A few weeks ago we got a new guy at work, training to do the same job I do. He is a pretty awesome guy. Smart, funny, very hard working. He's a former Marine with a five year old daughter who was recently laid off from a trucking job.
Today he added another adjective to his list: unemployed. After getting laid off he (obviously) couldn't make rent, and with the wages he makes now ($10.14 an hour) he hasn't had time to catch up. His landlord gave him a letter to vacate by Monday.
When he applied for benefits he was told that (basically) his skill set shows he has skills, he's choosing to not get a job.
The VA has a 2 year waiting list for assistance.
So, he's packing up. Going back to his dad's, and then moving out west. I'm sad. He's a great co worker and I'll miss the banter. His daughter is so sweet, (we went to a company picnic and she was attached to me all day.) but soon will have her life turned upside down.
This man served our country, and he's repaid with eviction notices and the inability to get a job that pays a living wage.
It's a shame guys. I'm ashamed of us right now.
Saturday, August 2, 2014
Monday, May 19, 2014
Although this wave is stringing us along, just know you're not alone.
A year ago yesterday my Grandma had the heart attack that would eventually lead to her death. A year ago tomorrow she was taken off life support. A year ago today she was in limbo as doctors tried cold therapy, attempting to give her body a reboot.
I got the news driving home from spending the weekend helping a friend of mine clean our her mother's house after her passing. I turned onto my street just as my dad called me. We don't really call each other, so when I saw his name on the caller id my stomach instantly sunk. Flashes of my mom or sister or nieces or nephews, or a slew of other people being hurt flooded my head in the 2 seconds it took to answer. But not her.
I had just been home a week ago. My grandma had just gotten out of the hospital and seemed to be stable. She was staying with my parents, but itching to get home. We celebrated Mother's Day and I gave her a clock. We talked about how we loved each other and were in a good place with our relationship.
I should have seen it coming. But I assumed we had a few more months at the very least. My dad performed CPR until the paramedics arrived, but she would never wake up. When he called me he said it wasn't looking good. I asked if I should head home, but we decided not to. Partly because driving when you're upset isn't a good idea. And partly because my family is a family of fighters. We saw my grandpa go through similar things, things we considered calling the family home for. But he pulled through. I held out hope this would be the case again. That I would get to say to her "you scared me. don't do that."
The night before she passed my mom said they were going to take her off life support in the morning. Again I considered leaving. But really there was no way I would make it in time to say goodbye.
On one hand, I'm fine with that. Seeing her husband on machines, unconscious tore me up. And I knew that really, she was already gone. Part of me thinks that I wouldn't have been able to go into that room. Everybody gathered by her bedside, sent her off well. But another part wishes I had gone.
At the time my mom told me they'd make the decision I went to the beach. On the way there I got a small bottle of listerine, emptied it and filled it with sand. She lived in Florida for her first few years of marriage. A piece of her past and my present to stay with her. While there my brother called me to express his disbelief that I hadn't come to say goodbye. That broke me. Things aren't great with him, and that's part of the reason. But I also understand. My siblings and I spent a lot of time with my grandparents. He was hurting in a way very few could understand.
I held it together pretty well through my flight home, my first day there. But on the way to the visitation I lost it. I wasn't ready to see her, wasn't ready to accept the fact that I had missed my last chance to speak to her.
I sat in the lobby crying, horribly embarrassed. My grief felt silly and unwarranted. My family was being so strong, and I couldn't stop crying. This wasn't some great tragedy. It wasn't my parents. It's what happens in life. I was blessed with 26 years of her. She lived a full life, and was spared a lot of the suffering her husband went through. But I had lost one of my biggest cheerleaders, one of my confidants, one of my safe havens. And it sucked.
My earliest memory of her is teaching me to write Ks. I could do the rest of the letters in my name, but looking at a K I had no idea how to recreate it. So she showed me, line by line and angle by angle. She gave me the building blocks of myself in so many ways.
A few months after she passed I was having a really shit day. But going through some papers I found her Easter card, signed "love always, mema." I saved it, and got the script tattooed on my foot in January. I didn't notice in the placement when I got it, but I can only see it if I move my foot forward. She would have liked that.
The hole in my heart that belongs to her hasn't gotten smaller. But the edges are less jagged, the sadness more gentle. I wish she could be there for the big moments in my life that have yet to come, but its ok that she's not. She helped make them possible. I'm not sure what I believe about an afterlife, but I do know that she is inside me. I know that I was fortunate enough to gain an idea as to what her thought process was, and use that to determine whether she'd be proud of a decision. I think this year would have made her proud, and I'm grateful for that.
I got the news driving home from spending the weekend helping a friend of mine clean our her mother's house after her passing. I turned onto my street just as my dad called me. We don't really call each other, so when I saw his name on the caller id my stomach instantly sunk. Flashes of my mom or sister or nieces or nephews, or a slew of other people being hurt flooded my head in the 2 seconds it took to answer. But not her.
I had just been home a week ago. My grandma had just gotten out of the hospital and seemed to be stable. She was staying with my parents, but itching to get home. We celebrated Mother's Day and I gave her a clock. We talked about how we loved each other and were in a good place with our relationship.
I should have seen it coming. But I assumed we had a few more months at the very least. My dad performed CPR until the paramedics arrived, but she would never wake up. When he called me he said it wasn't looking good. I asked if I should head home, but we decided not to. Partly because driving when you're upset isn't a good idea. And partly because my family is a family of fighters. We saw my grandpa go through similar things, things we considered calling the family home for. But he pulled through. I held out hope this would be the case again. That I would get to say to her "you scared me. don't do that."
The night before she passed my mom said they were going to take her off life support in the morning. Again I considered leaving. But really there was no way I would make it in time to say goodbye.
On one hand, I'm fine with that. Seeing her husband on machines, unconscious tore me up. And I knew that really, she was already gone. Part of me thinks that I wouldn't have been able to go into that room. Everybody gathered by her bedside, sent her off well. But another part wishes I had gone.
At the time my mom told me they'd make the decision I went to the beach. On the way there I got a small bottle of listerine, emptied it and filled it with sand. She lived in Florida for her first few years of marriage. A piece of her past and my present to stay with her. While there my brother called me to express his disbelief that I hadn't come to say goodbye. That broke me. Things aren't great with him, and that's part of the reason. But I also understand. My siblings and I spent a lot of time with my grandparents. He was hurting in a way very few could understand.
I held it together pretty well through my flight home, my first day there. But on the way to the visitation I lost it. I wasn't ready to see her, wasn't ready to accept the fact that I had missed my last chance to speak to her.
I sat in the lobby crying, horribly embarrassed. My grief felt silly and unwarranted. My family was being so strong, and I couldn't stop crying. This wasn't some great tragedy. It wasn't my parents. It's what happens in life. I was blessed with 26 years of her. She lived a full life, and was spared a lot of the suffering her husband went through. But I had lost one of my biggest cheerleaders, one of my confidants, one of my safe havens. And it sucked.
My earliest memory of her is teaching me to write Ks. I could do the rest of the letters in my name, but looking at a K I had no idea how to recreate it. So she showed me, line by line and angle by angle. She gave me the building blocks of myself in so many ways.
A few months after she passed I was having a really shit day. But going through some papers I found her Easter card, signed "love always, mema." I saved it, and got the script tattooed on my foot in January. I didn't notice in the placement when I got it, but I can only see it if I move my foot forward. She would have liked that.
The hole in my heart that belongs to her hasn't gotten smaller. But the edges are less jagged, the sadness more gentle. I wish she could be there for the big moments in my life that have yet to come, but its ok that she's not. She helped make them possible. I'm not sure what I believe about an afterlife, but I do know that she is inside me. I know that I was fortunate enough to gain an idea as to what her thought process was, and use that to determine whether she'd be proud of a decision. I think this year would have made her proud, and I'm grateful for that.
Monday, December 23, 2013
Christmas Eve will find me
I've wanted to write this post for the entire month of December. I've put it off until now because the idea of Christmas this year utterly immobilizes me. A few weeks ago I was in Walgreens looking at cards and Christmas trees and I was reduced to a puddle of tears. It's the first one without my grandma, without Christmas Eve church, without my family. The first year in a long time my holidays haven't been spent in the upstairs room of a friend, slinging insults during marathon monopoly sessions lasting until 4am.
I (probably incorrectly) remember always sitting next to him. But that year the space was conspicuously empty. The congregations voice seemed thinner, missing his deep (albeit off key) voice, the cold seemed to make it further into the church, and I had nobody to watch fall asleep during the sermon. He was in a nursing home, his health failing. All I could think about for that hour was him. Was he ok? Was he dying and we didn't even know it? Did he know what day it was? Was he angry we hadn't bothered to get him for church? (it was decided that it was too risky to move him.) And I just cried and cried and cried. The songs were like thorns across my heart and all I could think about was how empty this place would always heal.
When I was a little girl, we'd go to two masses on Christmas Eve. First at my Grandma's Lutheran church, then either a late night or midnight mass at my Grandpa's (and my) Catholic church. When my sister was born (at least according to my memory) we dropped the Catholic mass and only went to my grandmothers. I know it seems counterintuitive, given my non religious nature, but Christmas Eve church has become one of my favorite things. It's the beginning of the holiday. Sure, we've gotten into the spirit with baking and wrapping and tree trimming and cleaning, but that was only lead up, getting into church is when we go over the edge of the hill and I get to sit back and enjoy the ride.
I don't know if this is a common thing, but at the end of service a soloist sings O Holy Night, while a flame is passed from candle to candle to everyone in the pews. There's a moment of silence and then the choir gently begins singing Silent Night, with the entire room joining in. When I was little I would always look at my mom, and she'd be crying. As I grew older more and more people started sharing her tears. I don't remember when I was first told, but my mom's grandma passed away near Christmas, and there's a link there. But I never really got it until the last Christmas my Grandpa was with us.
I (probably incorrectly) remember always sitting next to him. But that year the space was conspicuously empty. The congregations voice seemed thinner, missing his deep (albeit off key) voice, the cold seemed to make it further into the church, and I had nobody to watch fall asleep during the sermon. He was in a nursing home, his health failing. All I could think about for that hour was him. Was he ok? Was he dying and we didn't even know it? Did he know what day it was? Was he angry we hadn't bothered to get him for church? (it was decided that it was too risky to move him.) And I just cried and cried and cried. The songs were like thorns across my heart and all I could think about was how empty this place would always heal.
He passed the next March. By the time Christmas had come around again, although we missed him it wasn't the fresh, raw wound it had been. And Silent Night came. I cried, but not the anguished, sorrowful tears of the last time. It was soothing, and the voices felt like a welcome home.
After the song ends there's a moment of silence. We stand there, our candles flickering, pulling ourselves together and allowing that sadness to be felt, as well as to pass. Even the babies are silent. We are all reflecting, loving, and supporting one another. The moment allows us to acknowledge the pain we feel as well as the blessing we do have.
Then it's a goodbye and Joy to the World is played. It's chaos as kids are rounded up, lost shoes found, and plans to go home and change before meeting for dinner are exchanged. I'm not sure why this is so, in 27 years the tradition hasn't really changed. But the conversation is always had.
Walking out of the church is magical. The mass of bodies becomes overwhelming, everyone shouting and excited and ready to enjoy their night. By the time you exit the building, the biting cold feels wonderful. The sound ends as you walk out the door and you're greeted with a silent night. There is always, without fail, a few snowflakes falling, as if the world decided we needed a bit more sparkle in our lives.
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| Pictured: futile efforts |
At home we eat. What started as a simple cheese ball (long before I was around) has turned into a feast of finger foods, baked goods, dips, everything I love. After everyone eats, we exchange gifts among the people there who won't be together on Christmas morning. As a kid I always suspected the grownups drug the eating out to torture and annoy me. As an aunt I know that's true.
Then we sleep. Well, I sleep. My mom doesn't, and neither does my sister (at least not much.) Katie and I sleep in the basement together, with A Christmas Story in the background. At 5 am, to impatient to wait anymore, my mom wakes us up. There's a pile for each of us, stockings stuffed full. I can confidently say that I wasn't spoiled as a kid, except on Christmas. My parents have a knack for getting exactly what you wanted
, but didn't ask for. My mother is especially talented at stockings. Holy moly do I love the stockings. And there's always a box of socks and underwear. You don't appreciate that gift as a kid, but it's the best possible one to get.
, but didn't ask for. My mother is especially talented at stockings. Holy moly do I love the stockings. And there's always a box of socks and underwear. You don't appreciate that gift as a kid, but it's the best possible one to get.
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| Pictured: heaven |
After presents there's banana bread. I remember baking a lot of things as a kid, but as we got older the number of different kinds of things was reduced, but banana bread was never on the chopping block. For the past several years I always helped to bake it with my Grandma. I was usually busy with school and work, but finding an afternoon to bake, eat lunch together, and talk was always a priority.
I've lost a lot this year in terms of Christmas. It will be the very first time I haven't spent December 24th and 25th with my family in my life. And that hurts. When my parents came down for Thanksgiving they brought me the precious moment clock I had gotten for my Grandma on Mother's day. It was like getting punched in the gut. My holiday is so wrapped up with the people in my life. It was a reminder that this woman who loved and supported me, who helped make my memories amazing (along with my parents, siblings, uncles, friends) is no longer a tangible part of the celebrations.
.JPG) |
| Pictured: a kid who will be much cooler than me. |
The traditions ingrained in me have given me a context for my life. I get to see the people I love, tell them how much I appreciate them, and celebrate the fact that we are family.
I'm lucky in that I get to make new traditions, get to start an expanded family. Without my grandma I offered to take up the banana bread tradition. And I did. It was lonely. I didn't have someone guiding me, telling me that the bananas were mashed enough, the batter beaten enough, the nuts mixed in enough. I didn't have my Grandma to show my toothpick to for reassurance that it was done. But I found new people to ask. I followed the directions people left to me. From a test, it tastes like childhood and love. I think I did ok. I think I'll be ok. I know it's silly and possibly overly simple. But having that loaf of bread reminds me of why I do like the holidays. It gives me a piece of something to hold onto when I think about the holes.
There's so much more I could write about. The countless in jokes and traditions surrounding Monopoly. The way the nights seem to stretch on into infinity when I'm with them. The bonding my Dad and I have during church trying not to laugh and make inappropriate comments. The fact that presents aren't just things in a box. How we seem to really care about what we give each other, and how it's never enough. How I want to shower gifts on the people who have helped me love myself. Even though this year is sad and seems to be lacking a lot, I'm lucky enough to have the responsibility of being an aunt, helping some pretty awesome kids form their own view of the world. Sharing with them the sacred and magical moments that contextualize my own life. Showing them that distance is no obstacle, it's ok to be sad, and that they're surrounded by people who love them.
Friday, December 20, 2013
Book list 2014!
As some of you know, I'm setting a goal to read 24 books a year in 2014. One every two weeks. I'm going to be blogging about these books, and inviting all of you to weigh in, comment, write your own posts, and suggests books of your own to be included. I intend to post on the second and fourth friday's of the month, but that may change. And I do have 24 books selected, but (especially towards the end of the year) I'm open to changing it. That being said, here is the plan:
January
The Basic Eight Daniel Handler
Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend: A Novel Matthew Dicks
February
Female Chauvinist Pigs: Women and the Rise of Raunch Culture Ariel Levy
A Short History of a Small Place T. R. Pearson
March
Identity: A Novel Milan Kundera
Fool: A Novel Christopher Moore
April
The Shadow of the Wind Carlos Ruiz Zafon; Lucia Graves
One Hundred Years of Solitude Gabriel Garcia Marquez
May
Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch Neil Gaiman/Terry Pratchett
The Long Walk to Freedom Nelson Mandella
June
The Mezzanine Nicholson Barker
The Book Thief Markus Zusak
July
The Mother Tongue: English and how it got that way Billy Bryson
Where'd You go Bernadette: A Novel Maria Semple
August
The Beginning of Everything Robyn Schneider
The Aviary Kathleen O'Dell
September
Anna and the French Kiss Stephanie Perkins
The Night Circus Erin Morgenstern
October
The Black Prism (Lightbringer) Brent Weeks
Orphans of the Sky Robert Heinlein
November
Little, Big John Crowley
Unbroken: A World War II story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption Laura Hillenbrand
December
The Art of Racing in the Rain Garth Stein
Fangirl Rainbow Rowell
Also, here's a link to the amazon wishlist I made. <3
January
The Basic Eight Daniel Handler
Memoirs of an Imaginary Friend: A Novel Matthew Dicks
February
Female Chauvinist Pigs: Women and the Rise of Raunch Culture Ariel Levy
A Short History of a Small Place T. R. Pearson
March
Identity: A Novel Milan Kundera
Fool: A Novel Christopher Moore
April
The Shadow of the Wind Carlos Ruiz Zafon; Lucia Graves
One Hundred Years of Solitude Gabriel Garcia Marquez
May
Good Omens: The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch Neil Gaiman/Terry Pratchett
The Long Walk to Freedom Nelson Mandella
June
The Mezzanine Nicholson Barker
The Book Thief Markus Zusak
July
The Mother Tongue: English and how it got that way Billy Bryson
Where'd You go Bernadette: A Novel Maria Semple
August
The Beginning of Everything Robyn Schneider
The Aviary Kathleen O'Dell
September
Anna and the French Kiss Stephanie Perkins
The Night Circus Erin Morgenstern
October
The Black Prism (Lightbringer) Brent Weeks
Orphans of the Sky Robert Heinlein
November
Little, Big John Crowley
Unbroken: A World War II story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption Laura Hillenbrand
December
The Art of Racing in the Rain Garth Stein
Fangirl Rainbow Rowell
Also, here's a link to the amazon wishlist I made. <3
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Putting a face on the ACA
Real talk guys.
I've been up since 2:30 with terrible back pain. Pain relievers, stretching, a hot shower, pacing none of it's helped. It's hard to take a deep breath, and I find myself constantly moving into weirder and weirder positions to find any sort of relief.
I'm sure it will eventually go away. (I fell asleep on my love seat earlier and think I just pulled some muscles.) But I'm also terrified it won't. Since I'm 26 I'm no longer eligible to be on my parents. Despite the fact that I'm full time, my job doesn't offer health insurance in my position. I'm not married, so I can't get it that way either.
If this happened in two months, I'd be ok. Through the subsidies with the ACA, and the more affordable plans, I could afford going to a doctor so that I could: 1. make sure this isn't something chronic or long term, and 2. figure out something to do to either get rid of the pain, or at least manage it.
I've been lucky health wise for most of my life. And I'm much better off than many I know. But the fact remains, at this moment I can't afford to go to a doctor.
People talk about the ACA like it only affects nameless, faceless people. They talk about the people it will benefit like they're some small, meaningless number.
But it's me guys. The ACA was designed for people like me. I'm typing this kneeling on a pillow because currently that's the only position that doesn't make me want to cry. I'm absolutely exhausted, but can't sleep, it feels like there's a steel bar around my torso squeezing way too hard.
I've looked into free clinics. The ones around me require a state id and proof of residence in martin county. I still have my Connecticut license. (Which I realize is my fault.) In addition 4-8 pay stubs, or a letter from your employer stating how much you make. Not things I have lying around. And although I do think regular doctors visits are good, without insurance it's not something I've been concerned about. I didn't look at these services until I needed them, and there are a lot of steps I need to take to get it. (If I even qualify, they don't specify what the income bracket is.)
I don't want to claim to be some poster child for the failure of the current health care system. I'm not. I'm just a woman thinking about how I'm supposed to be at work in 6 hours, whether or not I can stand.
I've been up since 2:30 with terrible back pain. Pain relievers, stretching, a hot shower, pacing none of it's helped. It's hard to take a deep breath, and I find myself constantly moving into weirder and weirder positions to find any sort of relief.
I'm sure it will eventually go away. (I fell asleep on my love seat earlier and think I just pulled some muscles.) But I'm also terrified it won't. Since I'm 26 I'm no longer eligible to be on my parents. Despite the fact that I'm full time, my job doesn't offer health insurance in my position. I'm not married, so I can't get it that way either.
If this happened in two months, I'd be ok. Through the subsidies with the ACA, and the more affordable plans, I could afford going to a doctor so that I could: 1. make sure this isn't something chronic or long term, and 2. figure out something to do to either get rid of the pain, or at least manage it.
I've been lucky health wise for most of my life. And I'm much better off than many I know. But the fact remains, at this moment I can't afford to go to a doctor.
People talk about the ACA like it only affects nameless, faceless people. They talk about the people it will benefit like they're some small, meaningless number.
But it's me guys. The ACA was designed for people like me. I'm typing this kneeling on a pillow because currently that's the only position that doesn't make me want to cry. I'm absolutely exhausted, but can't sleep, it feels like there's a steel bar around my torso squeezing way too hard.
I've looked into free clinics. The ones around me require a state id and proof of residence in martin county. I still have my Connecticut license. (Which I realize is my fault.) In addition 4-8 pay stubs, or a letter from your employer stating how much you make. Not things I have lying around. And although I do think regular doctors visits are good, without insurance it's not something I've been concerned about. I didn't look at these services until I needed them, and there are a lot of steps I need to take to get it. (If I even qualify, they don't specify what the income bracket is.)
I don't want to claim to be some poster child for the failure of the current health care system. I'm not. I'm just a woman thinking about how I'm supposed to be at work in 6 hours, whether or not I can stand.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Bargaining in good faith with destiny.
At 10:30 last night my newsfeed blew up into a slew of statuses about the Trayvon Martin verdict. Most of what I saw was disgust about Zimmerman being found not guilty, myself included. But others decried this anger, saying the jury knew things we didn't (admittedly I didn't watch the entire trial, so I guess fair point.) and that they were faced with the task of upholding justice. Basically, we shouldn't blame the jury because they did what the law told them to do. And (I know this will come across as heinous on my part) I agree with them. We shouldn't be mad at the jury.
We should be mad at ourselves.
We should be furious that we live in a country where the laws are written so that the death of a child results in no punishment. Because he was standing his ground. Against somebody that had every right to be where he was. This isn't an issue of Martin breaking into Zimmerman's house. This isn't an issue of Martin attacking Zimmerman in the dark. This is an issue of a grown man shooting an unarmed teenager because he viewed the kid as suspicious.
Here's the thing. Laws aren't inherently morals. There are things that are legal to do that are evil things to do. If the laws worked to ensure that people were good to each other, there would be more bankers in jail because of 2007. But they're not, because while what the did is morally abhorrent, it wasn't technically illegal.
People want to point out the racism in this case. And yes. The racism needs to be pointed out. How we think about violence involving people of color needs to change. The racism in this case makes me feel sick. But at the same time, I'm much more upset that we have laws that support inordinate amounts of violence in the name of "self defense."
I don't believe personal property is something to kill over. Zimmerman didn't want 'punks' to 'get away' with stealing from him. His answer to the question of how to protect his belongings was death. Maybe I'm wrong in that belief; if I am, I'm comfortable being wrong.
I failed Trayvon Martin. You failed Trayvon Martin. Our country failed Trayvon Martin. And for that I am sorry. I am sorry to his family, I am sorry to the other victims of violence who don't have their story told. I am sorry that I haven't created a society in which violence is not a legitimate answer.
Some may thing I'm too hard on myself. Or that I'm being too hard on you. One person can't completely change the world, and its unfair of me to put that burden on myself (or on you.)
But it is our job to create the world in which we want to live. I want to live in a world where teenagers don't die because of skin color and assumptions. I want to live in a world where if this does happen, we cry out together "That is not ok."
I'm sorry to Travyon. And I'm sorry to the hundreds of nameless people who die every day because of this culture of violence. I'm sorry that so far, I've failed to create the world we deserve.But I promise the fight won't go away, that those seeking a better world will not go quietly into the night. I promise that while I have one breath left in my lungs, it will be used to remember you and why talking and fighting and believing in humanity being inherently good.
The title of my blog (and this post) is a Kurt Vonnegut quotation. It's from the beginning of Slaptstick, when he's talking about how love never seemed all that important. When asked what was important he said "bargaining in good faith with destiny." If you're not doing that, you're doing life wrong.
Will the world ever be perfect? Probably not. Equality and justice are not goals to achieve, they are states of being. We owe it to each other to live like this.
We should be mad at ourselves.
We should be furious that we live in a country where the laws are written so that the death of a child results in no punishment. Because he was standing his ground. Against somebody that had every right to be where he was. This isn't an issue of Martin breaking into Zimmerman's house. This isn't an issue of Martin attacking Zimmerman in the dark. This is an issue of a grown man shooting an unarmed teenager because he viewed the kid as suspicious.
Here's the thing. Laws aren't inherently morals. There are things that are legal to do that are evil things to do. If the laws worked to ensure that people were good to each other, there would be more bankers in jail because of 2007. But they're not, because while what the did is morally abhorrent, it wasn't technically illegal.
People want to point out the racism in this case. And yes. The racism needs to be pointed out. How we think about violence involving people of color needs to change. The racism in this case makes me feel sick. But at the same time, I'm much more upset that we have laws that support inordinate amounts of violence in the name of "self defense."
I don't believe personal property is something to kill over. Zimmerman didn't want 'punks' to 'get away' with stealing from him. His answer to the question of how to protect his belongings was death. Maybe I'm wrong in that belief; if I am, I'm comfortable being wrong.
I failed Trayvon Martin. You failed Trayvon Martin. Our country failed Trayvon Martin. And for that I am sorry. I am sorry to his family, I am sorry to the other victims of violence who don't have their story told. I am sorry that I haven't created a society in which violence is not a legitimate answer.
Some may thing I'm too hard on myself. Or that I'm being too hard on you. One person can't completely change the world, and its unfair of me to put that burden on myself (or on you.)
But it is our job to create the world in which we want to live. I want to live in a world where teenagers don't die because of skin color and assumptions. I want to live in a world where if this does happen, we cry out together "That is not ok."
I'm sorry to Travyon. And I'm sorry to the hundreds of nameless people who die every day because of this culture of violence. I'm sorry that so far, I've failed to create the world we deserve.But I promise the fight won't go away, that those seeking a better world will not go quietly into the night. I promise that while I have one breath left in my lungs, it will be used to remember you and why talking and fighting and believing in humanity being inherently good.
The title of my blog (and this post) is a Kurt Vonnegut quotation. It's from the beginning of Slaptstick, when he's talking about how love never seemed all that important. When asked what was important he said "bargaining in good faith with destiny." If you're not doing that, you're doing life wrong.
Will the world ever be perfect? Probably not. Equality and justice are not goals to achieve, they are states of being. We owe it to each other to live like this.
Saturday, May 25, 2013
Standing here. Being stil, being sad, bearing witness.
"Don't just do something, stand there. We all want to do something to mitigate the pain of loss or to turn greif into something positive, to find the silver lining in the cloud. But I believe there is real value in just standing there, being still, being sad, bearing witness to [her] life and allowing ourselves to be transformed by it." -John Green
My Grandmother passed away earlier this week. And that sucks. Two weeks ago I was watching my sister graduate from UIS (cum laude proclaims her big sister, with pride,) and today I can't sleep because I know in a few hours I'll be saying goodbye to one of the biggest influences in my life. I've been racking my brain all week to come up with some memory, some theme of our relationship that sums everything up, conveys how very special she was to me and how even though we'll carry on, even though this is the way of the world, there will always be a small Mema shaped hole in us.
But I can't She was too big, this is too big to be summed up nicely in a metaphorical memory. All I keep thinking about is Harry Potter. Not anything in the story particularly. But the series itself. My Grandma gave me the first book after a trip visiting one of my uncles. She handed me the hardcover, which at 11 years old felt rather hefty and grown up. I doubted my ability to get into it, a skinny 11 year old boy who was popular and charming and talented and magical seemed the exact opposite of me. But if you know me, you know that once I got into that book, I couldn't put it down. Or the next ones. I went to every midnight book premier and when the final movie came out, when I was 24, I was right there in the midnight showing, blessed to be there with my sister and cousins. That series changed who I was, helped a young me think about the world and believe that I could become something more than my awkward teenage self. I don't know how she knew I needed that book, but she did.
Maybe that sums her up a bit better than I thought. My Grandmother had the uncanny ability to know what I, and many others needed. She always managed to send a card, or a phone call exactly when you were feeling down and needed a pick me up. When I taught her to text (which I consider one of my crowning achievements) it became even easier for her to pick me up while I was feeling low.
Other people will be able to attest to her strong faith and sense of community service much better than I can ever dream to. She was a great woman, bent and determined to make her own little corner of this world the best it could be. She found beauty and humor in everything. She raised five awesome kids, which in turn raised 14 awesome grandkids, which are now raising 16 (and counting) awesome great grand kids which will raise even more great great grand kids, and so on until the sun explodes and nobody remembers anything about the Mona Lisa or string theory, or sadly, my Grandmother.
But I remember her now. I remember her love of the Cubs and boxed wine. Her long marriage to my Grandfather. I remember long summer afternoons at a pool, cold winters fighting me to do my math homework. I remember her being disappointed when I wasn't the person she knew I could be, and her shinning face as I walked across the stage to receive my degree. I remember her laughing at my dumb jokes and encouraging me as a stand up comic, or in my charity fundraising.
I remember one more thing. It's something that makes me look bad. Bad in the sense that I am human and dont always realize how lucky I was to have her with me. The last time I was home she was staying with my parents as well. I made myself some lunch, and while sitting with her eating it, she mentioned she was hungry. I begrudgingly handed over half my sandwich. I tried hard not to let her know it was begrudgingly, because she taught me to share and be kind. But secretly I was really hungry and impatient and didn't really want to share. But I sat there, eating it with her, and saw how pleased she seemed that I had given her that half sandwich. That I was nice enough to make sure that she was fed too. And that's the last memory I have of her. Something to remind me to always be kind, think of others, and share the extra that I have.
I don't know how she knew that's what I needed, but she did.
My Grandmother passed away earlier this week. And that sucks. Two weeks ago I was watching my sister graduate from UIS (cum laude proclaims her big sister, with pride,) and today I can't sleep because I know in a few hours I'll be saying goodbye to one of the biggest influences in my life. I've been racking my brain all week to come up with some memory, some theme of our relationship that sums everything up, conveys how very special she was to me and how even though we'll carry on, even though this is the way of the world, there will always be a small Mema shaped hole in us.
But I can't She was too big, this is too big to be summed up nicely in a metaphorical memory. All I keep thinking about is Harry Potter. Not anything in the story particularly. But the series itself. My Grandma gave me the first book after a trip visiting one of my uncles. She handed me the hardcover, which at 11 years old felt rather hefty and grown up. I doubted my ability to get into it, a skinny 11 year old boy who was popular and charming and talented and magical seemed the exact opposite of me. But if you know me, you know that once I got into that book, I couldn't put it down. Or the next ones. I went to every midnight book premier and when the final movie came out, when I was 24, I was right there in the midnight showing, blessed to be there with my sister and cousins. That series changed who I was, helped a young me think about the world and believe that I could become something more than my awkward teenage self. I don't know how she knew I needed that book, but she did.
Maybe that sums her up a bit better than I thought. My Grandmother had the uncanny ability to know what I, and many others needed. She always managed to send a card, or a phone call exactly when you were feeling down and needed a pick me up. When I taught her to text (which I consider one of my crowning achievements) it became even easier for her to pick me up while I was feeling low.
Other people will be able to attest to her strong faith and sense of community service much better than I can ever dream to. She was a great woman, bent and determined to make her own little corner of this world the best it could be. She found beauty and humor in everything. She raised five awesome kids, which in turn raised 14 awesome grandkids, which are now raising 16 (and counting) awesome great grand kids which will raise even more great great grand kids, and so on until the sun explodes and nobody remembers anything about the Mona Lisa or string theory, or sadly, my Grandmother.
But I remember her now. I remember her love of the Cubs and boxed wine. Her long marriage to my Grandfather. I remember long summer afternoons at a pool, cold winters fighting me to do my math homework. I remember her being disappointed when I wasn't the person she knew I could be, and her shinning face as I walked across the stage to receive my degree. I remember her laughing at my dumb jokes and encouraging me as a stand up comic, or in my charity fundraising.
I remember one more thing. It's something that makes me look bad. Bad in the sense that I am human and dont always realize how lucky I was to have her with me. The last time I was home she was staying with my parents as well. I made myself some lunch, and while sitting with her eating it, she mentioned she was hungry. I begrudgingly handed over half my sandwich. I tried hard not to let her know it was begrudgingly, because she taught me to share and be kind. But secretly I was really hungry and impatient and didn't really want to share. But I sat there, eating it with her, and saw how pleased she seemed that I had given her that half sandwich. That I was nice enough to make sure that she was fed too. And that's the last memory I have of her. Something to remind me to always be kind, think of others, and share the extra that I have.
I don't know how she knew that's what I needed, but she did.
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