  (Side note: I didn’t even understand at the time that he would be a judge for a lifetime and what that meant, or how his wife’s politicking everyone ignores.)

Four years later, 1995,  I married my best friend. My high school years and many after did nothing to help me learn and grow into becoming the best person I could be. I was a man-hating woman hell-bent ready to punish everyone and everything who brutalized women. I. Won’t. Be. Your. Victim. Anymore!!!   Those years were tumultuous, years without a strong support system. I hated men less because my husband was kind, but the lurking vigilante shadow was never far away, and I did little to banish it.

In 1998 my son was an infant, and I was enmeshed in the daily life of being wife and mother.  I kept up with the news in a fairly background noise kind of way.  I heard that Clinton was being accused and dragged to court and impeached for lying under oath. Well that was stupid, Bill, what the hell were you thinking?  I heard the woman he was with was a willing, if not eager, partner, and I gave him a pass.  What?   Yes.  I gave him a pass.  He seemed like a charming dude, really good on camera whether it was an address or a spot on a talk show.  I mean, how could a dude who seemed so decent (yes, he had a dalliance and he’s all humbled by it) be the predator these other women and politicians made him out to be?  I felt like the women coming forward were the unfortunate victims of those who had a political axe to grind.  I felt like, if Hillary stood by him, why shouldn’t I?  I gave Bill Clinton a Democratic pass because he favored the same things I did, he was charming, and I was not paying attention to the deeper, more relevant, issues.

Twenty-eight years after I graduated high school, 2014, I found myself in the lobby of a hospital waiting to visit my son.  I picked up a copy of Vanity Fair which I don’t normally read, but this issue caught my attention.  I read about Monica Lewinsky’s life after the scandal.  The focus of the article was humiliation and bullying. 2014 was a pivotal time for me in so many ways, and this article was part of it.  Ms. Lewinsky describes her life after the scandal and her hopes for what women need to do going forward.  Monica had been a throwaway for me. She was a willing participant in an affair, so what, let’s move on. After reading the article I learned how wrong I was.

In October of 2016 I became enraged and sickened by the words of a president-elect caught on tape. I looked forward to his sad-faced confession and withdrawal from the race, but that did not happen.  People did not seem to care that he admitted to groping women without their consent, enjoying it without fear of retribution because when you’re famous you can get away with it.  The Narcissist-in-Chief is our president, and I mourn every day.

It is November 2017 and I am questioning everything I know about myself as a woman and everything I believed right up until this day.  Three women accused Bill Clinton of rape or misconduct. No one cared. Sixteen women came forward to describe being abused by Trump before his inauguration. No one cared.  Harvey Weinstein was exposed, a tap was opened and it appears the floodgates are breached. Every day more women and men are coming forward to share stories of their abuse by the famous and the unknown.  As I sit back in amazement at the revelations I cannot help but look at myself for being complicit.  I gave Bill Clinton a Democratic pass, ignoring the women he abused. Should I give that same treatment to Al Franken because his sins were not that big a deal? Why turn my back on Roy Moore but not Charlie Rose?

The harder we put men’s bad behavior under the microscope, the harder I take a look at myself, the closer I listen to my internal tape recorder. I am shocked by what I find. I read a female journalist’s book and in several places I felt annoyed and frustrated that she was complaining about her hair, or her choice to give up her relationship and comfortable life in exchange for face-time on air covering a presidential candidate. I heard my inner voice saying to the cashier where I buy groceries, “Geez, lady, would it kill you to smile?”  I am sexist just like all the rest, but at least now I know it and I am willing to work hard to do better. I no longer want to exercise vigilante justice under the cover of my superpower, invisibility.  I know now that knowledge is power, and so is my voice. I have to stand up and speak out equally for what is right, instead of giving a pass to the folks I kinda like because they’re cute or funny on a talk-show.  Justice looks so different to me now. I hope my voice will add geometrically and make a real, lasting change.  I pray for equal vision, equal treatment, and an open heart and mind always.

Energy, Creative, Spent. On.

17 Friday Nov 2017

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I’ve heard it said that one should be careful what they put their energy into.  Perhaps you’ve seen the meme that cautions who you invite into your soul, or the reminder that Karma did, indeed, see what you did.  “Be careful what you put your energy into tonight, darling,” I think to myself as I write.  It doesn’t all have to be lofty and worthy, but is it worth the energy I believe it might?  Yes. No. Maybe.

The silence of this place is more precious to me than the clean water that patters into the steel sink. Why not use the cliche of more precious than gold? Because you know me better than that. Only my fingertips tapping and my eardrum’s tinnitus breaks the silence. Here comes a helicopter (helo) beating its way over this little spit of land, soon to cross the bay and RTB.  This helo sounds awful, one blade out of tune, I’ve never heard that before, and I wonder, and I wonder if my energy should care.

My plants are repotted. The floors smell of citrus. I dug this fuzzy sweater from the box that hides beneath my bed, baby blue that made me sweat when I took a little walk earlier this evening. Finding shelly treasures require extra scouting these days. All good use of my energy, but why should you care?

My little green oil burner fills this space with the scent of something vague but peaceful. It’s not the loud, spotlight-stealing scent of sage, or the typical pumpkin or vanilla stuff we’re “supposed” to be burning this time of year. I stare at the tea light flame and think of the advice I gave to a friend. She is struggling. So hard. She is a potted plant who hears a wild life calling in the distance. The energy I give her is not a waste of time. It’s just not the right time.  I spent a lot of time thinking about this and conclude that I respect the woman she is, the woman she chooses to be, because to do otherwise would be harmful to us both.

I have used a great deal of energy reading two books of political non-fiction. I pat myself on the back for reading out of my comfort zone, for finishing what I began though in places I wanted to throw them across the room, and for recognizing that I am ready to stop using my energy on this quest now. I sought wisdom, some kind of understanding for the politics of our day trying to make sense of it all. The books were good, but they left me feeling like a little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing.  Who knew maybe it was a bad idea to take a bite from the fruit of that tree? My furnace is ready to burn for better things now.

What I’ve produced in my recent writings are for personal use, so much sorting, so many questions and no wrong answers.  A good use of my energy, I believe.  I’m ready to turn back to writing fictions, pleasures, dragons, warriors, to create a world I can understand, a world where I’m not being held hostage by my government.  And I’m set to re-read “Shogun” because it’s been calling at me for quite some time.

PS: The refrigerator is running, breaking the silence, and that is just all right.

Rhetoric from a drowning heart

18 Friday Aug 2017

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…. and I think we should take down all the Confederate monuments and put them in museums or some type of memorialized area, out of public view.  This way the monuments will be safe and protected, people can still go visit them whenever they want, and they will still be an important part of our history.

Right? Just like we put Indians on reservations, safe and protected, and part of our history. It’s not like we only remember them when they’re protesting pipelines or whatever.

We are not a stupid people, and we will not rewrite or forget history.  Right?

I’m a yankee living in the south, a few hours south of the heart of the Confederacy. What I think and feel and believe about southern heritage means very little to people who have lived here all their lives. My neighbors and friends are heartbroken that Confederate monuments are being removed because they see value in its history. As an outsider why should I have a say about southern heritage? Well, for one because we all live here in these United States. I am forced to examine the words. What is southern heritage? How about northern heritage? Is there such a thing, and what does that look like? Money? Liberalism? Industry? Politics? The arts?  What is western heritage, and what does that look like? Do we have a tex-mex heritage, or a far-northwestern heritage, those folks in Seattle or Idaho? What does mid-western heritage look like, what kind of flag do they fly to represent their mid-western ways?   What does heritage mean by definition, and to me personally, and to each person in our country, and have we relinquished the word in favor of stereotype?  I don’t know.

My paternal family came from England and Ireland. My maternal family have English and Dutch backgrounds. I was so proud of my Irish “heritage,” something that I could only touch by way of poetry and song. I burnished that pride based on the heroics of Cormac but didn’t trouble myself too much to understand the Troubles, and they certainly weren’t Troubles I lived through and can recall firsthand.  I have a Heinz 57 bloodline, as do most of us, so I no longer fly anyone’s flag in pride. Right now, I’m just trying to figure out how to preserve history, to heal wounds, to discover what fellowship and unity and taking care of each other means and what we have to do to get there.

Finning, Press Secretary-style

22 Saturday Jul 2017

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I am awake and aware, moving steadily through my world. I was resting a little while ago. I do not need much rest. Now I saunter my body through seas in search of small, struggling things that fit in my mouth to satisfy the low ache inside. When it is satisfied, I glide and glide and glide, aimless. I have seen four turnings and the whales tell me all I need to do is glide and eat and sleep. They will tell me what to do when it is time. I believe them.

Something touches me, and I can no longer glide. I am rising though I did not choose to. I feel up though I feel it is too high, I should not be here for any reason.  I tumble into a place where I cannot breathe, a strange new world.  I’ve never felt this before, where is my water that pours into my gills that makes me everything?  I struggle, but not too much because I want to conserve my breathing.  And now I feel tugging things on my body here and there and there, and it feels like nothing I have ever felt, and I need a word for this feeling, and the whales tell me this is what it means to hurt.  I am hurt, falling, it seems. I am hurting.  I am. I want to breathe. And soon I do when I am reunited with my world. Water crosses my gills limply as I drift down.  I know my swimming tools are gone. I breathe in a stultifying way, but it is not my living way.

I am drifting down because my swimming tools are gone, and I ache. My back and my flanks and my far end hurt, dear, sweet parts of me I can no longer touch and will not reply no matter how much I reach out to them.  I am drifting down.  I suppose this is okay because we can’t all survive as the whales tell me.

As I drift down into the cold, dark water, colder and darker than where I should be, I recall everything the whales said to me. I paid them little mind, believing their antics were pretentious and showboating, but I heard some of what they needed to say. Once our world was near silent. All anyone could hear was the turnings of fisheries, the struggles of female sharks trying to get away from the males, happy breachings, puffers making nests to entice a mate, anarchist octopus thinking a little too loud. The whales told me the new noises came and they learned their ways, suffered slaughters of generations, but they also told me that they met gentle hands whose hearts beat true, hearts that held no lies.

As I drift down into the cold, dark water unable to swim because my swim tools are gone, I feel tired.  I am ready to rest because it’s been a long day, and that’s all right. I am glad I lived a little life, sultry and honest, loving the deepest blue, as I drift wondering who would hurt me so, but I’d still rather berth in the unknown than come before my people and lie and lie and lie to them. I hope the whales will remember me to you.

Sleeping, Unconservatively

25 Thursday May 2017

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I peeled my sad, angry, frustrated clothes off and went to bed, though I still wore a layer of it on my face. It occupied some of my heart.  As I lay on my side and looked out the window I noted the orange sky.  That means weather. The kind that brings lightning. I can’t sleep when I know the lightning is coming, especially after that last storm that seemed to want to eat the Hampton roads. I was tempted to stay up all night so I could be prepared for the blast, no matter how long it would take for it to come, but I really wanted to sleep.  I chose to peel off my layers of anger, to turn over and breathe and meditate and pray and hope for relaxation to take over so I could sleep.  I chose to sleep, and I would deal with the storm, the adrenaline rush of fear that comes when a little girl sleeps in her bed and her parents crash the door… if and when it came.  Meanwhile, there’s nothing. i. can. do. about. it.  Any of it.

This morning I awoke, still wearing my angry face, sad to say.  I could feel it, stuck to me like a wet leaf but not so easily plucked off and cast aside.  Reading the news did not help.  Last night’s echoes still reverberate, that a politician assaulted a journalist who the hell knows why, and my fear that it’s only going to get worse.  More, I can’t stay quiet when I see a young woman who wants to graduate barred from the ceremony because she broke her “morality” pledge and got pregnant. I’m supposed to stay quiet when girls can’t wear braids in their hair or barred from a graduation ceremony because they’re pregnant.  Both schools have rules and mores, and both girls broke them.  The pregnant girl broke the contract she signed when she had sex outside of marriage and got pregnant. But the strength she showed in keeping her child and choosing to move forward with her life, to finish school and graduate shows a lot of backbone.  Or… maybe a lot of pressure from her parents and society?  Either way, she’s barred from graduation because she broke the morality rule, and all I can feel is sorrow for all of us.  I guess I should fall in line and feel solidarity for the rule, because if they allowed her to attend it would mean the school condones her behavior, and then cats and dogs living together.

I ruined my 5-star morality rating years ago, and I’m betting we all have some tarnish on our souls.  Here we stand punishing young people for an act as simple as wearing braids or as troubling as premarital sex which results in pregnancy.  I am an angry woman this morning because females should not be punished for wearing braids, or for carrying a child.  I am in no way a pro-life person, because, you know, I hate babies and life and I just want to sin and fuck and eat embryos with my grits.  But I am a pro-life person in that I can’t stand seeing injustice, even though they signed a contract.  The contracts and handbook rules that regulate dress code and morality are in place to keep young people in line, and boy do they need keeping in line, what with all the things they’re privy to on social media and lack of guidance from home.  I get it.  But the angry woman of me feels that black girls banned from wearing braids and pregnant girls cannot attend graduation that they earned crosses a line and really pisses me off.  I am sad for all of us as a society.

And don’t even get me started on the politician that body-slammed a journalist for asking a question.  I feel like we’re all just losing sight of things that should matter more than offensive t-shirts, weaves, and a young woman who chose life, which is ironically what conservatives want to preserve at all costs.

It’s almost noon, and I have to decide what my diet of the day will contain.  As I write, I am playing action movies in the background.  The angry woman of me needs to hear fire power and powerful soundtracks, a catharsis for me that elevates the idea of justice because I cannot be the iron hand to wield it.  I see justice and common sense diminishing in my country.  And there’s nothing.i.can.do.about.it.

Aw shit, what do I care.  If you sign a contract, you’re bound. You fuck up, you get punished. No graduation for you.  Just like a president, I guess….

Politics, Peace, and Burnout

16 Thursday Feb 2017

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Unsolicited thoughts on politics, peace, and burnout:
I’ve been voting since Reagan. I’ve been complaining and fearful since George W. Bush. I liked Obama but didn’t pay close enough attention to his administration because it seemed pretty innocuous. I didn’t get hands-on involved in politics until the Women’s March on Washington.
Now I am paying close attention to political voices, on all fronts, because I would like the world to be a better place based on facts and truth, not memes, rumors, and disinformation. The world could be a better place if I stand up for it.
I asked myself tonight where was I all these years when it mattered? Why didn’t I speak up back then instead of just whining in a journal? Myself answered, “I was busy working, being a wife, a mother, and being stressed out and not handling anything maturely.” Opinions without action are just opinions.
Today I would like to tell women and men that it’s okay we never did anything before, beyond griping at the Thanksgiving table with relatives. I’d like to recognize you, that you are going to school, or working, or taking care of yourself and maybe a family. You’ve got priorities and I respect those. Today I would like to ask women and men, if they feel passionate about something, please find a way, no matter how small, to make your voice heard. I marched for a boatload of personal reasons. Today I am asking people to look inside, find one issue that matters most to them, and speak out where they will be heard. Call, write a postcard, or visit your representatives with your concern. Believe me, it makes a difference. Please don’t lose heart and burn out because it all feels insurmountable. (I’m writing about it because I get burned out so easily.) The current president said, in his inaugural speech, “January 20th 2017, will be remembered as the day the people became the rulers of this nation again.” I would like to remind you that we, the people, have always been the rulers of this nation. This is nothing new. Your voice matters, and it will be heard. Take heart.
Find your passion. Focus your voice. Stay strong, get heard, and please do so peacefully.

Keep Going

08 Wednesday Feb 2017

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Most days look very similar, similar in all good ways, in ways I am grateful for.  But there are some days, and they come two or three at a time, where there is nothing I can do but lie still. Succumb to inertia. Resisting the overwhelming fatigue and mental weariness is hard, and I gave up trying. I know what this is, and it will pass.  Lucky girl to have that time and space.

When it passes I am up and outside before sunrise, before the people come. In the dawn light, I am looking for unusual shapes in the sand, in the water.  I wonder how many days until the water becomes warm.  Lament for the two humpbacks that died this week, victims of cargo traffic.

Today has been an awake day, a day that I can think critically while driving to the grocery store and stock my fridge with good things, what a lucky girl I am.  Meanwhile, that mental chatter  starts to drag me down. The Virginia House voted to defund Planned Parenthood.  There are FIVE in the entire state.  Without state funding, they all might have to close.  Executive orders that are on track to undo all the good progress that was made on so many fronts. Everybody will buy from Big Ears Oil Co, right? Russia decriminalizes domestic “abuse,” but it was just a slap for Pitr’s sake. Feminism took away a man’s right to rape his wife, says the manosphere.  Sarah Palin wants us to pray for our leaders, but what if I don’t believe God gives one rats ass about the politics of man?  Murdering minority Muslims in Myanmar today, what am I being cute with some alliteration? And why do I care, anyway, when our homeless veterans need help?  Peaceful demonstrations are interrupted by left-wingnut terrorists. Presidential advisers are preparing for the Fourth Turning like it’s predestined, and I just fucking give up.  After all the phone calls and postcards and hoping, I just give up. I can’t keep up with what’s coming.  I’m done.  I’m going to take the George Carlin pill and say that the Earth wanted plastic, anyway, why bother caring?   I’ve a happy life. I should just focus on sunshine and waves.

I am ready to descend, lead weights dangling from each and every vertebra and my eyelids, to my couch and just not give one fuck. I got books, I got water, I got wine, I got a cement bunker over my head and neighbors I can occupy space with, what the fuck more do I want?

But what if I could make a difference, no matter how small?  What if I could be one voice that helped somebody else? Maybe it won’t heal the whole world, but at least I could say I did something. I tried. To help someone else believe that they matter.

I’m ready.  Are you?

In Praise Of…

06 Monday Feb 2017

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  • Michelle, Megyn, Kellyann, and Hillary for your grace under pressure.  You didn’t get where you are today because you were shrinking violets. Smart, strong, fearless women. 
  • Melania who was born a creative, who worked to succeed in her chosen field of modeling and found herself in a world I’m not sure she wanted. She is apolitical, a devoted mother, and does what she wants on her terms. 
  • Ana Navarro, another strong woman who represents Republicans with a centered voice. 
  • My neighbor who is raising a thriving, happy, little boy in the face of “mommy shaming.”
  • Me for getting involved in a domestic dispute because it’s not okay to look the other way
  • My son for taking steps to get healthy and feel better
  • My husband (who I left) for being there when I need to vent, and for being a steadfast father to my son. 
  • Bookstore gift cards so I can get immersed in positive things like Trevor Noah, inspirational poetry by Mary Oliver, and (finally) an in-depth history of Mermaids. 
  • The universe, that consciousness, that awesome opposite of everything. I am reminded and humbled to know that it’s not my place to throw a tantrum, trying to fix everything and make it “right” in my own eyes.  Nothing is fixed. We are all passengers, and we shall all pass. How we treat each other, and help each other into the next flight is what matters.