An Open Letter to Trump Voters


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 Dear Trump Voters,

You won. You achieved your victory. Congratulations. But, do you know what else you just did? You have handed over our country’s dignity to a man of little value. You have added him to our history books FOREVER so that the future can look at us with shame. You have given this man with the eloquence of a bratty toddler a voice to speak for all of us on the world’s stage. You have given him access to the nuclear codes and ALL of our secrets.

In essence, you just fucked up the work and sacrifice and bloodshed that so many people gave to make this country great. And you ruined the hopes and dreams we all shared for our collective futures.

YOU DID THIS. And, for what?! To make America a reality show with no credence?! To set us back four hundred years?! To tell our ancestors to fuck off?! To tell our children that we never cared, anyway?!

You thought this was a message of resistance. One of fighting back. Waging war with the establishment. Instead, it’s a war on decency, common sense and valor. And it’s a war on the American dream.

You are not patriots. You are the very reason we will slide lower on the rungs of credibility. You are the reason our society will further degrade itself to a point of no recognition. You are the reason we will fail. YOU! Because you placed the power of our nation into the tiny hands of an orange buffoon.

If you are truly proud of this moment, if you woke up this morning feeling good about your choices and didn’t feel remotely ashamed of your decision, then I wish you well as you ride this delusional high. But, know this – you have just thrust the rest of us into a four-year nightmare. And America will have a darn near impossible time ever being great again.

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Life (A Poem)


I’m not usually one for poems, but I dug this out of a drawer – something I had written while in the depths of despair and loss years ago. I hope to send it along the channels for those who have been touched by loss in Orlando and beyond. Life isn’t fair, it’s true. But, when we find the goodness in our communities, there can still be much for which we can be grateful.

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Life isn’t fair
and it never will be,
but it continues on
like the old oak tree.
Its branches swing
in the cool, crisp air.
Its leaves grow anew
without any care.
Its roots grow strong
in the deep brown soil.
And it always carries on
regardless of turmoil.

 
Life isn’t fair
though we wish it were.
We weep and cry,
console and confer.
When times get hard
it’s difficult to see
that there is a reason
for this life, for you and for me.
We sometimes drown
in an ocean of despair,
for a time so endless
it seems without repair.

 
Life isn’t fair
though we try to make it so.
We do our best to live
until it’s time to go.
We try to rise up happy
and grateful for each day.
We aim to make a better place
for those along the way.
Often despite our efforts
we come upon a wall
and find that our best actions
are no help when others fall.

 
Life isn’t fair,
no complaint will change this fact.
It’s a truth, inconsolable,
not hypothetical or abstract.
Life has no senses,
it cannot see or hear.
It doesn’t worry over things
or cower under fear.
Life is just a progression,
the growth of everything.
It moves with an even ebb and flow,
but it pauses for no one, for nothing.

 
Life isn’t fair
and it never will be
but it continues on.
Watch and you will see.
A place is made for all
though temporary it will last.
What is here today will
someday be the past.
What will come tomorrow
will be a question mark.
A riddle with no answer,
a shot in the dark.

 
Life isn’t fair
but it reveals this –
when our dreams are lost,
when our best intentions miss,
when we come up short
and lose along the way,
when we fall apart
and wish not to stay,
when it gets too big,
too much for us to hold,
when our greatest senses
are left out in the cold –

 
Life isn’t fair
we shouldn’t expect as much,
but life can still be worthy
of our gentle, human touch.

 

 

 

Troubled People: Part 1 (Pushing Buttons)


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If you’re a parent, and you’ve seen Despicable Me, you may remember that scene in the beginning of the movie when Gru makes a balloon animal for a little boy, only to pop it a few seconds later. Yeah. Well, something similar happened to my son. And naturally, I was furious! Beyond furious, in fact. So livid that I had visions of flattening tires, keying sedan doors, and punching (yes, punching) testicles of the guy who was responsible. All very mature responses, no?

What happened was this: We were making our weekly trip to the library for story time one afternoon. At this library, there are double doors that open outward. Next to those doors, there is also a button that will automatically open them when pushed – either as a helpful service for the disabled, people with arms full of books or toddlers with a serious button fetish. As anyone with a small child can attest, these are the simple pleasures that kids love most. Pushing buttons. Especially little, round, gray buttons with magical door-opening powers! My son is no exception. In fact, whenever we go to this library, it is the one thing he does with such zeal, I would almost believe it to be his sole purpose in life. (Not really, though a doorman’s costume would look cute on him!)

On this particular afternoon, my son made a bee-line to the door exclaiming – “I want to push the button!” That was his usual phrase of delight, as he would run to the door, squealing in the ecstasy of what was to come. However, since he and my daughter have had their turmoil (read: pushing, pinching, and screaming battles) as of late, I thought I would try to teach him a lesson in courtesy and the importance of not always going first. So, I let my daughter have the first turn to push the button (since she never gets the chance) and then I explained to my son that we could wait until the doors closed for him to have his turn. His desire was hampered a bit by the seeming unfairness, but he sucked it up without so much as a whine or whimper and stood patiently by the door waiting for them to close so he could have his turn. Pretty good behavior, I thought, for a three year old!

Since our library is never particularly busy and we weren’t in any particular rush, it wasn’t a big deal to wait another minute and have them take turns in this way. In fact, as a parenting tool, this library’s button door system is a pretty good way to teach my children the virtues of patience and waiting for their time to do a task. In the past, I looked on this need to always press the button as another headache induced by overly curious kids. But more recently I have come to see it as a great tool as well as a treasured (and cheap) means of entertainment.

During the minute that passed from my daughter’s turn before my son’s, none of the patrons had entered or exited. There was no real hustle or bustle at this place. It was as calm as a country road. That is, until it wasn’t. Until “the incident” happened.

As the doors were finally making their close, and the twinkle in my son’s eyes glimmered with a similar excitement as it does on Christmas morning, out of nowhere walked a man. A tall adult man wearing a tank top and flip flops. He held no books in his hands. And he held no sorrow for what he was about to do. Despite seeing a mother and her patient son waiting quietly for a turn at the coveted button, or maybe in spite of it, he walked ever closer to our side of the entrance, reached out his hand, and pushed the button for himself right at the very moment that my son had just lifted his tiny finger.

I looked up at the man as he whizzed right past us, neck redder than a beet, a hint of sweat and noxious cologne swirling in the air around him. All I could hear was the word “sorry” he had verbally flung at us prior to pressing the button. Yeah. Sorry in the same manner that a bully would say it right before giving a wedgie or flinging a lunch tray onto the floor. “Sorry.” Not sorry. Not the least little tiny bit. Premeditated. Purposeful. Hateful. Rude.

What kind of person would do something like that, especially to a child, was all I kept thinking. And by the look on my daughter’s face, who had seen the whole thing from the lobby, she felt the same way. After all, in her eyes only she could be mean to her little brother – who was this guy to take her job?!

Our mouths stood agape for a collective moment. A sense of shock washed over me and a look of sadness washed over my son’s face. Here I was, trying to be a good mom, seeking to teach my kids about taking turns and accepting patience as a natural part of our time sharing this planet with others. And, in one fell finger swoop from a stranger, I now had another lesson to teach: that the world was sometimes a big, bad, mean place.

Before this cruel stranger traipsed too far across the lobby floor, my full-blown attack mom armor formed and I came after him with the only weapon I had: my words. I started by calling him a jerk (believe me, if my kids and our favorite librarian weren’t present, I would have had a few other words to say!). Then I told him that my son had clearly been waiting to press that button. I asked him why he would do that to a small child. And then I called him mean.

Barely giving any notice and certainly showing no remorse, he casually looked back at us, shrugged his bare shoulders and said in the very most arrogant way, “I said sorry.” Sorry. Still not sorry. Not the least little bit.

I repeated that he was a jerk. Not that it did any good. I wished I could have opened the flood gates of obscenities. I had visions of following him into the library. Taking his picture. Posting it to social media. Alerting the world that THIS IS WHAT AN A**HOLE LOOKS LIKE. Taking pleasure in others agreeing that he “looks” like one, indeed. But, that would have only made things worse. I didn’t do any of those things. Instead, I scooped up my son, grabbed the hand of my daughter, and took them into story time as was our intended purpose.

My son was forlorn for a little while afterwards. He later talked about it with me at home. We all talked about it, in fact. We discussed how some people are mean and it makes us angry, but how even still (or despite that) we should never be mean because of it. I told them that we have to be good in order to balance the bad in the world. That was our job!

After the day was done and I had tucked them snugly into their beds at night, I thought more about what would cause a person to be so ugly and cruel for no reason. And it struck me hard that maybe he hadn’t experienced the same patience, conscientiousness, or love from his mother as I was trying to teach my own children. Maybe when he was three, he only received a slap on the head or a pat on the bottom rather than a word or encouragement or direction. In other words, maybe this guy was troubled. Maybe he hadn’t been cared for in the least little tiny bit. And he was doing the same thing little kids do when they can’t express themselves properly: acting out.

Suddenly my anger melted away into a pool of compassion. I felt sorry for him. A true sort of “sorry.” A whole big lot of it. I mean, I still thought he was a jerk, but I felt sad for him. When it’s all said and done, my son will have plenty of chances to push that button. But that course and hostile guy will probably miss out on a lot of the simple joys of life because he is so bent on making the world suffer for whatever it is he has lost.

Instead of wanting to key his car or call him all of the bad words I could remember, what I really wanted to do was hug my children a little more fiercely when they woke up, so they would never be counted among the world’s troubled or unloved.

Who knows?! Maybe it’s not like that at all for that guy. Maybe his backstory wasn’t sad and the cause of his brash behavior was without reason. Maybe his parents were stellar and his upbringing picture perfect. But whatever made him feel compelled to crush the tiny joy of a three year old is beside the point. All that matters, all that we can control, is where we go from here. We choose goodness. Compassion. Kindness. And, you know, maybe next time I will also choose to body-block that button, just in case the world isn’t as kind as we aim to be!

Nothing Means Anything: Anarchy for the New Year


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The new year begins with resolutions, self-reflection and an endless cesspool of thoughts relating to the umpteen ways I did not measure up to last year’s goals. And with so many metaphorical bruises I have given to myself, it almost seems unfair to hope for change. After all, how can I even muster the strength to transform myself when I am obviously at an emotional disadvantage?! That’s why this year, a year like every other, when I have already started to nit-pick over a new set of failures, I decided to try this one anti-resolution instead: live life unchecked.

That’s right! Live life. Unchecked! In other words, fuck that little voice in my head that says “Don’t eat that piece of chocolate, you fat cow!” Fuck that shiny quarter who believes itself to be intended for the “swear jar” just because of a momentary fit of road rage. Fuck the PTA and HOA who constantly make me feel like I’m not being a good (enough) citizen. Fuck Dr. Oz, Deepak Chopra, “Hands Free Mama” and any other person who claims to have all of the answers (for a mere $24.99). Fuck pretentious friends and presumptuous people. Fuck the Joneses – fuck their manicured lawns, their shiny new cars, and their vacation pictures. Fuck Facebook and those who feel a constant need to post on it. Fuck Pinterest and all those crafty bitches who can’t stop making shit. Fuck scales and numbers, fads and fashion, comparison shopping and coupon clipping. Fuck everything. Why? Because I have come to realize that none of it means anything. That’s right. Nothing! As the Buddhists would concur, it’s all just an illusion.

Case in point, I have one friend who is Vegan. She chooses not to eat any animal products because of the ethical issues surrounding their treatment. And while that is all fine and good, she does love to peruse the world on her iPad – which, ironically, is one of the most cruel devices known to man. On the surface it wouldn’t seem so; but, taking a closer look, the poor laborers who assemble them make roughly 10 cents a week, live in a studio-apartment-sized dormitory with seven other people and have “suicide” nets surrounding their prison/office. Cruelty-free life?! Not quite. Oh, and another interesting note about this person: she likes to shoplift. A lot.

And then there is another person I know, one who presents her surface life as fictionally grand though in truth it is earnestly vacant. She is always busy doing endless crafts to adorn her home, making all of the other moms stand in shame because they didn’t think to make more of a celebration of Arbor Day or Independence Day, just like she did, by making children’s handprints into trees or cakes look like flags. Picture perfect to a tee. We all know this type. And yet her kids are total and complete assholes. Period. And while we shouldn’t judge a child any more than we should judge an unfinished painting….let’s just say, it’s clear that some forms of coddling and catering can’t be cured by time. They will be, without a doubt, people who have greatly inflated ideas of their own worth to the detriment of all others. CEO’s in the making!

Even further on the rungs of examples are the myriad of people I know in therapy. Paying people to “fix” their flaws, work through their “issues” and being charged hefty sums…for years…with no end in sight. And how much more sane or content are these folks? Probably less than the homeless guy on the corner! And he ate a day-old moldy burger out of the trash. Yeah.

So, then what are the answers?? Heck if I know. That’s not what this is about. But if I were to guess, I would say that no one knows. Not your sister, your pastor, your lawyer or your lover. We are all just groping in the dark. Without any answers. Without any guidance. People walk around in a state of belief that they are somehow different; but, no one is. We are all, unquestionably, failing in some way or another. And none of it means anything. It doesn’t make us any less important. Or special. It doesn’t mean we don’t deserve happiness or respect. It’s just the truth that we all try to ignore. Especially during the beginning of a new year.

With that in mind, one may wonder what it would mean to live a life unchecked. Does it mean there’s no conscience? No responsibilities? A free-for-all? Anarchy?! Ha! I wish. Simply, it means this year, for once, I will no longer compare myself to others. I will end the need to aim for other people’s unattainable goals. I will stop focusing on illusions and cease using the phrase “If they could do it, so can I.” I will close my Facebook account. And my Pinterest account. And will never, ever go to an Old Navy changing room again.

I will eat when I’m hungry, rest when I’m tired, work out when I’m motivated and do all of the things I need to do to sustain life, forsaking the rest unless desiring them in truth. In other words, I will do what makes me and my family happy. I will put my heart and soul into the things I care about. And I will be okay with the fact that I will sometimes fail. And the fact that sometimes those failures will make me sad or mad. But I will not let lofty dreams of unattainable quests (for self, for family, for creative or personal goals) set me up for upset. I will not buy into fantasies. I will live, not for tomorrow, but for right now. Today. The only thing I truly have of value. And I will not center my life around those holograms (of perfect weight, of perfect families, of perfect lives) that are meant to only torture souls.

This year my resolution is simple: I will live. And, I don’t know for sure, but I think that’s the whole point.

Am I My Child’s Bully?


bullyEach day I pray to become the kind of mother I idealize – gentle, kind and understanding. However, each day I seem to fall short. In some way or another, I encounter every one of my daily tests with more anger and upset than the last, seeming to only disprove the idea that practice brings about perfection. If such things were true, I would by now be the master of sensitivity. But, I’m not. Instead I yell like so many fascists before me, barking orders, screaming rants, going off on tirades about one thing or another. I make a fuss over things that don’t really matter. And, worst of all, the one who feels the brunt of my upset is my daughter, the sweetest six-year old one could ever imagine. So, what’s wrong with me?!

That is a question I ask myself quite often these days. Why do I yell at my daughter so often and so loudly even though, clearly, she is a good kid? After taking a strong, hard look at myself in the mirror, I uncovered some pretty terrible truths. I am ashamed to admit it but, honestly, I yell at her sometimes just because I can. Because she is there. Because she is sweet and little and can’t fight back. In other words, I am her bully.

As all mothers do, I have feared the presence of bullies in her life from the moment she was born. One of my greatest wishes for her, when she was a baby, was that her life would be free from such pains, lined instead with the happiness of rainbows and sunshine. Reflecting on my own childhood, however, I know that too often this is not the case. I remember the emergence of bullies in elementary school and the helplessness I felt, being beholden to the cruel whims of my school-yard tyrants. Sometimes I would come home in tears, wishing that those monsters would dissolve with the hands of time. And, eventually, they did. For me. But now the tears resurfaced when I realized that a monster had returned. Only this time, I was it.

It didn’t happen overnight. No one wakes up in the morning and affirms that they want to be this way. Situations that make us feel powerless or overwhelmed often lead to this despised state. Sleepless nights, a failed soufflé, a long line at the DMV. Or worse – unemployment, divorce or death. The quality which shows a difference in people, though, is the way that these situations are handled. Some carry on with gentility and composure while others scream and yell. It’s a choice. And, so far, I have been making the wrong choices.

One morning, when my daughter spilled breakfast on her school uniform, it was my choice to scream about it. It was my choice to belittle her, enforcing the notion of her carelessness, causing her to feel bad enough about herself that she stared at her shoes for two minutes. It was my choice to carry on about how many loads of laundry I had to suffer through each week. How little time we had. How often this seemed to happen. Instead of just chalking up the spill to gravity or remembering the fact that I, too, spilled spaghetti sauce on my shirt just the day before, I took out my frustrations on her. And a little bit too easily, I might add.

When I think about it, it seems that I often yell because I am a mother and I think that somehow justifies things. My mother also yelled and she did so for what seemed like my entire childhood. So, I figure, since I still love my angry mom I know that my daughter will still love me regardless. At least that’s the hope I’ve always clung to. However, as the years consume her innocence and age increases her awareness, I know that I may be fooling myself. In the end, yelling may not be so excusable. In fact, these actions, these choices I have made, may be shaping her to become a person who is no quicker to forgive or understand than I am. And what’s worse than being a bully? Creating another one!

So, where do we go from here? If it’s all about choices, and I have made the first step in recognizing the error of my ways, I suppose what comes next is simple: TRY HARDER! Though it might seem like just another thing in my long list of “to do’s,” it is truly one of the most important tasks I could ever accomplish. I mean, I’m a mom. A stay-at-home mom, at that. This is my job, but it’s also my joy. It’s my life and it’s also my daughter’s life. It won’t count that I was an awesome housekeeper, able to keep dust off of counters and organization in underwear drawers, if my child grows up to be unhappy. Yes, I am tired. Yes, I sometimes feel that there is no “me” in my life. And, yes, I often get overwhelmed by my endless workload, the fact that I don’t get days off, and I have no co-workers to commiserate with about my experiences; but, none of that excuses a short fuse. And nothing justifies my tirades.

So, enough is enough. From here forward I aim to try harder. Do better. Allow for mistakes. Listen with an open heart. Laugh at gravity. Love beyond the good moments. Care for her, cuddle her, applaud her. Treat her, each and every second, exactly as I would like to be treated. Set a good example for who I would like her to be, and in so doing, be the Mommy I want to be – gentle, kind and understanding. After all, my daughter will soon find out that the world is a cruel place, but home should always be her refuge and I should always be her biggest supporter, building her up instead of tearing her down. Because I’m a mom, not a bully.