My Daughter’s A Mystery… And That’s O.K.

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“You are the most beautiful thing, I’ve ever seen. You shine just like sunlight rays on a winter snow.

I just had to tell you so. 

Your eyes sparkle as the sun, like the moon they glow. Your smile could light the world on fire, or did you know? 

Your mind’s full of everything that I wanna know,

I just had to let you know.

You’re my butterfly… Fly High… Fly Fly Fly…”

-Lenny Kravits, Butterfly

I get nostalgic and weepy on my kids’ birthdays. I remember every stage of labor…  This time, 11 years ago, my water broke. I watch the clock and think about that day. I drive my kids nuts with my reminiscing. Because I don’t say these things in my head. I say them out loud. To my kids. All day. Every year. They don’t love it.

But this is what moms do, right? We relive moments and cling to our babies at the very moment that we should be letting them go. Because my baby is actually not a baby. She’s 11 years old as of yesterday.

And she’s almost taller than I am.

So I guess I can’t call her a baby anymore. (Though I will. I always will. But that one I’ll do silently in my head.) The little girl who’s turning into a young woman in front of my very eyes. In spite of my holding on for dear life, she’s growing up.

***

She was born an old soul. We could just tell. They laid her on the scale and she stared silently into my husband’s eyes. He still gets emotional if he talks about that moment. The nurse swaddled her up and brought her to me. I wiped my eyes of the tears that were a combination of joy and pain. I held her and started to meet her. Examining her tiny hands, her sweet lips, her intense eyes. They gazed at me in studied  concentration. Searching my eyes. Holding my gaze. She was meeting me. She was checking me out.

She rarely cried. She was a content baby, easy to please. She would wake up in the morning and just hang out in her crib until I would hear her cooing and gurgling over the baby monitor. Her older brother would clamor into her room with me and greet her with his marble mouthed “Hello sunshine.”

I loved her with everything I had. But I didn’t feel like I knew her. She was a mystery to me. I would stare at her, watching her, trying to figure out what was going on inside her head. I had a sense that there was more going on than was obvious to the rest of us. I spent those first few months nursing her, playing with her, singing her songs. Trying desperately to understand her.

This may sound a little crazy. But I need to know my kids. I need to understand them. I knew how my son’s brain worked. I just knew him from the moment he was born. I was struggling with the fact that it didn’t come as easy with my daughter.

At three months old she got sick. It started as a cold and developed into something worse. I couldn’t sleep because I was worried. Something didn’t seem right. She was still smiling, still happy, but her breathing seem labored. One afternoon I watched as her breathing became more raspy. “She’s wheezing!” I yelled to my husband. I packed her in the car and headed to the pediatrician’s office. My heart was starting to race and I was on the verge of panicking. I drove, watching her in the rearview mirror. She looked blue to me. Her breathing was getting worse. Much worse. I made a sharp u-turn and pulled into an Urgent Care.

I ran into the building clutching her baby carrier “I need help, I don’t think my baby’s breathing.” The receptionist stood up to peer over her counter and took one look at my daughter and called the nurses to come get her. As the nurses whisked her into the examining room, I followed in a state of disbelief. I was worried, that’s why I’d brought her here after all. But seeing the concerned look on the nurse’s faces was freaking me out even more. As the doctor whipped past me to assess her, I pulled on his sleeve. “Is she going to be ok? Is my baby going to be ok?”

Her oxygen levels were low but not dangerously so. They wanted to send us to the hospital for chest X-rays and a flu test. They wanted her to stay overnight and be monitored. They offered to have an ambulance transport us but I told them I would drive. They admitted that the ambulance was more for me. They were worried that I was too upset to drive.

X-Rays, tubes down her nose to extract fluid, blood taken. My calm, serene baby was now screaming and flailing, fighting to break free. I held her arms by her head and whispered words of comfort to her.

Soon we were in our hospital room, waiting on a diagnosis. All of the scary tests came back negative. The diagnosis was R.S.V. A respiratory infection. She would be ok. The told me she’d need breathing treatments with a nebulizer. OK. That we could do. They told me that each time she got a cold we would likely have to do the treatments. OK. They said it was not serious and she would outgrow it. Thank god. Relief flooded me.

The doctor and nurse left us to rest. I finally let myself relax a little. I started to come down off of high alert. I was breathing again after holding my breath for hours. I felt the fear start to drain out of me, exhaustion taking up residence where adrenaline had been.

As I was unpacking the diaper bag I heard a noise. I looked up and my daughter was staring at me. Looking me steadily in the eyes, she was struggling to form words. I could hear her little voice, for the first time. Beyond the coos and the gurgles. I could hear her experiment with sounds as she rolled her tongue around and moved her lips. She was trying to talk. She had a look of amusement in her eyes. My three month old baby stared at me and babbled for 10 minutes.

I started to laugh. I walked over to her and caressed her head with both hands as she continued to stare at me and babble. I was laughing and crying with relief. I was weak with gratitude. I responded to her through salty tears. Urging her voice and kissing her forehead. I felt like we had been through a battle together. Just the two of us. We had just experienced some scary moments. And we came through it together.

I cried and laughed. I felt different. All of the questions, all of the searching for the last three months, trying to figure out my daughter. None of that mattered. I knew that she was a part of me. She had a hold on my heart and that was unbreakable. I didn’t need to understand everything about her in that moment. I just needed to know that she was ok. I needed her to know that I would stop searching and would just be. I would let her be and grow into whomever she was supposed to be. I was ok not knowing how that was going to play out. All that mattered was that she was ok and that we would go through the journey together.

***

My daughter just turned 11 yesterday. I’m still trying to figure her out. She’s still a little bit of a mystery to me. I have to be patient with that. She’s brilliant and beautiful and funny and creative. She’s so much more than I ever imagined her being. She’s who I want to be when I grow up. She’s her own person and she doesn’t need me to “get it.” She just needs me to love her. To support her. To be there to guide her when she needs it. And to back off when she doesn’t need it. And to be patient. To be patient with the fact that I’m still figuring her out. She knows that. She watches me. And every once in a while I get that intense soul gazing stare. When I “get her,” when I understand something about her, she gives me that look. It’s her way of saying thank you. It’s her, knowing that I understand one more piece of her that I didn’t get before.

I’m ok with not knowing everything about how her mind works. I don’t think I’m supposed to. I’m just walking through life with her – now just one step behind – letting her make her own way. But I’m watching. Closely. I’m still studying and still trying to figure her out. Only now with more patience. With a little more understanding than yesterday. Some things you have to wait for. Some things, often the best things, you have to wait for. I’ll be waiting and watching and guiding. And I’ll never stop.

Happy birthday to my artist, to my old soul, my pajama pant wearing, book devouring daughter. My “I’m not a princess, I’m an artist”, “I don’t have time to brush my hair”, my laugh at any thing with the word “balls”, dry humored,  crazy girl. My beautiful spirit, my sweet girl, my baby. I love you.

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Today, I Will Remember The Times We Used To Share

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Sittin on top of the world, Sittin on top of the world.

Remember the times we used to play,

We sing and we’d dance all damn day…

-Lenny Kravitz, Sittin On Top Of the World

 

This is an anniversary I never wanted to celebrate. One I wish I could forget or ignore. Fifteen years ago my little brother died.

It’s still impossible to believe. Impossible to adjust. Impossible to ignore.

I don’t want to reflect on that day. Memories will creep back. They always do. But today I won’t let them. Today I will celebrate.

But all I do is sing the blues,

But have I forsaken you, by telling you what you must do…

And all I do is sing the blues,

But I would never lie, let things go by. Leave you in the road to die.

I will never ever say goodbye.

‘Eff you death. Because today I’m celebrating life. The beautiful laughter filled life my brother lived for 18 years.

Never gonna say goodbye,

Never gonna say goodbye…

Today I’m going to remember all the times we shared. All the times we laughed. Because there was always laughter. Even when there was pain there was always laughter. He was amazing like that.

I was eight years old when he was born. I was indifferent at first. I could have cared less about babies. But then I held him. I’d never seen anything so beautiful. I’d never felt love like that. The protectiveness, the awe. The wonder of this little baby who came into our lives and made our family complete.

We had your typical brother/sister relationship. He loved to bug me. But as he got older we became more friends than siblings. We bonded over music. He loved to hear about the concerts I went to. He introduced me to Eminem long before Eminem was on MTV. He loved hip hop. He made me cd’s, mix tapes. Bob Marley, Tupac, Biggie. And Lenny. Lenny Kravitz was our music. We both loved Lenny.

He made me tell him, over and over, the story of my first Lenny Kravitz concert. We were supposed to get hooked up with backstage passes. I was dying to meet Lenny. It didn’t happen. The guy gave them to someone else. So of course me and my friends stalked Lenny after the show. We waited by the tour bus with a small group of die hard fans. Finally, he walked out. A giant crocheted hat on his head, dreadlocks trailing beneath. The crowd was hushed. We had waited for over an hour and no one said a thing. Right as he passed in front of me I yelled out, “Lenny!” He lifted his chin in greeting, “What’s up, ya’ll.” Then everyone went nuts as he climbed on to his tour bus. My brother loved that story. Every time he hung on every word as if he didn’t know how it was going to end. A year before he died we got to see Lenny in concert. It was the only concert we ever got to see together.

Remember the times… that we used to share,

You got to remember the times… that we used to share, that we used to share…

Today I’ll remember that concert. I’ll remember the Halloween party we went to at my friend’s house- that he later told me was the best night of his life. Today I’ll remember how he always had us all laughing. His impersonations. Pecking at his plate like a chicken at Thanksgiving dinner. How he would put his finger up in front of me and my sister and say in the most serious tone, “Hush. No talk-y talk-y.” How it always made us stop whatever big sister lectures we were giving and had us cracking up.

Today I’ll think back on how he invented the selfie way before cell phones were in every hand. He would finish up every role of film on my mom’s camera with extreme close-ups, always making crazy faces. I would always flip through the photos, anticipating the pictures at the end of the roll. The ones that I knew would make me laugh. The ones that were always different. You never knew what was waiting for you at the end of the stack, but you knew it would be funny.

Today I’ll laugh when I think about how he would take baby Jesus out of the Nativity scene my mom set out every Christmas. Every day baby Jesus would be missing. My mom would feign annoyance, but she would erupt in laughter when she would see little baby Jesus perched somewhere unexpected. Sometimes she wouldn’t find him until cooking dinner that evening. Or doing laundry. Or going to the bathroom. It was The Elf on the Shelf way before anyone had even thought of that creepy guy. Baby Jesus was always lurking, hiding. Always some place different. Sometimes completely inappropriate. Always hilarious. A tradition that my niece continues in her uncle’s honor every Christmas.

Today I’ll remember how we got through 18 months of chemo and radiation treatments. How he kept us all laughing through it all. His goal was to make his very serious Oncologist laugh. It didn’t take long. He quickly cracked through the veneer of a man who spent every day treating sick children.

I’ll never forget how he still loved to mess with my mom. He loved little pranks. He would sit at the kitchen table while she would flush out his IV line and right as she was pushing saline into the tube he would scream “It’s burning!” She would laugh every time, right after she had jumped in alarm. He loved to trick us, to pull one off, but he was truly happiest when he was making us laugh.

He had a way of making you fall for the same joke over and over. He would call me at work as he and mom were leaving treatments and doctor’s appointments. He would pretend to be one of my customers. I sold pagers to corporate clients. He would use different voices and accents and call me with crazy complaints, irate fake tirades and real creative scenarios of where he lost his pager. He would always erupt in laughter once he was sure I had fallen for it again, then quickly say “Where do you want to meet us for lunch?” It was impossible to get mad at him.

But the only way for you to survive

Is to open your heart, it will guide.

You wanna stay in this world of music and life,

You gotta turn around, Spread a little love and get high..

So, today I’m going to laugh. I’m going to remember every funny Todd story I can think of and I will laugh. I’m going to hold all my happy memories close to my heart and be thankful there are so many to choose from. I’m going to go to lunch with my mom and eat a giant cheeseburger in his honor. I’m going to remember his smile. His voice. His easy going nature that drew people to him. Today I’m going to remember the times that we used to share. And I’m going to listen to Lenny all day.

 

 

 

Finding Perspective In A Life Under Water

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photo: ThinkStock/Comstock

photo: ThinkStock/Comstock

“Darkness has a hunger that’s insatiable and lightness has a call that’s hard to hear.”

-Indigo Girls, Closer to Fine 

Do you know why I hate drama? Aside from the fact that negativity breeds like a voracious beast, it’s just so damn wasteful. So much time and energy can be wasted on drama. And almost all drama is manufactured, created… and life is full of enough hard stuff.

I DON’T DO DRAMA.

Because I know what it’s like to have good days and bad days. I know what it’s like to have a day so bad you feel like you’re drowning. Like you can’t breathe. Like there’s no way out.

I know what it’s like to watch someone you love live in unspeakable pain. I know what it’s like to spend the night with your brother in the hospital. Watching him writhe in pain. Begging you to put pressure on his spine, to do anything to make it go away. To run down the hall begging nurses to do something. Help him. To pull them out of other patients’ rooms. Because those patients weren’t in his kind of pain. Because those patients weren’t 16 year old kids. Because those patients could wait because your brother was in pain.

I know what it’s like to watch the nurses shake their head in sad resignation because the doctor’s orders don’t include the kind of pain meds he needs. And it’s the middle of the night. And without a diagnosis no doctor was going to call in heavy duty pain meds.

I know what it’s like to hear a diagnosis. To steel yourself before walking in to the hospital room to hear the verdict. To send out positive hopeful thoughts. To will good news. To be full of forced optimism and hope. To have that all violently wrenched away from you in one moment. With one statement from the doctor. With a diagnosis. With the words “Stage Four” with the phrase “We have seen some cases of survival.” To run out of the room and abandon your family because you can’t breath and to collapse in the hallway in convulsive sobs. And to be ashamed because everyone else was keeping it together.

I know what it feels like to find out the next day that the point on his spine that you were pressing on the night before… that you were leaning in to with your entire body -sweating and grunting with all your might because he was begging you to- to find out the next day that you were pressing on a bone tumor that was eating into his spine. I know what it’s like to be hit with the sick realization that you were hurting him. To feel the bile in your throat and the panic of understanding. That while he was in more pain than most of us will ever experience that you were adding to it unknowingly. That you failed at helping him. That your brother, eight years younger, who you had always felt so protective of, that you had let him down when he needed you most. I know what it’s like.

I know what it’s like to have a bad day.

For me, any day that the people I love are healthy is a good day. Any day that someone I love is not in pain is a good day. Any day that is not riddled with worry and helplessness is a good day. Any day that you can reach out and hold someone you love is a good day.

Sometimes I need a reminder.

Last year I got a big reminder. One that knocked the wind out of me. I was having a bad day. The kind of bad day made of small, annoying things that seem much bigger. That can, if you allow it, take over and sour your mood. I was grumpy and caught up in whatever petty annoyances were going on in my life. Stuff so unimportant that I can’t even remember what they were.

I was sitting at swim practice grumbling internally and generally feeling sorry for myself.  I distractedly scrolled through Facebook until I realized there was a private message. It was from my high school best friend. She and I had lost touch after college and had reconnected a few years earlier on Facebook. Intrigued, I clicked on the message, expecting to see a greeting, a “How have you been, let’s catch up” type of message. I started reading and I felt like my heart actually stopped beating.

She told me that her daughter had been diagnosed with a horrible, rare disease months earlier. That she is only just beginning to be able to talk about it. On the spectrum of horrible diseases, this may be the worst. And I’m not being even a tiny bit dramatic. It affects young children. It deteriorates their brain. It deteriorates their body and their muscle function. It sounded like a horrific combination of two of the diseases I had always feared most: ALS (Lou Gehrig’s Disease) and Alzheimer’s. Except this happens to kids. Little kids. And there was no treatment. No cure. Most kids don’t live past their teenage years.

I was overcome as I was reading her words. I looked at my son swimming his laps. At my daughters sitting next to me. I felt like I wanted to scoop all three of them up into my arms and hold them indefinitely. I wanted to reach through the ether of cyberspace and hold my friend. My friend who I hadn’t seen in years. With whom I’d shared years of friendship and good times and laughter. And now she was going through unimaginable pain. She knew what it was like to have a bad day. 

My friend doesn’t have time for drama. The world looks a lot different from the perspective of grief and fear and survival. You don’t have a moment to waste on whispers of “He said, she said.” You don’t have time to worry about what other people think. You don’t have time to dissect every interaction and analyze how it might have been received or perceived. Because you are fighting. You are fighting to not drown under the incredible weight of fear.

My friend is amazing. She is fighting for her daughter. She started a blog. She published her very first blog post. It was about her daughter. It got Freshly Pressed (a huge honor in the behemoth WordPress world). The next day it got picked up by The Huffington Post. Donations started pouring in. The community came together. People are raising money. Raising money because there’s a trial for a new treatment that won’t happen without money. A treatment that shows promise for a disease that had no hope until now. One that has shown reversal of symptoms in the lab.

A possible cure.

My friend doesn’t have time for drama or politics or any of the things that get us worked up or angry or caught up. She is fighting for her daughter’s life. She and other parents. When time is precious and every moment is to be soaked up and absorbed, she is spending countless hours raising money to try to save her daughter’s lives. When all she wants to do is cuddle with her daughter. To read with her and watch her play, she is organizing and promoting and spreading awareness. She is fighting to have a good day. A day with a daughter who’s healthy. A good day when she can hear the words “She’s cured.”

That’s perspective.

The good days that I, that you, that most of us, take for granted… she is fighting for that. My brother fought for that. While he lost his fight with Cancer, he had plenty of good days. He made good days… good moments… he insisted on laughter and fun even when hooked up to tubes and machines.

So no, I don’t do drama.

Because life is short.

For some it’s unfairly and heartbreakingly short.

Because we will all have some bad days.

We will all feel fear and pain and loss. It’s inevitable. So on those days when you aren’t feeling pain… when someone you love isn’t hurting… when you’re not feeling crippling fear… Those days where you don’t feel like you’re drowning…

On those days… enjoy it. Don’t let anyone or anything take it from you. Wrap yourself up in the warmth of a positive thought in the face of negativity. Cloak yourself in comfort when the world throws obstacles. Protect yourself and treat yourself gingerly and with love. And when you see someone who’s struggling, even if they’re spewing anger… give them a hand. Chances are they’re having a bad day. Chances are they’re feeling fear or pain or rejection or heartache. Chances are they’re drowning. Be their lifeline.

If you want to hear more about my friend’s daughter and their fight:

http://www.gofundme.com/abbygracecure

Boys Will Be Boys… The Danger of Low Expectations

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“Boy, you’re gonna carry that weight.

Carry that weight a long time…”

-The Beatles, Carry That Weight

Boys are getting a bad rap.

They are being reduced to the lowest common denominator.

They are suffering the permissibility of low expectations.

They have no self control. They have violent urges. They have uncontainable sexual tendencies.

Boys will be boys.

What does this oft cited phrase even mean? Does it mean that because they were born with the Y chromosome that they are inherently impulsive and helpless to their own actions? Does it mean that it is natural for them to be more violent, more sexual?

Or is it an excuse trotted out to dismiss unsavory behavior?

Is it an antiquated notion that keeps boys boxed into a hyper-masculine role while putting the burden on girls to keep order and civility intact?

I know a few boys.

I had a younger brother. I have a son. I’m married to a man (formerly a boy). I’ve had many male friends throughout my life. Most of the boys I have known and encountered have been sensitive, intelligent, thoughtful people. Very much in control of their own actions. Yes, I have known some jerks. I have had encounters with some real assholes. But they truly are the exception in my life, not the rule.

I love men.

I always have. I grew up having more guy friends than girl friends. I sometimes felt more comfortable and at ease with my guy friends. I love masculine, strong men and I love sensitive, artistic men and I love that these traits aren’t exclusive of each other. I don’t look at men as adversaries. I don’t view them as opposition. I view them as friends, as neighbors, as fellow parents-  as people full of good and sometimes a little bad but mostly just human and trying to do their best.

Let’s stop saying it…

Let’s stop saying “Boys will be boys.” It is said when little boys fight on the play ground. Instead of breaking up the fight and teaching them that there are other ways to problem solve, some people use this phrase as an excuse. Let them get out their anger, let them blow off some steam. It’ll toughen them up. But we’re talking about children. We’re talking about using an outdated cliche that is used as an excuse to allow children to fight, to engage in an activity that will end in pain and harm to one or both. Does this not seem absurd and un-evolved in this day?

Let’s stop using it as an excuse for boys to grope girls. To say demeaning things to girls. Let’s not speak this phrase to imply that boys cannot control their urges around girls. To imply that it’s natural for boys to be misogynistic. It’s not. Misogyny is taught.

Let’s stop saying it when enforcing a dress code that is mostly thrust upon girls. Shorts must be a certain length. Skirts must be a certain length. No spaghetti strap shirts. Why? The reasons I’ve heard all seem to point to a few disturbing notions. Either that little girls will be viewed as too sultry or sexual when wearing shorts or tank tops or that it will put boys in the uncomfortable and impossible position of having to control their sexual urges. They will be too distracted by the show of flesh. So girls are all sultry sirens of the sea luring poor dimwitted boys to jump in the ocean, devoid of any self control?

Let’s stop saying it when men make lewd or inappropriate comments towards women. When a congressmen grabs the belly of a female Senator and comments on her thickening waist line. When men make crude and laviscious cat calls at a woman walking down the street.

And, dear god, let’s stop saying it when a boy sexually assaults a girl.

‘Cause here’s the thing…

Not all boys or men do these things. These are not behaviors inherent in the male species. Not all boys are violent. Not all boys are lustful. Not all boys view girls as objects. Not all boys are distracted by an exposed shoulder or an extra inch of thigh. Not all boys want to demean girls. Not all boys believe that they have rights to a girl’s body and privacy and sense of safety.

I don’t think any boy is born with these tendencies. They will have more testosterone, yes. And surges in testosterone can lead to feelings of anger or sexual urges. But boys can be taught how to deal with these feelings. How to process them and handle them. They are beyond animalistic instincts to act without regard to others or themselves. They are more evolved than that. To dismiss bad behavior with “boys will be boys” implies they have no control. It implies that they are subject to their worst impulses.

I even have a real life example. A phenomenon I have observed over the last few years. My kids are on a competitive swim team. It is comprised of both boys and girls. These kids live in their bathing suits. The girls wear tight fitting one pieces that are cut low on their back and high on their hips. The boys wear Speedos. These kids spend roughly 10 hours a week together (more for the older groups.) In their bathing suits. My kids probably wouldn’t recognize some of their teammates in street clothes with dry hair. The girls walk around in their suits, run around the pool deck, jump and yell and basically goof off with their friends. They have to get on a block and bend over in what many of us would consider vulnerable positions to dive into the water. They do all this without self consciousness. They are all different shapes and sizes and each and every one of them seem unaware that they are rather “exposed.” Because the boys don’t care. They are used to it. They aren’t distracted by any of this. When they aren’t laughing and talking on the pool deck, they are focused on the roughly 3,000 yards they have to swim at each practice. They aren’t losing their minds at all the exposed female flesh walking by them, swimming past them. True story.

It is insulting.

The line of thinking that goes along with the “boys will be boys” mentality is an insult to boys. It is just as insulting as assuming that women are uncontrollably emotional and irrational because their bodies produce more estrogen. It only teaches boys that not only is bad behavior ok, it is expected of them. That it is evidence of masculinity. This is ridiculous. You know what’s masculine? Being honest about your feelings, showing emotion. Being respectful of others. Honoring other’s rights and needs. Understanding those around you.

I believe in setting high expectations, not shrugging away boorishness.

I believe that most boys don’t want to have to fight on the playground.

I believe that boys are completely capable of self control.

I believe my son doesn’t need to “prove” his masculinity any more than my daughters need to “prove” their femininity.

I believe that boys are capable of functioning around girls, even scantily clad girls, without succumbing to hormonal fueled hysteria.

I believe that if we stop dismissing behaviors and excusing them and expecting them, that we will raise strong, masculine men who respect themselves. Who respect women. Who want to be productive and not destructive. I believe that we can raise boys who won’t grow up to grope women. To make insulting cat calls. Who won’t say misogynistic things to women, to female senators. Who won’t assume rights or ownership to a woman’s body. I know it’s possible. I know many of these men. Many of whom grew up to be great men in spite of society’s banal accommodation of “boys will be boys.”

So let’s give boys some credit. Let’s assume they are capable of the best. Let’s expect more and in doing so imply that we know that they are more than able to do more. Let’s allow them to be who they are, not what society deems as masculine.

And once and for all, let’s stop saying “Boys will be boys.”

 

All the Stuff… 4

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 All The Stuff

Oh August, you tricky little bastard. You come in all sweltering and sticky and full of anger and tumultuousness. And when you leave there’ll be a sadness that summer is winding down. The freedom and the carefree days of bare feet and entire days spent in a bathing suit and the permission to have a beer at noon… all a memory as we creep towards fall and schedules and structure and life as we thought we knew it.

Last week my kids went off to school. My youngest in Kindergarten and the older two…  I forget what grades they’re in. Their grades are insignificant in the scheme of school milestones. Lest you think I’m a callous uncaring mother, just know that next year when I have one starting Middle School and one starting High School I’ll be all over them and tearful and doting and clinging. I will become the mom version of a stalker. They will be so smothered with me grasping at their waning childhood that they will look back on this year grateful that their little sister took some attention away from them. They’ll get their time. But this year, right now, it’s all about my youngest. She pranced off to school full of glee and anticipation and wonder. And every afternoon she bounces off  the bus excited and brimming with things to tell me. And I’m soaking up every bit of it because the older two are indication that this will not last.

Anyways, we’re beginning the process of settling in to our new routines and that means…

More time to write, more time to read. Woo hoo! *pops the cork on the champagne*

That’s not to say it hasn’t been a difficult month. Some pretty crazy stuff going on out there. It’s hard to not get down and dejected with all that’s happening. A new terrorist group that seems even scarier than the ones before. A loss of a beloved actor and comedian. A U.S. city that looks like a flashback to 1960. The realization that we still have a long way to go with some things.

Out of all this strife comes the writing. Some pretty amazing words that will be burned into my mind for a long long time.

REDdog at Shed Reflections wrote a heartfelt insight Excuse Me, I’m Feeling Suicidal. One of the best pieces I’ve read on the subject of depression and suicide. “…so much of the talking has been about the talking about it.” He makes it personal and sheds some light in his direct and matter of fact manner.

The wry and funny and seriously real Twindaddy and the so talented I can’t even comment on her poems out of fear of sounding stupid Hasty Words came out against the haters in The Unwitting Villain. I am going to print this poem and just hand it over next time someone brings their negativity into my world.

And there’s Samara…  I honestly don’t know what I can say about Samara without sounding like a gushing fangirl. Her words are some of the most powerful I’ve ever read. Sometimes her words speak to me and get somewhere deep inside my subconscious and wake up a sleeping thought. She leaves me in awe every time I read her work, whether from shock and laughter or from the soul piercing rawness that she lays out when she’s straying from her hilariously snarky snarkedness… She recently posted on Stories That Must Not Die a post titled I Bleed Therefore I Am. I really can’t say anything about it. It is something you need to just go and read.

And last, this post from BlogHer, The Exercise That Opened My Eyes to White Privilege. This should be required reading. It should be an exercise done in every high school and college in the country. It should be done over and over again until people get it. Until people stop saying “Yeah, but…”  Until people stop trying to redirect conversations about race. Until.

And now, I’m done.

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“The Talk” That Proves Racism Is Alive

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*This is a blogpost I wrote earlier this year. Sadly it bears repeating…

unknown, via Twitter

“The police in New York City
They chased a boy right through the park
And in a case of mistaken identity
The put a bullet through his heart
Heart breakers with your forty four, I wanna tear your world apart”

-The Rolling Stones, Heartbreaker

*This is a blogpost I wrote earlier this year. Sadly it bears repeating…

Do you worry about what others think of you? I know I do. I worry about it too much. My worries are there because I want people to like me. But imagine if simply being you made others uncomfortable. Imagine if walking around in your skin caused fear. What if upon seeing you a person’s eyes enlarged, they backed away, they avoided eye contact or even turned and walked the other way.

Last summer I read a post by Questlove (Drummer of the Roots) on the Huffington Post blog. He wrote about how he has to worry, all the time -everywhere he goes, about what others think of him. Of how they may react to his appearance. I cried quietly as I read it. He detailed living his life, walking around trying to not be imposing. He described what it’s like to put fear in people simply by looking the way you look…

“All the time I’m in scenarios in which primitive, exotic-looking me (6’2″, 300 pounds, uncivilized afro for starters) finds himself in places that people that look like me aren’t normally found. I mean, what can I do? I have to be somewhere on Earth, correct?”

He routinely turns down invitations to swanky places because it’s “been hammered into his DNA to not ‘rock the boat’ “

I won’t attempt to summarize any further what he wrote because I won’t be able to do it justice. You’ll have to (click the highlighted link above) and read it for yourself. He wrote this right after the acquittal verdict in the Trayvon Martin case.

I wish I could say that his story is rare, an anomaly. Sadly it’s not. It is so common that African American parents in our country have to explain to their sons at a young age how people may perceive them and react to them.

They have The Talk with their sons.

No, not the sex talk. This is a conversation aimed at preventing young black men from inciting violence or suspicion or incarceration because of the color of their skin. This conversation informs these young boys that they must tread lightly around white men and police and other authority figures. Tragic stories abound of young black men being roughed up by the police for no reason. Young black men being killed because they didn’t defer to authority even in the face of extreme and obvious injustice. Young black men being shot because they were simply there.

Don’t talk back to white men.

Don’t try to explain, even when they have obviously mistaken you for someone else.

Don’t run down the street, someone might think you stole something.

Don’t hang out on the corner with a group of friends, they might assume you’re in a gang.

Don’t reach for your phone, they might think you’re reaching for a gun.

Move slowly.

Keep your hands visible at all times.

You may say that these are reasonable instructions for anyone. But I don’t know anyone personally who has been arrested or killed who did nothing wrong, committed no crime. Because I’m a white woman living in suburbia.

I have never had to tell my son that if he is running down the street that someone may assume he has committed a crime. Think about the absurdity of that for a minute. Don’t run. Your game of tag or your attempt to race to a friend’s house may be perceived as a threat. Think about telling your son not to run down the street. Ever. That is the reality you face if you are the parent of a young black boy.

This isn’t a new thing. The Talk dates back to 1863 following the Emancipation Proclamation. When slaves were freed in rebel states they were told to not celebrate openly, to essentially “fly under the radar” to avoid giving angry rebels cause to go after them. What I learned after the Trayvon Martin case was that The Talk still exists. It’s still relevant and necessary.

The Talk is a sad part of coming of age in the black community. And I had never heard of it before. Such is the privilege of being white in America. You can say you know racism is still alive in our country. You can have your heart ache with each new story of a son and a brother being shot. But if you’re white in America, you don’t know what it’s like. This is a reality that has been around for over a century and most of us have never and will never experience what it’s like to live in this kind of fear.

Right after the verdict in the Martin case, another trial was beginning. A 76 year old man was on trial for the murder of his 13 year old neighbor. He thought that Darius Simmons, a young black boy, had broken into his home days earlier. He shot him in the chest and killed him.

Recently our national attention was tuned in to the “Loud Music” trial. Michael Dunn faces up to 60 years in prison for firing 10 rounds into a car of young black men, killing 17 year old Jordan Davis.

These are just the cases that make the news. How many cases are there that don’t result in an arrest, that never catch the fleeting attention of the media? Democracy Now reported that in a study of 2012 shootings, that “at least 136 unarmed African Americans were killed by police, security guards and self-appointed vigilantes in 2012.”

Becoming numb to these horrific stories, to these appalling tales, is not an option. You can’t be numb if you look at their faces.

The faces of these children who were murdered.

These sons who were loved and adored as much as you and I love and adore our own children.

These are children. And they are gone forever.

Because they went to buy Skittles.

Because they were taking out the trash.

Because they turned the radio up.

For buying Skittles

Walking home after buying Skittles

He was taking out the trash

Taking out the trash

He turned the music up too loud.

Playing music too loud.

You can’t look at these faces and feel numb.

If you’re like me you feel kicked in the gut. Despair.

I see a little of my son in each of them. I feel pain for the parents of these boys. I feel sorrow for them because I know a little bit about what it’s like to lose someone you love at such a tender age.

And I feel enraged.

I feel pulse racing, heat inducing, hand trembling rage.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

But I will have The Talk with my son.

With my white,suburban dwelling, young son.

Not for the same reason and not the exact same talk. I will explain to my son that because he is growing up  as a young white man in our country that this talk isn’t essential to his survival. But that he needs to know that it is essential for many boys his age.

I will explain that some of his friends are having The Talk with their parents because without it they may inadvertently put themselves, their very lives, at risk.

I will tell him that he needs to know that racism, which baffles a young innocent boy like him, is still present. That he needs to know that what goes on around him, even if it doesn’t affect him directly, is still worth his concern and attention. That even if by the time he has children The Talk isn’t necessary, that he can never forget it.

I will tell him that to forget our ugly sordid past with racism in this country is to ignore and deny a threat to our humanity.

That to forget allows it to fester and grow and continue.

Questlove’s story has stuck with me since I read it many months ago. It was heartbreaking. And it illustrates the magnitude of the problem. A noticeable famous figure, on t.v. five nights a week for the last five years, still encounters fear and racism.

Yes, racism is alive and well. And it’s ludicrous that anyone would need to be informed of that.

It’s not obvious to those of us who don’t feel the brutal brunt of it on a regular basis. Many people will scoff and point to our black president. Some will recite all of the ridiculous defenses and excuses that have been trotted out by lawyers and pundits in a lame attempt to explain how and why these children were killed.

But denying it is extremely dangerous.

Denying it or downplaying it allows it to continue.

Sticking our heads in the sand may seem comforting at first. Ignorance is bliss and all.

But eventually that sand becomes suffocating as will the cold reality of who we are- what kind of people we become if we can see the faces of these children who have been killed because of how they look, because of their race- and don’t at the very least acknowledge it. If we do that then we become no better than him:

Michael Dunn, upon hearing his verdict.

Michael Dunn, who shot Jordan Davis,upon hearing his verdict.

We become the personification of self righteous indignation when we shrug off the realities that black families in our country still face.

Jordan Davis’ mom put it best,

“You can’t pretend anymore. The blinders are off now. If there is this level of racism, it can’t be under the table anymore. It has to be exposed so we can deal with it.”

I say that we can’t deny racism as long as parents are still having The Talk.

The conversation that’s been a necessity -a tool of survival in the African American community for 151 years- when that conversation is no longer needed, then we can declare victory. Then we can say that it was a part of our past, no longer plaguing our society.

When it’s no longer necessary to “hammer it into (the) DNA” of young black boys, then and only then, will we have justice for Trayvon… for Darius… for Jordan.

Update, August 22, 2014: And now for Michael Brown.

Big Mike Jr Brown via Facebook

Big Mike Jr Brown via Facebook

The Writing Process Blog Tour

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-photo: Stephen Depolo via Flickr

-photo: Stephen Depolo via Flickr

 

“Staring at empty pages, Centered ’round the same ole plot”

-Traffic, Empty Pages

Earlier this summer one of my favorite bloggers nominated me to participate on The Writing Process Blog Tour. My first thought was process? You mean there should be a process? My second thought was me? You want to know how and why and what I write? I find how others write fascinating so I was excited to be included.

Gene’O is the brilliant mind behind Just Gene’O and Sourcerer Blog and  contributor at Part Time Monster. If you check out his blog and cruise around a little you’ll see why I’m a fan. Probably one of  the most versatile bloggers, he writes about music and comics and does photoblogging as well. And when he finds a cause or injustice he needs to write about, watch out. Needless to say I was flattered that he asked me to participate.

Now on to the questions about my writing (gulp) process….

Why do I write what I do?

Quite simply, I write about whatever is on my mind. Sometimes it’s lighthearted commentary or observations. Sometimes I write album reviews or profile songs I have “playing on repeat.” Literally. I get obsessed with new music. In college my roommates had to hide my new Phish cd from me. I occasionally write about my kids and parenting. Other times it’s about issues I’m passionate about. If someone says something really stupid and misogynistic I’ll probably write about it. Racism, feminism, poverty, injustice to marginalized people, these tend to be the things I feel the need to speak out about. I also enjoy the opportunity to exorcise some anger when writing about things that get me fired up. The thing I love about blogging is I make the rules and I can write about what I want when I want. Isn’t that we all love about it?

How does my writing process work?

Music.

The name of my blog is from “Across the Universe” (The Beatles). That song sums up everything I feel about writing, about life, about this blog.

I start every blog post with a lyric from a song. I do this for a few reasons. Music is my favorite medium. It has always been what inspires me. I don’t have any musical talent, but it’s been a part of my life since I can remember. At times a song lyric or song title inspires an idea for a blog post. Other times I finish a post and have to search for a lyric that seems representative or connected in some way to what I wrote. And I always listen to music when I write. Sometimes the mood of a song dictates what type of writing I do. I try to just go with it and let it guide me.

Which brings me to the second part of my process. I try to write by instinct or inspiration. If I start writing and I don’t feel something I stop. My dashboard is full of unfinished posts. Some of them I’ve revisited after months of languishing and finished them with a new thought or direction. The seed may have been planted but not ready to produce until much later. Others may never see the light of day. I try not to sweat it.

I prefer to write on my laptop but have notebooks full of writings and scribblings and notes. I use these when I need to write on the go. Carpool line has seen some scratchings. Swim practice has become a surprisingly fruitful place for writing. The white noise of swimmers rhythmically moving in sync through the water is quite calming. If I’m desperate and am caught without my laptop or a notebook I’ll reluctantly type notes in my phone.

And the editing. Dear lord, the editing. And by editing I mean cutting. I tend to be long-winded. I have rarely written something that didn’t need at least 500 words shaved off. This has been one of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned from blogging. In every other aspect of life I live by “less is more”. Except for writing. And cheese. And wine. Anyways, editing takes me ridiculously long to accomplish. I’m hoping that as I enter my second year of blogging this part will come easier. (I mean, this whole paragraph was probably completely unnecessary but I’m leaving it in to make a point).

How does my work differ from others of it’s genre?

Unless you count random as a genre, I don’t know if I have one. And I’m not sure if what I do is any different from any other blogger who writes about issues and music and  any idea that pops in to their head. The difference is in simply that we all have different ways of processing the world around us. We all have different thoughts on any given subject. If I know I want to write about a particular subject I purposely avoid reading blogs or opinion pieces on that topic. I don’t want to be influenced and I don’t want to see that someone has already captured my thoughts. If I see someone expressing what I had intended to say, I’ll abandon the whole idea. I need to know that what I wrote came wholly from me and other than reading articles to gather information, I prefer to write in the dark so to speak. That being said, I am often inspired by what I read from other bloggers.

What Am I Working On At the Moment?

I would love to say I was working on a book. And I was a little, here and there, before I started this blog. It’s been years since I’ve written anything that would be read by another soul, so I have taken a break from working on the book while I hone my writing skills here. Writing for an audience and hitting publish definitely makes you critique and edit and learn. I hope to resume working on my book soon. I’m almost always thinking about it, playing out scenes and ideas in my mind. But right now, this blog is my focus. I’m hoping that I’ll be able to devote more time to it now that I don’t have a little one at home with me during the day.

So that’s it! A peek inside my lack of a process. Now I get to pass the tour on to three bloggers:

Lizzi of Considerings – Life in Silver Linings Lizzi is a generous soul who’s words will touch you. She doesn’t hold back and brings her heart along for the ride. She is one of my favorite bloggers and if you read her blog you’ll fall in love with her too.

Mandi of Cellulite Looks Better Tan Mandi writes with a voice that puts you there. You feel like you are walking along with her, living in her world. It’s an intangible thing and one of those things you wish you could learn but it’s probably innate. Funny, serious and everything in between.

Racheal of Rachealizations Lover of cheese and all things positive. Funny and contemplative and insightful. Check out her blog and see the hidden gems inside.

So get to it people! Share with us the secrets to your madness- I mean writing.

I’ve Had Enough of “Them”

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“Will we ever understand? Or is the fate of man at hand? Will we live or shall we die?

How will we ever know if we never try?”

-Lenny Kravitz, What the Fuck Are We Saying

Them.

It can mean different things. It can be people who look different. It can be people of different nations. Different cultures. People who pray to a different god. People who love differently. People who live a different lifestyle.

Them. It’s a lie. I don’t believe in it. I don’t subscribe to the cult of judgement that seems to accompany the mentality of them.

They must be savages to riot in the street.

They must have done something to deserve being shot while unarmed.

They must not be strong enough/ have enough faith/ love enough to take their own life.

They must be filthy and ignorant to be ravaged with a horrendous virus.

They must believe in an evil god to live in perpetual war.

Statements dripping in self righteousness and contempt. Statements born of fear or ignorance or shame. Or all three. But nothing written or shouted or proclaimed from such a place is ever true. These things are not uttered in an attempt to help, to discuss, to heal. To rectify or repair. No, these words and others like them are a fallacy meant to perpetuate the myth of them.

Is it comforting, the idea of them? Is it a primal mindset we have yet to outgrow?

Lately it’s been too much to take. The harshness. The shrill. It’s become deafening. The evening news has become my affliction. Social media has become a playground for the ignorant to show their bitter hearts. And I’m wondering when it will all be done. When will we collectively say enough? When will people push through the bullshit of themThe other people. People not like you. It is so simplistic in it’s thinking that I wonder how this mindset has survived all these years. Decades. Centuries. How does fallacy survive? How does it endure?

“The government’s the devil’s hands. It’s a lie and it’s a scam. They wind us up, put us down and watch us go. And if you close your eyes, there’s a big surprise”

A piece of dirt in a disputed land. A land claimed by both sides as holy ground. Powers on both sides committing crimes and atrocities. All in the name of religion. People dying and children orphaned or maimed or traumatized. Because of them. They pray to a different god. They tread on our sacred ground. They are different from us. Propaganda demonizes the enemy. Because war cannot continue if people don’t believe in them. People on both sides. They will grow weary and war tired if they are allowed to see similarities.

Palestinians crying after seven children were killed by bombs in a refugee camp (Mahmud Hams/ AFP)

Palestinians crying after seven children were killed by bombs in a refugee camp (Mahmud Hams/ AFP)

Israeli's taking refuge from Hamas rockets in a sewer pipe (Reuters)

Israeli’s taking refuge from Hamas rockets in a sewer pipe (Reuters)

And the people caught in the middle? The people who retreat to a bomb shelter throughout the day? The people who’s children are killed and who’s homes are destroyed? They aren’t that different. They want to live in peace. Comfort. Security. They want it all to stop. They want to be able to eat and work and play and raise their families. But it won’t stop. Not until we stop seeing them. Not until we start seeing us. Seeing our children’s faces in a sewer pipe. Seeing our lives and hearts ripped apart because our child was killed by a senseless war that rages on. One that feeds on the notion of them.

 “I’ve been lost in the name of love. And we kill our brothers daily in the name of god. We’d better chill before we take on some tribulation. And if we realized? Then we’d make a little love”

Yet another young black man killed. Unarmed. Shot. More than once. Unarmed and walking down the street. Not a new story. A story as old as our nation. A story that continues to play out with heartbreaking frequency. A story that continues because of them.

And I’m angry. Because we should be better than this. I’m angry because I don’t care what he was wearing or what symbols or signs he flashed in a photo that seems to become some kind of implicit justification. Because he was shot. He was unarmed and he was killed. And this has happened again. And again.

(N.Y. Daily News)

(N.Y. Daily News)

I’m angry because it is clear that if you look a certain way you are living in danger every day that you venture out in the world. Because of how you look. Because of assumptions rooted in ignorance and hatred. Because of ideas that are so ingrained that many people don’t even realize they subscribe to them. And it doesn’t matter that he was college bound. But the nature of such incidents is to place the burden on the deceased to prove that they had a future. It cannot be assumed that they had a future. It must be stated and reiterated and shouted from a megaphone. That he had a future. The sick cruel nature of our world. To value the life of someone over another based on a certain path deemed worthy. Because if he wasn’t on a particular path, he wasn’t us. He was them.

There is no them.

There’s just us.

Strip away the superficial. The colors, the accents, the mannerisms, the dialects.

The religions.

Eliminate them because they are superfluous. They don’t matter.

And what do you have? The same. The same red blood coursing through blue veins. The same hearts, four chambers pumping life sustaining blood. The same brains firing off directions and information and knowledge. The same hearts. The hearts that ache with loss. The hearts that want peace and safety. The hearts that yearn for life and joy and love. Boil it all down. That’s what we all want. The rest is bullshit. Life. Laughter. Dignity. Security. That’s what they want. Just like you. They are like you.

I’ve had enough of them.

I’m tired of political leaders and power grabbers and game players and antiquated prejudice telling me about them. I’m tired of the delusion being repeated. Causing damage. Destruction. Death. Shame. Disgrace. Someone somewhere has a stake in them. Someone needs to keep us in fear. Someone profits or exalts or rejoices in division rather than unity. Someone wants to inhibit change and progress. Someone wants to see only the differences instead of the similarities.

Look around. Watch. Listen to what people say. Look for them. Whether it’s politicians from disparate parties. Whether it is land hungry dictators. Whether its someone trying to justify a boy being gunned down. Whether it is people offering an overly simplistic view of mental illness and suicide. Whether its people advocating sending immigrant children back to the horrors they just fled. If they are speaking in them, then there’s an agenda. If they are speaking in them, there’s no will to unite or to bring together or to resolve. The aim is to divide further. To fortify the barriers to progress. To keep us in a place of judgement and hate.

And when you see it, don’t buy into it.

Don’t let them cloud your thinking.

Call them out.

Call bullshit on them. 

‘Cause I don’t know about you, but I’ve had enough of them.

 

Three Types of Friends… Make That Four

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 Walk-Together-

One of my best friends summed up friendship like this: You have the friends that will come to your wedding, the friends that will show up at your funeral and then you have the friends who will be there to pluck your chin hairs and wax your lip if you’re in a coma.

Yep.

Chances are we all have or have had those friends.

Wedding friends 

jillkevinheinzyoutube

They may be the ones who want to celebrate a special day with you because they love you and are happy for you. These are the people that have walked through life and past relationships with you and are truly happy to see you enter a new phase. But in addition to these guys, there are the fun time friends. These are the people that are fun to party with, that know how to have a good time. They will be the first on the dance floor and the ones making the funniest toasts.

Funeral friends

Funeral-Crashers

These are the friends who loved us dearly and are devastated at our demise. But this also includes a sub-group of “friends.” The ones that want to be able to say they were your friend. Even if they really weren’t. Everyone wants to say they were close to the dead guy. I don’t know why, but death seems to bring out a weird element of not wanting to miss out on the grief and glorifying the dead. Some people feed on this and revel in latching on to the grief. They want to be able to whisper about the loss and shake their head in sadness at the next cocktail party. They want to be able to impart details about the accident or illness that not everyone else is privy to. Their motivation? Who knows? Possibly to seem well connected? A dead guy can’t call you out on the true nature of your “friendship.”

The I’ll Visit You While You’re In A Coma Friends

beaches2

These are the true friends. These are the ones who will come see you long after all the others have moved on and forgotten you. These are the friends that truly know you. They know you wouldn’t want the doctors or the nurses or your family members to watch you waste away in a hospital bed with a hairy lip. They are the ones who know what kind of stuff makes you laugh and they will sit there telling you jokes and funny stories just hoping you’re laughing somewhere inside your coma world. They know your quirks and eccentricities and will make sure the hospital gives you the type of pillow you like and will make you playlists of your favorite music to listen to in coma land. If you have friends like this, hold on to them. They are few and they are precious.

Then there’s the WTF friends

singlewhitefemale

You know. The crazy stalker friends. Or the frenemies. Or the jealous of every good thing that happens to you friends. Or the “I’m going to blurt out something private and embarrassing about you at a social gathering” friend. These are all too strange and unique in their own twisted ways to get their own categories so I’m just lumping them all together. But I do have a few juicy examples to share with you….

WTF friend: I’m going to get really upset with you for breaking up with your boyfriend. I’m going to tell you how great you guys were together and you are meant for each other. I’m even going to get a little pissed when you move on and start dating someone else. And then, about a day later, I’m going to have sex with your ex boyfriend. The one I was just mad at you for leaving. Then I’m going to tell you about it with a sheepish “Sorry?” True story. I don’t know if this was a passive aggressive move or just… who the hell knows? But the problem with this story is not the sleeping with the guy part, it’s the guilt trip that proceeded the carnal deed.

WTF friend: I’m going to be your BEST friend. There for you no matter WHAT. Except for when you fall in love and get engaged. Then I’m going to be pissed. And on the night that you tell all of your friends in hopes of celebrating said engagement, I’m going to pout and not speak to you the whole night. I’m going to suck all of the air out of the room until you decide to leave early and drown your sorrows in late night Waffle House grease with your betrothed. True story.

WTF friend: When you’re, oh, about four months pregnant with your third child, I’m going to have a little chat with you. I’m going to wait until you just had an ultrasound and found out you’re having a little girl. I’m going to listen as you tell me how relieved you are that everything looked ok and the baby seems perfectly healthy. And as soon as I’m done exclaiming in glee over your news I’m going to tell you that I want you to come to my house and watch an abortion video with me. Because I’m a good friend like that. I’m going to say these very words to you: “I couldn’t let you abort that baby any more than you could let me put a gun to (insert 8 year old son’s name here) head and shoot him.” W.T. ‘effin F???? This is a true story. I know. Bat shit, right?

Yes, I had all three of these WTF friends. And yes, I dumped them after each scenario played out. I can put up with a lot. I can be really forgiving. I have a large tolerance for annoying behaviors and mistakes. I’ve actually been told on many occasions by many different people that I am too forgiving. But with me there’s always a line. It may be way down the line from where others would draw it, but I have one. And once you cross it we are done. Cause, seriously, WTF?

And thank god I have the other friends. I have the wedding friends who laughed at these WTF stories and made them hilarious in a “You have to laugh because it’s so messed up” kind of way. The friends who can drop a dry one-liner in reference to this craziness that has you laughing so hard you are almost grateful for the WTF’s, if just for the humor value. And I have the friends that will come see me if I’m ever in a coma. True, genuine friends. These friendships don’t dabble in judgement or jealousy or pettiness. These are the friends that will celebrate your successes and cry with your misfortunes. They are the ones that can make you laugh, the one’s who can finish your sentence. The ones who when you see them after a long absence it’s like you’re transported right back to your dorm room and the four of you never missed a beat. The ones you can tell anything to. The friends who nourish your soul and seeing them is like going home.

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Happy International Friendship Day! Do you have friends that have helped you keep your sanity? What are your crazy WTF? friend stories?

Feminist Friday: #Twitterpurge, Women, and Internet Culture

Gretchen Kelly:

I had not heard of #twitterpurge until reading Diana’s post. This is just another example of the problems we still face in our society regarding women’s bodies, misogyny and cyber bullying. Please feel free to join in the discussion over at Part Time Monster.

Originally posted on Part Time Monster:

Over the weekend Something Happened on the Internet. Well, something happened on Twitter. It was called #twitterpurge, and though it seems to have slowed down a lot since then, it hasn’t quite ended. The hashtag was primarily used for revenge porn, with users posting nude photos of ex-girlfriends or lovers under the hashtag. The #twitterpurge hashtag is a stark contrast to #Yesallwomen, a movement that created mini-texts of empowerment and confession using tweets. This time, we were reminded that the Internet is not a safe place for women.

So what is this hashtag, and where did it come from? Last year, a film called The Purge was released. The premise was that, for one night, all crimes were made legal; this “purge” of crime had the dual effect of lowering crime stats for the rest of the year and providing population control. This year, the sequel to the film,

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