Stuff

George Carlin did a GREAT piece about “stuff” and it has been in my head for years. Many years. Watch it here.

As an aging Baby Boomer, I think about stuff a lot. And as a “yard care professional” who does odd jobs for a lot of seniors, including cleaning out stuff, it has become a topic of concern for me. Truly.

Here’s what happens when you age out of your home and move to a smaller space. YOU GET RID OF YOUR STUFF. I have helped a number of people clean out their homes for a variety of reasons… moving in with someone; downsizing to a smaller home; moving into a senior community. You name it. And here’s what it looks like…

They do three things: they give stuff to their family and friends; they donate stuff; or they throw stuff in a dumpster. YEARS worth of memories they throw in a dumpster.

I truly believe that Baby Boomers downsizing will be the largest landfill issue in the history of the United States. Not kidding. We have too much stuff and we can’t take it with us.

When I opened a cupboard this evening, this plate grabbed my attention. It was the impetus for this post. This plate.

There is a story behind this plate. But let’s back up a little bit. First, let me tell you about my dad. My dad passed away seven years ago this coming Sunday. He was a good man; but he was a sick man. He was physically very healthy, but his entire life he was riddled with untreated mental health issues. Some came from his childhood. Some came from his thirty year service in the Navy.

As a kid, growing up with four siblings, dad was a “neat freak” and required that we all keep a tight ship. But in his senior years, he became a hoarder. He didn’t just keep stuff; he was one of THOSE people. He had piles of useless crap and pathways between the useless crap to useful things like doors, chairs, the television, the bathroom, and the bedroom.

When I first realized there was an issue, I found myself becoming a minimalist. Unconsciously. I got rid of things. I discouraged gifts. I lived in smaller spaces. And I am that way today.

Which brings me to the story about MY stuff.

I recently moved into a new apartment and while I was unpacking, I realized that every single thing I display has a story. The stories aren’t all great, but most of them are.

The boomerang on my kitchen wall reminds me that everything comes back… so be careful what you say and do. It’s sort of a reminder of the reality of karma. It’s sort of the story of my adult life.

The antique mirror on my living room wall reminds me of my childhood neighbors, Alice Williams and Ethel Courtney. When Alice passed away just shy of her 100th birthday she was my very best friend.

The framed photos on the wall remind me how much I adore my family.

An original oil painting reminds me of one of my favorite places on Earth… Ogunquit, Maine.

My Amish quilt on my bed is filled with memories.

The “lucky” bamboo plant on my desk reminds me of an ex who wished me good luck on a job interview. The relationship didn’t last and I didn’t get the job. The gesture was beautiful, but, apparently, lucky bamboo plants aren’t necessarily lucky.

And so many other well organized objects, all of which have a story. Including the plate.

The plate reminds me of an elderly friend that I spent time with for two years; sharing dinners from her restaurant, yelling at MSNBC, and laughing. Laughing so much.

I cherish that plate.

I cherish my memories.

I cherish my stuff.

 

Come Out, Come Out…

Yesterday marked the 30th anniversary of National Coming Out Day (NCOD), which started on October 11, 1988. It began on the one year anniversary of the National March on Washington for Lesbian and Gay Rights.

Today is the 20th anniversary of the death of Matthew Shepard. Matthew was a handsome, intelligent young man and he was a kind, gentle soul. On October 6, 1998, when he was 21 years old, he was beaten by two men, tortured, and hung on a fence post like a scarecrow. From The Guardian, an online publication, “They pistol whipped him with a gun then tied him to a fence in freezing conditions and set fire to him before leaving him to die.” He suffered and died six days later from severe head injuries.

SIX days later.

I came out to my mother, during the summer of 1979. Well, I didn’t really come out to her. She figured it out. I was 17 and it was the same summer that my younger brother sustained a spinal cord injury in a diving accident on the Fourth of July. That year really sucked for mom.

Coming out was really easy for me. Up to the moment I realized I was gay, I was very naive in many ways. Especially with regard to sex and sexuality. I just never thought about it. I had very little interest in boys, growing up. I pretended I did, because that seemed like the expectation. But the only thing I really cared about was whether or not they were nice to me. And we all know that a lot of kids are not very nice. My life revolved around school, sports, and work. I was very mature and very independent, but I was very naive.

That summer I had two jobs and I spent a lot of time with a female coworker at one of them. We got very close and our friendship eventually evolved into a love relationship, which would last close to four years. Up until our relationship started to evolve, I had  never considered that I was gay. But after our first kiss, I had an “aha” moment. There was a flood of memories about girls and women I had crushes on from early childhood to present day. Until that moment, I didn’t realize they were crushes. But, at that moment, it all made sense to me.

Girls at school. Teachers. The girlfriends of my older brothers. And all of the female nurses that cared for my brother that year. Aha!

Aside from my mom crying for two weeks straight, I really never struggled with being gay. I was lucky to have a supportive step father who comforted her through it, but, I would eventually realize that he was only supportive because I was a girl coming out.

Several years later I told my dad I was gay. And it was at that point, when both of my parents knew, that I decided I really didn’t care what anyone else thought. They both loved me and supported me. Nobody else mattered.

I was always of the mindset that if my employer had an issue with it, they didn’t deserve me. I was alway ready to send out my resume if it ever became an issue, but it never did. I was lucky. I was lucky, because it never became an issue. And I was lucky that I never worried that it could. I valued myself more than the possibility of being discriminated against.

In 1979 there were no “out” role models and even flamboyant men like Liberace and Elton John denied claims of being gay, though John did claim he was bisexual. Boy George and George Michael were not yet popular and even they skirted the question for many years. Jody Foster was in the closet and Ellen, Melissa Etheridge, and Rosie O’Donnell were years away from introducing themselves to us.

In the 1970s and 1980s, young gay people mostly lived in a fantasy world, hoping that our favorite actors, athletes, and musicians were one of us. The first big screen movie that I ever saw with lesbian characters, “Personal Best,” didn’t come out until 1982.

And, in 1979, AIDS had not yet hit America’s gay community.

Coming out was easy for me. I realized instantaneously that this is who I am. From the core of my being; from my soul… I am gay. From that time in my life forward, it is who I have been; it is how I have lived; it is my authentic self. There is no question in my mind that God created me this way. There is no question in my mind that God loves me.

Coming out has not been that easy for many people. Even people I know. Many have stayed in the closet for fear of losing jobs or housing, living their true lives only within the confines of their home. Or on occasional vacations to places like Provincetown, San Francisco, or Key West, where they feel safe. Many have led heterosexual lives, marrying and having children, because society told them it was the right thing to do. Only to come out years later. Many have been shunned by their families, who have claimed the “lifestyle” is a sin. Even if those families have never stepped foot in a church.

One of the most troubling things that people claim about homosexuality is that it’s a choice. It is not a choice. And my typical response to that claim is, “Is it your ‘choice’ to be heterosexual?”

Being gay is as much a part of me as is being white.

And who would “choose” to be gay? Who would choose a life of discrimination? A life of being hated. A life of being told, from childhood, that you are a sinner, sometimes likened to pedophiles and beastialitites. Who would choose a life of being bullied, assaulted, or  even, like Matthew Shepard, murdered? WHO would “choose” this life?

Nobody would CHOOSE to be gay.

I’ve shared before the few times that I have had bad experiences as an out lesbian.  And there are two reasons there have been few. First, I am a strong woman and I am brave enough to call you out on your actions. But, too, I am smart and I know when to keep my mouth shut. And when I do that, I can hide in my own skin. My homosexuality is not obvious and I can fake it. Not every member of the LGBT community can do that. And those are the people who are targeted more often than someone like me.

Once when I lived in New York many years ago, a skin head approached me on a subway and, in a thick British accent, called me a “fucking dyke.” I was targeted because I had very short hair and I had a “Silence = Death” button on my lapel. It was a reference to the Reagan administration’s response to the AIDS crisis. My adrenaline kept me calm and safe and I was able to rationalize with him.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“That.” And he pointed to the button. I politely told him that it didn’t mean I was gay and I asked if he knew what it meant. I told him I would be happy to explain it to him.

He walked away from me and started to bully a man a few seats away. A thin, quiet, frail looking young man. The exchange escalated and the man lifted a fist. As soon as he lifted his fist, several other men who had been strategically sitting throughout the subway car jumped to the skinheads side and began pummeling him. I immediately realized it was a planned assault on anyone who engaged. Anyone they thought was gay. They were clearly out for a night of gay bashing.

The train stopped and I went to the door, held it open, and started screaming for help. I screamed like I have never screamed in my entire life. The men left the train, but not before the one who originally approached me spit in my face.

I will never forget that night. And I will never forget that man’s face or voice.

There was another incident, just a few years ago, when a customer called me a “bitch dyke” while I was sitting at a local bar minding my own business. Completely unprovoked. He was making a scene about something and all I did was turn my head to see what the commotion was.

And there have been countless, less frightening times in between. Not to mention a lifetime of ignorant, hateful “gay jokes” and impersonations by people, men and women, who have spoken with a lisp or bent their wrist, describing gay men.

And, again, just recently. I was at a local bar for their weekly trivia night. The event draws quite a crowd and it’s always fun. The question was, “Which apostle carried a purse?” Without hesitation someone on the other side of the room shouted, “The queer one.”

That comment left me stunned, like a deer in headlights, for the rest of the evening. I looked at my friend beside me and asked, “Did somebody really just say that?”

It was one of two men. The younger one is a giant ass that annoys everyone around him. The other, a retiree and a respected member of the community. I have no interest in knowing which one it was. It doesn’t matter.

Like the time the skinhead approached me on the subway, my adrenaline kept me calm. I didn’t want to cause a scene, like I did the time I stood up to the guy who called me a “bitch dyke.” I let it go.

I let it go. And that was wrong. I should NOT have let it go.

If people are not called out for their homophobia (or racism, or xenophobia, or Islamophobia, or any kind of hate speech or discrimination), they will never learn. If people, gay or straight, don’t stand up to comments like “the queer one,” they will never learn. If people don’t shut down stereotypes and bad jokes, they will never learn. They will never learn that their behavior is not okay.

By being silent we are doing an injustice to every single member of the LGBT community who is struggling with their reality. We are doing a grave disservice to every single gay, lesbian, bisexual, or transgender person who might be considering suicide, especially our children. So many children who struggle with their sexuality take their own lives and they do that because society crushes their spirit. And on a bad day, being called queer, or dyke, or sissy, or faggot… it can be just enough to send a child over the emotional edge.

Homosexuality is NOT wrong.

The room was quiet after that comment. That was comforting to me, because the people who heard him were clearly uncomfortable with the comment. Nobody even disputed that the answer to the question was incorrect.

This past May, the House of Representatives voted to bar gay “conversion therapy” in the state of Connecticut. The vote was 141 to 8, which means that 8 State Representatives in Connecticut voted against barring the discredited practice of trying to change the sexual orientation of young homosexuals. As recently as 1980, techniques used in conversion therapy in the United States included ice-pick lobotomies and chemical castration. And eight of our legislators, the “hateful eight,” thought it was okay to not ban this practice.

In many states, sodomy is still illegal. A sexual practice that many people engage in, gay and straight. In some of those states, it’s only illegal if you are gay. And in some of those states, it’s not illegal if you are a heterosexual AND married. These laws are antiquated. Do we really need to legislate what we, as consenting adults, do in our bedrooms?

Fortunately, while these laws still exist, they are not enforceable, because of a 2003 Supreme Court ruling, which declared that Texas’ anti-sodomy law was unconstitutional. This is progress. However, these existing laws, even though not enforceable, are still quoted and used to discriminate against gay men.

Gay marriage is also progress. In 2015, the Supreme Court of the United States of America struck down all state bans on same-sex marriage. That was a day to celebrate for gays and lesbians. However, still today, only twenty states have laws protecting this community against discrimination. In most states, a same-sex couple can get married on Saturday and be fired from a job or evicted from their home on Monday. For no reason other than being gay.

People in the LGBT community who are my age can handle all of this hate. We’ve seen it all. We’ve heard it all. We’ve lived it for many, many years. And we continue to live it. My senior peers survived New York’s “Stonewall Riots,” which were the catalyst of the gay rights movement. We came out on the other side okay. We survived. We are contributing members of society. We have careers and we pay taxes. We have homes; we have partners and spouses; and we have children. We are doctors and lawyers and teachers and politicians. We are plumbers and electricians and landscapers. We are stay at home moms and stay at home dads. We are actors and athletes. And we are okay.

And we have celebrated being okay with Pride events every year since the Stonewall Riots. Throughout the United States. Throughout the World.

Our LGBT and “questioning” youth, on the other hand, still have to make it out of their closets safely. Telling them “it gets better” isn’t enough. An overwhelming number of children are taking their own lives or attempting to take their own lives. They need our love and our support. They need to be protected against bullying and gay bashing. They need to see that they are surrounded by positive role models, which is one of the goals of National Coming Out Day. And our homophobic friends and family members need to see how many of their loved ones are members of the LGBT community… another reason that coming out is so important.

And when we hear a gay joke or a homophobic comment, or when we see harmful legislation, we must stand up against it. Every single one of us. Every single day. We all need to be a part of the solution and not a part of the problem.

“The queer one.” If you think that’s funny, then you are a part of the problem.

 

 

 

 

You Never Know

“You never really understand a man until you consider things from his point of view… until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.”                                                                             ~ Atticus Finch, “To Kill a Mockingbird”

Many years ago, when it became commonplace for people to stand at the entrance of a strip mall or a busy intersection asking for money, a relative of mine suggested to me that “those people make upwards of $40,000.00 a year.”  Likewise, I have had friends tell me that “people on welfare shouldn’t have cell phones.” And most recently, a good friend implied that poor people shouldn’t buy scratch off tickets.

Anyone who knows me, knows I have an answer for everything.

If someone is making $40,000.00 per year panhandling, well then… good for them.

Everyone needs a telephone, and since there are no more public telephones available, then why shouldn’t poor people own a cell phone?

And I offered this to my friend who commented on poor people buying Lottery tickets. “If I am sitting here drinking a beer at a bar and I have overdue bills, then why is that different than a person on public assistance buying a Lottery ticket?”

My point is this. Many of us judge. I think it’s human nature. I try not to, but I do sometimes.

“Judge ye not, that ye may not be judged.”   ~Matthew 7:1

So, the next time you look at “the other” and want to comment on their actions, how about pausing? How about engaging with them? How about asking them their story?

A couple of months ago I was at a local grocery store late at night; just before closing. There was one register open and I had a cart full of groceries. The man behind me had one item; a grinder from the deli. I invited him to go in front of me and he declined. He leaned up against a display and said something about his sore back. Again I invited him to go ahead of me and, again, he declined. He shared, “My back is sore from lifting my friend Silas’ wheelchair in and out of my van.”

I asked, “Silas the ‘Brooklyn Can Man’?”

Silas is a homeless man who lives in the area. About two years ago, he was camping out behind the local Walmart when his fire got out of control. In the process of trying to put it out, he was severely burned over 50% of his body. He was hospitalized and then went to rehab. Now he cannot walk and he uses an electric wheelchair. A wheelchair that weighs upwards of 200 pounds.

“I can’t believe Silas is living on the street again.”

We talked a little more and then I paid for my groceries and went on my way.

While I was loading my things into my car, I saw the two men eating their grinder in a van near me. I walked over and asked if they would like some strawberries for dessert. “They were buy one, get one, and I won’t eat that many.” They accepted them and I headed home.

About a month after that, I saw the same two men near that same van in the parking lot of another store in the area. Silas was sitting in his wheelchair and the other man, who I would learn was Bill, was standing next to him. I introduced myself and reminded them that I was the one who had given them the strawberries. We chatted for a few minutes about Silas’ bottle collecting business and Silas asked me to share with the community that he is back.

When Silas went into the store, Bill and I continued chatting. During the conversation, he casually mentioned that he had been an “equine dentist.” Very matter-of-factly. Not really believing him, I asked, “How in the world did you go from being a horse dentist to living on the street?” And he shared his story with me. His entire story.

We stood there in the middle of the parking lot chatting for at least 30 minutes; maybe more. When Silas came out, he seemed annoyed that his helper never made it in the store. He rolled into another store and Bill and I continued our conversation.

When I left, I felt good about chatting with the two men. I felt good about being interested. I felt good about caring. But I was skeptical.

I learned many things from this experience. After a quick Google search, I learned that Bill was, in fact, an equine dentist. And after sharing that with a friend, I learned that Silas was an engineer.

Bill Robinson (Video)

I learned that your life can be turned upside down in a heartbeat.

I learned that addiction can lead to homelessness. And I learned that homelessness can lead to addiction.

I learned that untreated mental illness can lead to homelessness and that homelessness can lead to untreated mental illness.

I learned that these two men who once had full, productive lives now need some help if they are to ever get off the street. And I learned that they may not want to get off the street.

And I learned that you never really know. Until you ask.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

An Extraordinary Opportunity

Yesterday I was on my way to an appointment about an hour away from where I live. Minutes after I left my driveway, I was at an intersection and noticed an elderly man stacking firewood. Huge pieces of firewood.

As I continued on, something made me hesitate. I pulled over, circled back, drove into the driveway and parked, grabbed some gloves, and approached him.

“What’s your name?”

The elderly man answered, “Roxanna, but they call me Petey.”

She weighed about 80 pounds, if that; looked as if she had significant osteoporosis; and she was wearing a “Chickering” t-shirt. The Chickering, as people from this area well know, was a classic dive bar that no longer exists.

I learned that she is 75 years old, but would have believed if she had said 85… except for her incredible physical strength. I would later learn that she has a broken back from an accident that she had twenty years ago.

I introduced myself and told her that I was heading to an appointment, but I could give her ten minutes of help. She graciously accepted my offer, and I started. She was moving the wood and stacking it closer to the house. Her goal was to toss it as far as possible into the cellar. She wasn’t able to do that part.

I started by heaving her stack of wood into the hole in the side of her house and when that was done, I started moving more into a new stack.

As I worked, she kept reminding me that I needed to get to my appointment. I finally stopped and told her I would like to come back. She said, “Just not today.” We discussed possibilities and I offered, “If I come back today, you don’t have to be out here.” She accepted.

I went to my appointment and returned later in the afternoon. As soon as I arrived, she invited me in for a beer. I accepted. Rarely do I turn down offers of a cup of coffee or an adult beverage. It’s one of the perks of self employment.

What I walked into blew my mind. In my lifetime, I have been in the homes of hoarders, including my own dad. And I have been in the homes of self proclaimed “neat freaks.” I would describe Petey’s home as “hoarder meets OCD.” She has the most amazing, well organized collection of antiques and collectibles… from floor to ceiling. It was fascinating. It was FASCINATING.

The living area in her 200-ish year old home, which she has lived in her entire life, was massive; it was once a general store. It was warm and cozy. It had several couches and overstuffed chairs and a huge dining table. There was a large wood stove in the middle of the room… the same stove that would be burning all of that wood. I sat at the table with her and we drank a Budweiser as she lit up a Pall Mall. Her huge, dirty ash trays reminded me of my upbringing when the non-smokers were far out numbered by the smokers. I felt a little nauseous, more from those memories than the actual odor. But there was no way I was going to walk away from this opportunity.
We sat for quite a while as I looked around. I said, in wonderment, at least a half dozen times, “This is like a museum.” She clearly enjoyed that I was enjoying her collection. And she clearly enjoyed the company.

Finally, I had to insist that I get to work. And work it was. Hard work. But the kind of hard work that comes with both physical and emotional rewards. Work that sends you to sleep at night with a clear conscience.

Petey insisted on helping me, so I worked faster, hoping I could get it done so she would stop. Hoping I could do more so she would do less. She would take a break every few minutes, sit on the rock wall, and have another cigarette and sip of beer. She kept insisting that I drink mine, so I paused every now and then.

At one point, she seemed out of breath and I said, “Petey, I’m not doing all of this work for you just so you can die in your sleep tonight and not enjoy that it’s done. Please sit.” And she did. But not for long.

Finally, when I had done as much as my body could handle and when she promised that she would get help with the rest of the wood, I stopped working. And she insisted that I come in for another beer.

For a couple of hours, indoors and outdoors, we talked. Before, during, and after I helped with the firewood, we talked. And talked. And talked and talked and talked.

When it came time for me to leave, I gave her my card and invited her to call me any time she needed help like that. She suggested, “Maybe you can come back and help me hang my Christmas lights.”

I said, “I would like that.” And I thanked her for inviting me into her home and told her how great it was to meet her.

This was an extraordinary opportunity. Life is full of them. But we are not always fortunate enough to recognize them. We are always in a rush to get somewhere. We are always glued to our devices and social media. We all work too hard. We don’t live with our eyes wide open.

Even if opportunities like this are right in front of us, we don’t see them. But sometimes, when we are really lucky, God taps us on the shoulder and invites us to pay attention.

God tapped me on the shoulder yesterday and I am thankful.  And I will look forward to hanging those Christmas lights.

It’s About to Get Real… Part II

Earlier this year I saw this truck around town a number of times.  A Chevy pickup with an Oklahoma license plate, donning a vanity plate that had the “Don’t Tread on Me” graphic over the Confederate flag. My blood boiled every time I saw it.

One day in early summer, I was driving down a street near my home and I saw the truck parked in front of a house that was holding a yard sale. I drove past the house. I stopped. And I circled back. I parked in front, got out of my car, and strolled around, looking at things and observing people.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that the person who owned the truck was related to the home owner, if not the home owner himself.

I asked about a couple of items that I was truly interested in. I told the man and the woman running the sale… his sister… that I might come back. And I left. But as I was walking to my car a voice in my head said, “Stop. Go back. Ask.”

I went back and I opened dialogue with the man who owned the truck. “I have to ask you… what’s up with the Confederate flag?” The conversation that followed was a lesson I did not need to learn.

The man proceeded to tell me how he created this vanity plate… the Confederate battle flag with the “Don’t Treat on Me” flag superimposed on it. He sells it on the internet. He started with the typical, “You don’t know what the flag means.” And I corrected him. I know damn well what the flag means.

It turned out this was his childhood home and his mom was in a nursing facility. He and his sister, who now lives in Kentucky, where preparing the home for sale.

He told me that he was a Vietnam veteran and he pointed to a diamond stud earing in his ear. “I got this when I was 20 years sober.”

He seemed like a nice guy.

As the conversation moved forward, he shared with me, “I wasn’t a racist until I was in the military.”

Holy Good God Almighty… he admitted he was a racist, without me even suggesting the word. I cannot dislike this man, because he is honest.

He shared with me that he served with a number of Black men. When they were on furlough, these men acted as though they didn’t know him. My first thought was that they might have been cliquey, like when I was a kid. A bunch of guys hanging with their peers. And I am not condoning cliquiness, because, in my experience, it’s kind of a subtle form of bullying.

And then I wondered. Maybe he was just not a likable guy.

As we continued to discuss racism, I looked over at his sister’s car and noticed a couple of comforting bumper stickers. One was a peace sign and I can’t recall the other. Thinking I might have a comrade, I asked, “What do you think?”

She proceeded to tell me that she was not racist and that people are not racist where she lives in Kentucky.

Brace yourself.

Wait. I feel the need to say twelve Hail Mary’s and beg forgiveness from my friends of color.

She said, “They know to stay in their place.”

And this was well before Trump’s rise to power.

With that, I closed the conversation politely and went home to my safe place.

So, as every good essay should, it’s time to circle back. The end of the story must have a link to the start of the story. The closing.

As you may know, after I lost my job two years ago, I started a yard care business. Late this past summer I did some work for a customer who owns a rental property in Plainfield. On day two of the project, the owner was there to do work on one of the units. While giving me a tour of the apartment and showing me how the former tenants had destroyed it, our conversation somehow shifted and we were talking about the neighbors a few doors down. The very house that had many months prior displayed the Confederate flag that I initially wrote about. My first “siting.”

I returned about a week later to continue the job, only to find a new tenant moving in. He, his significant other, and their five kids. They were very nice and their little girl was a ray of sunshine, asking me question after question after question. She innocently asked, from a second floor window, “Why  are you in my yard?”

The next time I returned, I continued with the front yard, which was now decorated with a Trump sign. I had to keep telling myself, “It doesn’t belong to the person that hired me.” And I had an entire conversation in my own head, asking myself if I am at a point where I can decline jobs at homes with these signs, promoting a Presidential candidate that I am vehemently opposed to.

As I turned the corner to work more on the back yard, my heart dropped and my blood pressure spiked.

As previously suggested by a childhood friend, which I did attempt with Mr. Oklahoma and Ms. Kentucky,  I decided to engage. I was working my butt off, but I chose to take the time to ask. To communicate. Peacefully.

This young man, who I affectionately refer to as “Matthew” because his glowing smile and perfect teeth remind me of actor Matthew McConaughey, was happy to engage. And then I notices something else. As if the flag near his child’s toys and the family picnic table was not disturbing enough, his buff young shirtless chest was tattooed with the image. No lie.

He claimed that he displays the flag as proof that it “doesn’t make people kill.” He was referring to the Charleston murders and his argument made no sense to me. It was asinine, at best. As the conversation continued, I realized that explanation was a cover.

“I’m not racist. I have Black friends.” I would argue, Mr. Man, that they may be your friends, but you are not theirs.

It got better. “I just don’t understand why they talk like that when they’re with other Black people. It’s laziness.”

I asked, “Talk like what?” He explained. I cringed. And my stomach tied itself into a knot.

I suggested to “Matthew” that perhaps it was a dialect or a cultural thing and not laziness. And, again, I politely brought the conversation to a close and went about my work.

Sadly, five children are being raised among that thinking. And the neighbors directly across the street care for their bi-racial toddler grandchild and they have to look at that flag every day.

The South will rise again? This bonehead isn’t even a southerner.

Will I engage again? Never. My belief that people who fly this flag, especially northerners, are racist has been confirmed. I don’t need to engage.

Will I write more? No. My point is clear.

Will I post more pictures with addresses? Sadly, yes.

Celebrate diversity. It’s a beautiful thing.

Hug a person of color.

Pray for peace.

---

Photographed Summer 2016:

203 Cherry Hill Road ~ Brooklyn/Pomfret, CT USA

---

It’s About to Get Real

Seriously though. It’s about to get REAL.

This post was triggered by a “sighting” I had today… at the corner of Tripp Hollow and Tatnic Roads here in Brooklyn. Connecticut’s “Quiet Corner.” The QC. I could have named this Blog post “Tripp Hollow and Tatnic,” but then I might not have grabbed your attention the way I just did.

Last year, after a Facebook exchange with a friend, I was invited to participate in a group being formed in the Hartford area called “Friends for Social Justice.” What a wonderful idea, I thought… like minded people of different races sitting together in a cozy living room, sipping tea or wine and enjoying snacks, and discussing social justice. For starters, racial justice. Cool.

The post that sparked our initial exchange included this photograph, which I took in Plainfield on June 21, 2015. Right here in the QC.

Before I go further, let me remind you that this is NOT the Confederate flag, though I will refer to it that way in this Blog post. This flag is one of many Confederate “battle” flags. This one was used by General Robert E. Lee and, at the close of the Civil War, he asked that it be “put away.” The war was over. The North won. He also requested that the flag not be used at his funeral or grave. Facts.

This “sighting” occurred just days after nine people were murdered at a black church in Charleston… by a white man that they welcomed to their prayer group. And around the time the Confederate flag flying on the grounds of the South Carolina State Capitol became a hot topic with the media, inciting a good portion of the American populace… no matter which side of the issue they were on.

Three days after I took this photo in Connecticut’s Quiet Corner, South Carolina Governor Nikki Haley, a Republican, called for the removal of the flag from their Capitol’s property. Proof that Republicans CAN do the right thing.

Occasionally.

Rarely.

Isn’t it ironic that the conservative South finally admitted that the flag is wrong, but the liberal North is now poisoned with it’s presence?

These events… the murders in Charleston and the disputes over the Confederate flag… combined with the unacceptable number of killings of black men and women by law enforcement officers that were taking place throughout the country, prompted the formation of the Friends group.

Before our first gathering, I was also invited to a meeting of a group called “Standing Up for Racial Justice,” or SURJ, also in the Hartford area. It was a powerful meeting, attended by not nearly enough people, and one of the goals of the organizers was to send attendees home with a “Black Lives Matter” lawn sign.

I am a supporter of the “Black Lives Matter” movement. A huge supporter. And if you feel the need to tell me that “all lives matter,” please bite your tongue. Of course all lives matter. That is a given. Just pretend it’s called, “Black Lives Should Matter More Than They Do.”

I didn’t take a sign and part of me felt like a hypocrite because I didn’t. But I knew that if I put that sign in my front yard, up here in the QC, it would have disappeared within 24 hours. Remember, the “sightings” had already begun.

I have only been able to attend one of the Friends meetings, because the distance is prohibitive. But I am still committed. In the meantime, it IS about to get real.

Here’s a photo I took in Danielson later that same month. May I suggest that the size of the truck speaks to the size of a certain part of the owner’s anatomy? And, perhaps, the flag speaks to his intelligence quotient?

I’ve spent a lot of time wondering what I can do up here in the QC to be an active part of the fight against racism. Until now, though racism makes me insanely angry, I have thought that I need to be nice. Learn how to talk to racists peacefully. Be rational. Keep calm.

And today I decided… nope, I don’t.

When someone has gotten to the point they will display this symbol of hatred, I owe them no respect. I know, many still believe the Confederate flag is not a symbol of hatred. That’s bullshit.

The Confederate flag represents the Civil War. And the Civil War was started, primarily, over the issue of slavery. Fact.

Slavery represents racism. Fact.

Racism represents hatred. Fact.

End of story. Not debatable.

As I drove by that house at the corner of Tripp Hollow and Tatnic today, I decided that it’s time to call out the haters.

So, from this point forward, I will continue posting photos of Confederate flags that I see here in the QC and I will include their exact location. And I will share the information on Facebook, hoping that my shares get shared. And so on, and so on, and so on…

If there is nothing wrong with displaying this symbol of hatred, then there should be no problem. These haters should be happy when a photo of their flag goes viral. Right?

The people who live at the home in the first photo are spared, because the flag was removed in July. I’ll never know why they removed it, but they did the right thing. I still wouldn’t choose to break bread with them.

Potty mouth alert…

The fuckwhistle (I stole that name from a Facebook meme about Donald Trump) in the truck… well, it’s a big, red truck. And it has a license plate on it.

Who’s next?

---

Photographed 1/30/2016:

9 Tripp Hollow Road ~ Brooklyn, CT 06234 USA

---

2/1/2016: Today I drove to a neighborhood where I saw a mailbox with a Confederate flag on it a few months ago. It was on Church Street here in Brooklyn. It’s gone. I’m happy. And, without knowing why (or that they even are), they’re happy, too.

---

Photographed 2/3/2016:

 141 Brooklyn Road ~ Canterbury, CT 06331 USA

---

Carpe Diem

Holy Christmas.

I cannot believe it’s been over a year since my last Blog post. Time really does fly.

My reason for taking a break was very intentional. My family is in the midst of litigation over the wrongful death of our father and it was suggested to us that we should be careful on social media. And so, because I was too lazy to look back at my first 50 posts to see if I had ever mentioned the defendants by name, I decided to pause.

F*** that.

It has been just over three years since dad passed away. And two and a half years since mom left us. And, if those losses were not enough, it has been just over one year since I was fired from a job I loved and my career was destroyed.

I decided a couple of weeks ago that I would start writing again, but I wasn’t sure where to start. Really. There is SO much to write about.

Back in the nineties I took some classes at a local community college. One was a course in public speaking and the professor had us keep a journal for the duration of the class. One of those black and white composition notebooks… a required one entry every day. Just one page. I was an adult in my thirties and I embraced the assignment. Others–mostly much younger than I–not so much. While they couldn’t think of things to write about, I couldn’t choose which things to write about.

Since I decided a couple of weeks ago that I would start writing again, I have not been able to calm the chaos in my head in order to choose a subject to write about.

What it’s like to be an “orphan” at 53 with no parents? What it’s like to have been fired from a job I loved, ending a career that was truly an answer to a calling, and, at the same time, being separated from an organization I believed in while in the midst of the most difficult time of my life?  What it’s like to create a new beginning and find complete joy? Racism and social injustice? Islamophobia and xenophobia? The tragedy of gun violence and the idiocy and paranoia around the 14th Amendment and the NRA? Planned Parenthood and the pro-life/pro-choice debate? The issue of police brutality and good cops vs. bad cops? “Happy Holidays” vs. “Merry Christmas?”

The list goes on. And on. And on and on and on…

Here’s the thing. No matter what the debate is; no matter how grim things look; no matter how many people I piss off; and no matter how many friends I lose… I am confident that my views are correct. My hope for humanity is real. My love for “the other” is true. And my dream of growing old in the crazy world we live in will be realized.

But, today, on a much smaller scale, this is the story I wish to share.

Several years ago, because of several wonderful women in my life, I decided to get a license to drive a motorcycle and I bought one. It was a love affair. I remember that I rode my bike to my mom’s apartment one night and while we had dinner together, I tired to explain how I felt about it.

“Let me put it this way. If I were to die on this bike, you can rest assured that I died happy.”

Well. That is not what mothers want to hear from their daughters.

But that is what I feel today. In the midst of the chaos in my head. I am in love with my life. I am in love with my friends and family. I am in love with the place I live. I am in love with how I spent the last 48 hours of my time.

And, truly… despite all of the issues that make me crazy and sad… if I were to not wake up tomorrow morning, my friends and family could rest assured that I died happy. And that I did my part.

Carpe diem.

(I actually wrote this Blog back in December 2015 and have no idea why I didn’t post it.)

 

A Purpose Driven Life

I know… there’s a book with a similar title. I own it. But like most books I own, I haven’t read it. It sits on a shelf with all of the other books recommended to me by well intentioned friends and family members. And, with good intention, like all of the other books I own, I bought it. I am just not a big reader. I blame it on my self-diagnosed “Adult ADD.”

If it is possible to digress in the first paragraph of a Blog post, I just did.

After my dad died in October 2012 and then mom in June 2013, I PLUNGED into the grieving process, beginning with the anger stage. The stages come to different people in different order and in very different ways. I was profoundly sad and terribly angry. For the first time in my life, I was really selfish. I took a close look at myself and decided that I could no longer be there for other people. Friends or family or coworkers. It was time to take care of me.

In more recent months, I have, many times, found myself thinking about how different the grieving process is for different people. Wondering if it might be easier for those who have a partner or spouse. Those who have children or grandchildren. Those who own a home. All wonderful distractions from “the process.”

And then I became acutely aware of how alone I was. No parents to worry about and love. No mom to take care of when she needed me. No siblings to be there for. No partner. No children or grandchildren. No home to call my own that I could bury myself in with projects. And, because I could already feel that things were changing at work, no security in my job.

I felt as though my life had no purpose.

Fast forward several months to when I received my horrible performance evaluation at work and ultimately “separation” from that position… I moved from feeling as though I had no purpose to not wanting to get out of bed in the morning. Feeling incapable of looking for a job, because, on top of my continued state of grief, I felt stripped of my self esteem and confidence. Feeling incapable of staying in a field of work that I love, because of this negative experience that came close to breaking my heart. As if the loss of my mom and dad had not already done that.

In my idle time, I have thought a lot about my “purpose.” I have read and reread my Blog posts about subjects that I feel passionately about. I have been very thoughtful about how I respond to controversial issues on Facebook… or don’t. I have given a tremendous amount of thought to what I would like to do for work in my next chapter. And I have come to realize that I NEED a purpose, if not several.

And I have come to realize that we all need to have a purpose. All of us. Including the poor, the mentally ill, and the disenfranchised.

We all need a purpose in this life. Or what’s the point?

We all need to feel needed, or what’s the point?

We all need to feel wanted, or what’s the point?

We all need to feel loved, or what’s the point?

Three weeks ago yesterday, I received an email from an organization offering a five week series of workshops in my field… beginning the next day. A field that I wasn’t sure I could return to, because of my emotional state following the loss of my parents and the loss of my job. Because G-d is good, I had the money to do it, so I signed up for all five workshops.

After the first workshop, I left feeling empowered. Like I knew as much as the presenter, if not more. And then I felt like I may very well have known as much as my most recent ex-boss, if not more.

Workshop two, I learned a shit ton.

Workshop three, today, like workshop one. I left feeling just a little cocky.

Two weeks ago yesterdy, having a strange surge of confidence, I re-joined an online dating service. That Tuesday I met someone who has proven to be a welcome addition to my life.

And in the past several weeks, I have spent quality time with two of my brothers and one of my nephews, around, but not limited to, the Thanksgiving holiday.

Purpose?

Meaningful work.

Romance and love.

The bond of a family.

We all need to feel like we have a purpose in this life. So if you already do, maybe you could help someone who doesn’t.

And maybe it’s time for me to read that book.

w r i t e r ‘ s BLOCK

When I started this Blog at the beginning of this year, I did it for two reasons.

First, I love writing.

Second, I needed a distraction. I felt like I was falling apart after my first holidays with both parents gone. I had asked for time off at Christmas time, but was denied because my boss was going to be out on maternity leave. It had been just over a year since dad died and just about six months since mom died. I wanted to run as far away from my reality as I could.

Writing helped.

Tomorrow marks seven weeks since I lost my job. Some days I am okay. Some days I feel strong enough to do the job search thing. Some days I bury myself in landscaping work for my landlords. Damn, they must love me right now. Some days I never get out of bed.

And some days I am just pissed off.

I have always been very careful on social media. I have never complained about my job, while employed. In fact, I am pretty sure the only negative reference I have made to a job was when I no longer worked for the “Spawn of Satan.” I have been very selective about who I invite into my personal life… nobody under 18 (mostly because I don’t want to know what they are up to); no parents, or students, or clients at work; no board members; and as of several months ago, no coworkers.

I believe in boundaries.

At the beginning of this year, I was made aware of a situation with a child I know. I learned more than I ever should have known. Boundaries were crossed and not by me. I tried to have conversations about this child with three different adults. Two were unavailable and one ignored my email in which I requested a meeting.

This child was clearly suicidal, if not homicidal.

So I wrote a Blog post. It was discreet, but clear. And I wrote to these three people who were too busy to listen, as well as two others, and pointed them to the Blog.

I got their attention.

The post stayed up for less than twelve hours. No harm done. But I created the beginning of my end at this job that I loved. That I LOVED. They assumed that my actions were related to my anxiety, depression, and profound sadness surrounding the loss of my parents.

Here’s the thing. I would do it all again. In a heartbeat. Because I have seen the clear signs of suicidal ideation far too many times. And I have known far too many people who have taken their own lives. I did the right thing. Had something happened to this beautiful young child or, G-d forbid, me and my coworkers, my conscience was clear. Very clear.

It was the beginning of my end at this job. This job that I LOVED.

When I was called in to a meeting on my last day, something I wrote in an unrelated Blog post was quoted. My “Labor Day” post, in which I stated that I was unhappy at work.

Isn’t it normal to be unhappy at work SOMETIMES?

They used that statement against me and ignored the part where I said I loved this job. And that is when I realized that I led them to stalk my Blog. Not because I am a good writer, but because they were looking for something. Anything.

And now, every time I go to write, I am stuck. Sort of “writer’s block,” but not really.

Blogging is not social media. In my humble opinion. It is an artistic outlet. A forum for writing about ones thoughts and views. A peaceful place for readers to consider what has been written and comment (or not).

So, to my Blog stalkers, I will say this. I loved this job. Contrary to what you believe, it was not a stressful job. It was a great job and I was really good at it. I was REALLY good at it. It was the ENVIRONMENT that was stressful.

You have brought me to my knees, in tears, unemployed at 52 years old and still dealing with my profound sadness at losing my mom and dad.

You have brought me to my knees, in tears, because you took away a job that I loved.

You have brought me to my knees, in tears, because you fired me three weeks after signing a lease and allowing me a “three month paid leave of absence” that will end right at holiday time.

You have brought me to my knees, in tears, but you will not stop me from writing about the people and things I love or the subjects I care about.

Writer’s block?

No.

The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

If Only

I had trouble naming this post. It could have been so many things, but I decided on “Happy Monday.”

Happy Monday?

Indeed not.

Today marks the first Monday, at age 52, that I have been among the ranks of the unemployed in nearly 40 years… if I count all of my jobs. At 12, I was baby sitting, delivering newspapers, and sometimes selling night crawlers to fishermen… back when fishing down at the Connecticut River was a popular activity in our (then) small town of Rocky Hill.

At 15, I continued with those jobs and added a job at the town’s Parks and Recreation Department. At 16, it was Parks and Rec and a local restaurant. At 18, my introduction to the insurance field and what would be my first career, while most of my friends were heading off to college.

Aside from one break several years ago, when I took some time off from work because of an episode of depression–short term disability under FMLA–I have not been unemployed since I was 12 years old. It goes back to that work ethic that was instilled in me by my parents.

G-d, I miss them so much.

It is hard to be sad from where I am sitting. Quite literally. I mean, look at this view.

I’m sitting on my landlords’ back patio right now, borrowing their WiFi signal. As if last Tuesday wasn’t traumatic enough for me, I woke up to a dead phone on Thursday, which is also my WiFi source.

I digress.

So why did I lose my job?

Well, I would like to share that story. But, like most stories, there are two sides to it. So, I will leave it at that. Except to say…

I was “unhappy with my job.” Well, I did say that in my Labor Day post… an 800 word post about the work ethic instilled in me by my parents and that is what stuck out.

The truth is, I loved this job. I loved the creative team I worked with and everyone there. And I loved the organization. But losing my dad on October 20, 2012, having my mom get sick in December of 2012, and then losing her on June 6, 2013… well, the loss of both of my parents in eight short months nearly destroyed me.

I thank G-d that the “irreconcilable differences”  I had with my family, turned out to be reconcilable. And I have good friends.

What next?

I looked at some job postings this past weekend and it made me sick. And angry. So I am going to take some time to mourn the loss of my parents, which I have not allowed myself to do.

I am going to enjoy this beautiful place I live and my two feline friends.

I am going to fix my motorcycle and get it back on the road.

 I am going to spend some time playing in the dirt in my landlords’ greenhouse.

And then I will look for a job. And if I don’t find one… well, my three month “paid leave of absence” will land me at December 15. Just in time for the holidays.

If only I had been able to take time off around the holidays last year, when I knew I needed it.

If only.