To Bridge the Divide With a Joke

Last night, I found myself surrounded by elderly white folks in a Baptist Church in Lewisville, North Carolina. I was terrified.

Elderly people are not attractive in the conventional definition of attractive. And often, it is difficult to look at them as people. They have shriveled up bodies that function less efficiently than that of a person half their age - which might be 45. Or in my dad's case, 46.

It is easy to become impatient with the elderly. They move so slowly.  It  requires great effort for them to simply get from point A to point B. They are often fully aware of their frailties, which is a hard fact for anyone to face.

None of us wants to be frail. None of us wants to fall prey to the whims of an aging body.

I'm terrified of aging. I'm terrified of watching my friends' bodies break down and being unable to do anything to ease their suffering. I'm terrified of watching my own body break down, rendering me useless. I'm terrified of reaching a point where I cannot live any sort of life that matters. I am terrified of becoming irrelevant. I dread the day that I am the source of another person's impatience and ridicule.

My dad's band played tonight at a Baptist Church in Lewisville, North Carolina. And that is how I happened to find myself surrounded by elderly people. My dad begins his concerts with The Star Spangled Banner. Everyone stands, places their hand over their heart or salutes, and sings along. I stood but I did not place my hand over my heart. I did not sing along. My mom did. And after the song ended, we sat down together and I noticed my mom was crying. I asked her what was wrong, and she said she couldn't stop thinking about all of the poor people who had been shot this weekend. As I listened to her, I wondered about the deeply ingrained racism present in the elderly white folks at this Baptist Church in Lewisville, North Carolina. They might condemn the terrorist attacks in El Paso and Dayton without acknowledging them as such. They might also think, like our current president, that immigrants should be sent back to their countries.

I noticed a black woman sitting by herself.

The racism that is in the blood of white people runs so deep that we don't even notice it. Of course we're all going to say "I'm not racist!" Because we don't see it. We don't see that we walk by the black woman in the church and do not ask if we may sit with her. Even though the rest of the pews are filled. It just doesn't occur to us. And then there are the people who approach the black woman afterwards to make an effort to seem friendly. It is done in a manner similar to talking to a little child who might feel left out. A black person left out of a white person's club. It is so sweet of you to come to our white person club! We are so glad to have you visit! You can visit all you like, of course. But the unspoken reality is: you know you'll never be a member.

I wonder about the youth who committed the terrorist attacks this weekend. Two men, boys really, in their twenties. They ruined so many people's lives. They ruined their own lives. Does the El Paso shooter have any real sense of his failure as a human being? Is his conscience completely annihilated by hate-filled propaganda?

I look at the elderly people who are still living and wonder how they feel about this privilege of living as a white person in America: the privilege that allows them to reach a ripe old age of 86, 90, 100.

I just don't know what to think about this life that we are living. I think one of the reasons there are so many mass shootings in America is that white people here are experiencing something of a spiritual void. We've lost a reverence for life and all its wonder. We've lost the capacity for Joy. We've lost the ability to experience magic.. This lack of wonder, this lack of joy, this lack of love for ourselves and our neighbors will kill us. How do we begin to teach people to love and respect their lives?

Later in the evening, I sat across the table from some of these elderly people at the Baptist Church in Lewisville, NC of whom I was afraid. For all the various reasons delineated above. And I began to talk to them. I listened to their stories. They asked me questions about my life. We shared jokes and laughter over homemade ice cream. And it was a good time.

As I was leaving, my dad linked his arm with mine to steady himself as he took deliberate steps towards the door. A man stopped my dad and told him that he has a great sense of humor. He said, "You keep your sense of humor! It will take you far. A good joke is the shortest distance between two different opinions." I felt like he'd been eavesdropping on my mind.

Similarly, one of the elderly men at the Baptist Church in Lewisville, North Carolina told me that I, like my dad, had a good sense of humor, and that I could be a stand-up comedian. I doubt that that's true, but it's a nice thought. I'd like to be able to bridge the great divides of the people in this country with a joke. What a gift that would be!

I am Grateful for the Journey. And Thanks, Dr. G.

I like talking about myself. Sorry if this bores you.

This week, I had my first ever acupuncture session. It was amazing. I felt so good afterwards. I felt like I was doing exactly the right thing for my body. And then my doctor called.

Doctor G. My hematologist. He called me from his cell phone. Not his nurse - she didn't call. Not his receptionist. Not from an office phone. From his cell phone, my hematologist himself called me. No nonsense-like he told me my platelet count is down.

I know what that means. It means do something quick or end up in the hospital as a Fall Risk. Which means I'm not supposed to walk from my bed to the bathroom without accompaniment. Because if I fall, I could hemorrhage. Death could ensue. Or a big mess. Either way, no fun.

I may have mentioned in the past that I have an autoimmune condition. ITP. Idiopathic thrombocytopenic purpura. Kind of rolls right off the tongue, doesn't it? It is also known as Immune thrombocytopenic purpura. I like Idiopathic best. It suggests how little doctors know about this condition.  One thing that is a given, it dramatically decreases one's platelet count thus increasing one's risk of internal hemorrhage or bleeding out. Neither of which sounds particularly attractive to me.

Auto immune conditions are complicated. Their symptoms can be triggered by stress or by another illness. Such as a bad cold. If you leave a trace of your snotty nose on a countertop and I am unfortunate enough to make contact with this snot and develop a full-fledged cold, I will undoubtedly experience a drop in my platelet count. So I try really hard not to get sick.

Unfortunately for me, I have been experiencing a severe eczema attack (also an auto immune condition) for the past several months. My body is so tired of working to get rid of the eczema that my platelet count has dropped. And this is the big fat double whammy thank-you very much.

Doctor G is great. I had an annual check-up with him this week and he saw the rash on my hand and on my chest and was greatly concerned. He ordered blood work. He contacted me immediately upon getting the results. He says to me, "you're not gonna like this," because he knows me well. "You're not gonna like this, but I'm gonna put you on steroids. 60 mg. It should clear up the rash and jump start your platelet count. We'll check your blood in a week. But till then, don't climb any ladders or swing from any chandeliers." I said, "Well there goes my fun this weekend." "Yeah, I figured," he says.

Dr. G is going to retire next year on April Fool's Day. That's the kind of doctor he is. He dresses up on Halloween in a hospital gown with a big fake ass poking out the back. He plays banjo. Never misses Merlefest. When I asked him if he celebrated St. Patrick's Day, he said, "Oh yeah. Any ethnic group that likes to party, I celebrate."

So, I'm going to miss Dr. G. Because he is smart, funny, compassionate...all the things a good caregiver should be. But for now, I'm glad I'm still in his care.

My acupuncturist says it would be best to wait till after I stop taking steroids to have another treatment. I respect that. Eastern and Western medicine often don't blend well. And my whole ITP career has been one of walking a tightrope between treatment options and self care. It's been quite the journey. And while in the past I hated my body for it, today, I actually love my body for it. Because through the ITP experience I have learned so many important lessons about loving myself no matter what and respecting my body and its process. No matter what.

I like talking about myself. A lot. But I do so in the hope that it might brighten someone's day somehow. That I might somehow convey a tiny bit of meaning. That I might offer solidarity to another person experiencing bizarre bodily trials.

I am grateful for the journey. And thanks, Dr. G.

In Honor of The Library

I remember vividly and with great fondness the first time my mother took me to The Library. I was very young, possibly five. I don't remember whether I was able to read yet. I believe I was just beginning to decipher words.

It was housed in a tiny building situated at the edge of Harmon Park in Kernersville. The door was propped open to let air in. It was summertime and this was  long before air conditioning graced every indoor space. Crossing the threshold, the well worn wooden floor creaked its greetings to us. The air was thick with heat and the steamy vapor rising off the bodies of perfumed women.

There seemed to be very little space to walk through. The walls were cramped with heavy wooden bookshelves and the bookshelves were loaded with an army of books, all neatly in line. The perfumed women would pull a book off a shelf and flip through it. I remember the sound of the book sliding against the wood as it was pulled off the shelf. I remember the sound of paper pages being turned. I remember the tiny clap  a book made as it was shut. I remember the smell of a thousand book soldiers waiting for the delicately scented hands of a lady or the sweaty palms of a child to call them into action.

My mom began talking with a woman who seemed to be in charge. I strolled through the books with my fingers, gently touching their spines, listening to their wisdom. This was also before the time of plastic dust jackets, so the cloth and paper covers had an organic feel. They seemed alive.

My mom appeared as I was gazing in awe at all the books surrounding me. She asked me if I'd picked anything out. I shyly shook my head no and lowered my gaze to the ground. At such a young age, I was already aware of the monetary limitations in our family. I knew not to ask for things.

My mom encouraged me to pick something out. Again, I shook my head no. “Don't you see anything that looks interesting?” I said “Yes. But I don't need anything.” I was beginning to feel embarrassed by this apparent drill. Eventually my mom understood that I believed the books were for sale and that one needed money in order to take one home. She laughed at finally getting it and told me the books were free. I didn't understand this. So she had the librarian come over and explain to me that I could pick out as many books as I like, take them home, read them, and then bring them back. For free. I could not believe this incredible concept! I could take books home, borrow them, for free!?!

I can remember my entire countenance changing. I suddenly felt an expansiveness, a curiosity, a thirst for every word in every book! I very quickly accumulated a small stack of book soldiers to take home with me, which I would call into action by opening their pages and asking for their stories. My mom and the librarian laughed at how I had gone from not needing anything to needing a small army! I looked up at them bewildered and said, “but you said they’re free.”

And so they were. And so I got to take all those books home with me. And pour over them again and again until I took them back and picked out more. And thus began a love affair that continues to this day. A love affair with books and free access to knowledge.

The Library is a source of hope and inspiration. It gives us the most powerful weapon against oppression that exists: knowledge. We, as a society, can become as great as we care to be. Our greatness is at our fingertips. As long as there are pages to turn and a place for these pages to live. All the pages in all the libraries wait for us to call them into service. What are we waiting for?

58 Gratitudes for 58 Years

I was born in 1960, which technically makes me a "boomer" - a much maligned segment of the population. This could be why I feel increasingly irrelevant and why I feel like I am merely wasting space and dwindling resources. Why have I been allowed to live this long when others with more promise were not?

My birthday falls on ... no, "falls on" is too dramatic, too momentous to describe my birthday. My birthday elbows its way in between Christmas and New Year's. It is overcrowded, overwhelmed and overrun by the slew of holiday parties and family rituals mandated by this point on the Gregorian calendar. I suppose this is the reason feeling relevant has been one of my biggest challenges.

This feeling of lacking relevance has most recently manifested itself in the arena of motherhood. The people that I allegedly birthed - because the idea of it is so hard to conceive of at this time - are adults living in different cities, living their own lives. I am contacted periodically by one or the other of them. I contact one or the other of them from time to time. There is happy chit-chat. But there is an underlying discomfort in my lack of understanding of my role in their lives at this time.

I feel sorry for myself for not knowing. Not knowing how I should be using my talents, not understanding why I chose to derail myself so severely at an early age - a derailing that has required years of putting things right with myself - not knowing what I mean to the people I allegedly gave birth to, not knowing how to care for my aging parents, not knowing what my role is in the larger scheme of things. I feel sorry for myself for not knowing.

Because one of the things I measure my success by is travel, every year on and around my birthday, I grow depressed at my lack of will, my lack of initiative. Because I allowed another year to go by without taking a trip out west. I have never been out west, you see. And I feel like something is waiting for me there. But year after year, I ignore this. Here I stand, again, in Greensboro, NC, wondering what the Hell is wrong with me.

All this gnashing of teeth and pulling of hair aside, I recognize I have done unique things in my life that have enriched it, even if they were hard at the time. I recognize that I have encountered and even personally known a great many exceptional people who have brought meaning to my world. I recognize that while my family is not perfect, they are my family, my place of origin, my roots. And for them, I am grateful.

I decided this year to relive my life briefly by stating 58 gratitudes that include moments lived, people known, tasks achieved. They are not in order of importance. They are in the order I recalled them.

1. I am grateful for being born in the small clinic in Denton, NC with a head full of thick black hair. I gave people something to talk about and was, at least for a day, the town attraction.

2. I am grateful for snakes. They mysteriously pop up in my dreams and my waking life and draw me in to a world both of mystery and deep knowing.

3. I am grateful for horses. All pre-adolescent girls, from what I'm told, love horses. That may be. But horses became and still are a huge part of my psyche. They represent the untamable power inside of me. They represent freedom, dignity, and grace. Always.

4. I am grateful for my father. He taught me to read. He taught me an appreciation for music. He taught me playful mischievousness.

5. I am grateful for my mother. She taught me about love. She taught me to sew. She taught me to color. I am even grateful that she passed along the curse of perfectionism because it makes me push myself to be better.

6. I am grateful for my sister, Rebecca, who has helped me to survive 58 years on the planet. She is younger but in many ways wiser. She helps me get off the train of self-destruction. She helps me put positive spins on situations. But she also joins in when I need to bitch about something. Beyond all that, she makes me laugh most heartily.

7. I am grateful for my family physician, Dr. Stephen Hux, who first diagnosed my depression and prescribed medication for it. He helped me get right with myself after many years of self-annihilation.

8. I am grateful for Dr. Edith Wallace, who taught me that I have everything I need to solve my own problems. I have a direct link to a divine source of creativity that will teach me, heal me and help me to be my best self. She taught me to honor my inner jester. She helped me remember to play.

9. I am grateful for my sister, Helen, who helped me to understand that the ways of the patriarchy need not be my ways. She modeled an independence of thought and action that I aspire to even today.

10. I am grateful for my brother, Robby, who taught me hard lessons about standing up for myself.

11. I am grateful for my brother, Brett, who taught me silliness and to embrace the weird.

12. I am grateful for my two children. I am grateful for the experience of being pregnant and giving birth. I am grateful for the experience of breastfeeding two beings, nourishing their bodies through my own. (What a uniquely intimate experience this is! I never would have known this intimacy otherwise.) I am grateful for the residual stretch marks that remind me that all of this really happened. I am grateful for the strength that arose in me from knowing motherhood. I am grateful for the lesson of unconditional love that my children taught me.

13. I am grateful for the being that my daughter has become.

14. I am grateful for the being that my son has become.

15. I am grateful for Robin White Star, who reunited me with the parts that had broken off due to trauma. I am grateful for her wisdom and healing over the many years that I have known her. I am grateful for her teachings of Native American spirituality. These have enriched my life greatly.

16. I am grateful for the love of my friends. There are so many who have braced me up when I have fallen, who have laughed with me, cried with me, danced with me, played with me, listened to me and talked to me.

17. I am grateful for Tim LaFollette. I am grateful for having had the privilege of serving him as he lived with ALS/Lou Gehrig's disease. I am grateful for his grace, his wit, his passion, his determination. I was honored to observe the many changes his body went through during his journey with ALS. I was honored to give him care.

18. I am grateful for Britt Harper Uzzell, a.k.a. Snüzz, who by some stroke of luck caught wind of one of my stupid songs and invited me to record it. His generous spirit and fun-loving nature enveloped me, making me feel important and well loved.

19. I am grateful for Lee Wallace, who taught me about bravery. He shared his love of music and great movies with me. And he shared his dog Stella, whom I spent lots of time walking. All over, we walked. We explored. Stella helped me get out of my stuffy brain and enjoy the beauty all around me. I am grateful for that time of being in Lee's life, helping him by walking Stella, listening to his pondering, seeing a miracle performed that saved his life, watching him grow stronger and able-bodied.

20. I am grateful for WQFS, a college radio station at which I had a weekly radio show. For roughly 15 years, I sat in a tiny MCR and sent my musical love letters out into the world. I gained friends there. I gained awareness of new bands. I gained a sense of meaning by simply attempting to inspire listeners.

21. I am grateful for UNCG, where I learned to trust my instincts and study theatre.

22. I am grateful for Deborah Bell, who taught me mask-making.

23. I am grateful for Marsha Paludan, who taught me so much more than simply how to be in my own body. She exemplified a spiritual approach to performance that now exists in my bones.

24. I am grateful for Lorraine Shackelford-Giddens, who introduced me to Gabriel Roth's Five Rhythms. This is a life-changing practice that I return to again and again for release and clarity.

25. I am grateful for Bob Hansen, who taught me about the history of theatre, who cultivated in me an even deeper respect for the medium and a joy of academia.

26. I am grateful for Great Aunt Minnie Lee, who exemplified true Christianity with her unconditional love, generosity, and grace. I am grateful for the feeling of genuine acceptance I experienced when in her hugging arms. I am grateful for the example of integrity she left me with, for her creativity and her humor.

27. I am grateful for all my relations. Aunts, uncles, cousins. All the family get-togethers. All the many shades of myself I experienced in their presence.

28. I am grateful for nature, for going outdoors and sitting in the sun, for taking long walks in the woods, for riding down a river, for climbing a mountain, for sleeping in the cold, for looking up at the stars, for feeling the rain pour down on me, for playing in the snow, for seeing new landscapes, for witnessing wildlife, for the smell of rich dirt and decaying leaves underfoot.

29. I am grateful for my dogs Soupy Sales and Flossie Mae, who teach me about love and playfulness, about loyalty and service and who help me get exercise.

30. I am grateful for the life of Melchior the cat, who was seriously my soulmate. She was with me through all sorts of maladies. She comforted me. She amused me. She loved me and I loved her.

31. I am grateful for music in all its forms. I will listen to be inspired, to learn about different cultures, to break down barriers in myself. I will play music to learn discipline and how to create sound that moves others. I will sing to release joy, sorrow or to be silly. I make up songs to make people laugh. I love music that makes me cry, that pierces my soul with longing too epic to describe. Nothing else can do this.

32. I am grateful for the radical people in my life. The ones who do not accept the status quo. The ones who understand that our current system of government is by its very nature oppressive and must be eliminated. I am grateful for the people who are brutally honest with me about politics and systems of injustice, who call me out when I'm being lazy or naive, who help me to examine the ingrained biases I have. 

33. I am grateful for Gwen Frisbie-Fulton, a single mom who exemplifies the struggles that I experienced as a single mom with much more integrity than I ever had. She forges a path of fighting for a more just world. While it seems idealistic, even unrealistic, this path needs to be forged. And I need to be reminded of it.

34. I am grateful for the experience of having been married to Steve Mitchell. From it, I learned to be true to myself, to honor who I am with great ferocity, to never allow violent words or acts be directed at me, to fight the patriarchy with all my might, to value my gender, to defend and fight alongside my sisters who are struggling against a system of oppression.

35. I am grateful for the many routes my activist nature has travelled over the years. Writing letters to foreign governments asking for the release of prisoners of conscience, marching in the streets with signs and banners, shouting slogans, painting graffiti, organizing Really Really Free Markets, engaging in community dialogues, listening to others. While I still don't know how to save the world, I am dedicated to continue trying.

36. I am grateful for learning to trust my inner knowing enough to heed it.

37. I am grateful for great literature. Victor Hugo. Mark Twain. John Steinbeck. Kurt Vonnegut. These writers helped shape my world view. I am grateful for good books that immerse me in a world unlike any I've known and carry me away on a storyline that I believe in wholeheartedly.

38. I am grateful for film as an art form and the directors who know how to use it as such.

39. I am grateful for writing. It is something I have done for as long as I have known how. (My first book was titled "Happy the Duck." I wrote and illustrated it.) I have poured my heart into notebooks and journals, periodic articles in local rags and blog entries. Some things are read by others. Some not. Sometimes I gain praise. Other times, I write only for myself. Outside input is nice, but I write as a way of putting order to a world which often seems to lack it. I am grateful for words.

40. I am grateful for dance. Truly beautiful choreography executed flawlessly by physically capable beings. And spontaneous dance combustions executed clumsily by my self.

41. I am grateful for food. For growing my own vegetables, for preparing meals, for enjoying nourishment as I take it in to my body. I am grateful to have this luxury of being able to nourish my body when so many are not able to do this.

42. I am grateful for my health. I have experienced health crises in the past. Cancer. ITP, which I still live with. But in general, at this point in time, my body is healthy and able to do the tasks I need to do on a daily basis. I am grateful to have mobility. I am grateful to have the use of my brain. I am grateful to have strength to move and to make things.

43. I am grateful for the doctors who have helped me achieve health.

44. I am grateful for the teachers I have had throughout my life who taught me more than just the subject at hand. They taught me to think independently, to be myself, to love myself, to explore knowledge, and to question.

45. I am grateful for my creativity, my urge to make things. Whether it is a painting, a play, a song, a mask, an embroidered piece of fabric, or a patch for some jeans, I live for making. Without the spirit of creativity, I am nothing.

46. I am grateful for humor. For all the beings who help me laugh at myself. For all the beings who help me laugh at the idiocy of this world. For all the beings who taught me about the idiocy of this world through humor. Laughter heals. I am grateful for this healing force in my life.

47. I am grateful for all the animal beings that inhabit the planet. All the creepy-crawly insects, all the furry four-leggeds, all the winged creatures, all the reptiles, all the ocean dwellers, river dwellers, creek and pond dwellers. I am grateful for the quality that each of these beings brings to the world. I am grateful for their unique wisdom and teachings.

48. I am grateful for my grandmother Helen, whom I never knew. She died when my mother was nine. But I feel as if her presence has always been with me. I feel as if she has moved through me in loving and playful ways. I feel as if I would have loved her greatly had I known her. But then again, I feel as if I have known her.

48. I am grateful for the roots that my family has here in North Carolina. I am grateful for this state's mountains and coastline. I am grateful for its history and its pre-history. I am grateful for the town of Winston-Salem and the special affinity I have with it.

49. I am grateful for my time spent serving The Garage, a now defunct music venue. It was so much my heart and soul for a time. I am grateful for all the musicians that enriched my experience there. I am grateful for the different sound people but especially for Brian Doub, who was most consistently there and who always produced the best sounding shows. I am grateful for Vicki Moore, Doug and Molly Davis, who worked with me in the beginning of my stay there. I am grateful for Richard Emmett for creating The Garage in the first place and then for providing me with an opportunity to work there.

50. I am grateful for my experience working around books. Kernersville Public Library, B.Dalton Booksellers, Waldenbooks, Borders Books and Music. These were my loves. Everything about working there was a pleasure. The people I worked with, the people I met, the joy of reading which turned into the joy of spreading the joy of reading via the distribution of books. I had so much fun in all these places.

51. I am grateful for the experience of managing a little gift shop in Harper's Ferry, WV. It was a magical little place filled with warmth, lovely smells, beautiful objects, silly cards and music. I honed in on my business skills and my love of creating a pretty and welcoming environment. I met interesting people from all over and made a lasting friend.

52. I am grateful for the hard experience of living at Claymont. It served its purpose of acting as a sort of pressure cooker to expedite needed change. It served my children well by offering them both the wild-ness of the landscape and a nurturing school environment. It gave me rich and challenging experiences which helped me to grow into the person I needed to be. Above all, it reinforced my need to maintain my individuality and my critical thinking.

53. I am grateful for the experience of attending the NC School of the Arts in high school. I am grateful to have been shown that world. Though challenging in its own right, it definitely impacted me positively. I learned of whole different populations that I had previously not been privy to. Gay men, gay women, transvestites, transsexuals, artists. It broadened my perspective and appealed to my desire for a more liberal and liberated life.

54. I am grateful for the lovers in my life who valued me as a partner. Who honored my sexuality by pleasuring me.

55. I am grateful for my current ally, Brian Talbert, who offers me all manner of support, who honors me for the person I am, who calls me out on my bullshit, who makes me laugh a lot, who taught me about riding rivers and gave me immense thrills by taking me down white water. We vowed to make our lives better together, both individually and collectively. And he has upheld his end of the bargain. He makes me happy. I am most fortunate.

56. I am grateful for the house I live in. I am grateful for the neighborhood, for the neighbors, for our yard, for the dogwood trees, for the front porch. I am grateful to share this house and my existence in it with Brian. I am grateful for the work we both put into keeping the house in working order as well as looking pretty.

57. I am grateful for the people who currently employ me in a variety of ways. Cleaning houses, pulling weeds, doing estate sales, making masks and Bohemian Prayer Flags. All of these people are granting me a form of freedom that I need in order to feel more fully myself. For this, I will be eternally grateful.

58. I am grateful for today: my 58th birthday. A day in which I may reflect on my life, on the errors and subsequent corrections I've made. On my ability to overcome obstacles and remain true to myself. On my ability to survive all manner of challenging situations and come out victorious. I am grateful for all lessons learned and all teachings that remain. I am grateful for this path, which is uniquely my own. I embark upon my continued journey without judgement, with an open heart, and love of the unknown.

Letter to Sarah

Dear Sarah,

I wish you were still here. There's a lot going on these days. Women are speaking up for themselves. Finally. They are calling out their former abusers. A whole movement has been created of women coming forward and speaking of their experiences and holding their abusers accountable. There's quite a backlash against this movement. But as Ruth Bader Ginsberg says, "I think it will have staying power because people, and not only women, men as well as women, realize how wrong the behavior was and how it subordinated women." I wish you were here to see it. You could tell your stories, too. I, for one, would like to hear them.

You were beautiful. Inside as well as out. But as we know, beautiful women carry a particular curse in our society. You become objectified immediately. You become an object of desire, an object to possess and control. This was your curse. It wasn't your fault. It's just the way things operate. But women are pushing hard to change this.

When I learned your husband shot you, I wailed. Sally and Keith were living in the apartment next to me and I thought they probably were worried that I'd lost my mind due to the noise I made. But pretty soon, the word spread. And everyone shared my grief.

I'm sorry this happened to you. I'm sorry I never came to Leon's to let you cut or color my hair. That would have been fun. I'm sorry I was not more proactive about staying in touch with you after you married Kirk. I'm sorry I assumed the attitude of sit back and let things run their course. Because I had a feeling about him. I had a feeling he was not a good match for you. I had a feeling that he did not have your highest good in mind. I'm sorry I said nothing about this. But knowing you, you would have defended him. Because you saw the good in absolutely everyone. Even a controlling, troubled and violent marine with a drug problem who liked to carry his gun around with him.

He never should have been allowed to carry a gun.

I hate that he died immediately after he shot himself while you had to lay in a hospital bed, paralyzed and unable to speak for four days before you died. I hate that he could not witness firsthand, the consequences of his actions. He was a coward for taking his own life rather than facing what he had done to you. I know you loved him and I'm sorry to say these things. But I withheld my opinion for so long. I think it's time to come clean.

I hate that you laid in the grass of a house in a gated community in the wee hours of the morning, your blood mingling with the dew. Were you even conscious when the neighbor found you? Were you crying? Were you scared? Were you in great pain? I wonder what you must have been feeling after the person who swore to love and protect you had mortally wounded you with a gun.

I'm sorry to write these things. But I need to get them off my chest.

This is a horrible thing to wonder, but I wonder if your face was affected by the gunshot to your throat that shattered your larynx. I wonder if your family had to gaze upon this shattered face while they sat with you in the ICU for four days. Trying to comfort you. Trying to ease your pain.

I hate that the marines had to show up and tell you of Kirk's passing while you were dying in the ICU. I mean, I guess you needed to know. Because you were his wife, after all. Still, I hate that they showed up. This makes me really angry.

I hate that your beautiful, loving family had to watch you perish. Not in an hour. Not in a day. But in four. Four days. And for what? For the sake of an unstable marine with a drug problem and a gun who did not have your highest good at heart.

Your organs were given to people who needed them to live. You saved the lives of other people, Sarah. I don't know if that brings you any comfort to know. But I think you would have been happy for them.

I don't ever go visit your grave. I'll be in Winston-Salem tomorrow so maybe I can stop by and say "hi."

You had a way of bringing joy and laughter into the world unlike any other person I've known. Your crazy love of all people was nothing short of divine. My heart swells with love when I think of your generous spirit. I miss that. I miss your laughter. I miss your silliness. And I miss your hugs.

Kirk Harris was a fine example of what the patriarchy does to men. He needed to die. As do all other adherers of a system that does everything in its power to silence women, to take away our power, to reduce us to a subhuman category.

I was in the hospital the other day visiting my son. A neurologist came in and began talking to my son's father, looking always at him, never at me. My blood boiled. Sexism shows itself in the subtlest ways. I wasn't having it. I interjected questions and comments. I made certain I was seen and heard. You would have done the same thing, I feel certain.

Oh yeah, my son's been in the hospital for almost a week now. For the first several days, he wasn't able to talk. It has been so surreal having this happen during the anniversary of your injuries, your hospital stay, your death. My sorrow has been great. But my son will live and most likely will regain his use of language. So don't feel bad for me. I am grateful he will be well again. I just wish...well, you know. I wish you were here.

During the four days that you were in the hospital, I made a painting to help me process my grief for what had happened to you. But also, it helped me process what had happened to me when my husband hurt me. I will never understand how I ended up alive and you ended up dead.

Anyway, here's the painting I made:

Yes. It's a giant vagina. Giver of life. Source of creation. Object of desire. But our own property.

Here, too, is a painting that Meghan Thompson made after your death. She and Callum came to see me after your death and Callum, sweet thing, told me that you are with the stars now.

I draped the purple scarf around it in homage to you. To honor your life. And the lives of all women who are plagued by remnants of the patriarchy that manifest as domestic violence. Women like me.

Your life is celebrated constantly. There is a memorial fund in your name with Family Services to benefit victims of domestic violence. Team Sassy raised so much money through the Walk a Mile in Her Shoes and the Black and Bling events over the past several years. You would be so proud of your mom and dad and your sister. They have become champions of the quest to end gun violence and institute common sense gun laws. They are actively involved in Mom's Demand Action and Everytown for Gun Safety which takes them all over the place, speaking about their experience and their mission. They are fantastic. They love you so much. I know they miss you greatly. But they have decided to channel their grief into direct action. I admire them for this so much. It takes great fortitude to do what they do.

I guess I'll wrap this up now before I'm late for work. 😀

Oh, before I go, I just want you to know that I call on you from time to time when I need help. When I need to remember the value of my body, my mind, my spirit. I call on your help when I feel stuck by a challenge that a man presents. I ask for your guidance. And let me tell you, I have felt it. So thank-you for that.

I love you forever.

Until we meet again,
Kathy

What's What

Lately, my days are packed with work. My head can start spinning if I begin to think of everything that needs to be done.

I get disoriented - a feeling akin to vertigo - from looking at a small screen for any length of time. As a result, I am on social media far less these days, which is probably for the best.

I am thinking of my son.

I am thinking of the young ones in cages removed from their parents.

I am thinking of Chris Mavronikolas.

I am thinking of my mom and dad.

My goal in this life is to live as fully in the present moment as possible. I have a long way to go.

It requires great discipline to sit still and quietly, allowing thoughts to pass through the brain without attaching any energy to them. The goal, I think, is not to attempt to make the brain free from thought, rather to allow your thoughts to pass like clouds on a sunny day. I believe that if we all sat still and quietly in this manner, for even a short while, the world might become a different place.

On Saturday, I am to perform improvisational movement and spoken word to accompany a phenomenal bass player, Vattel Cherry. I asked Vattel if he had a theme or a quality he wished to convey. He suggested that I look up Bacon's Rebellion. This incident, and the series of conditions leading up to it, explain so much about this country that we call the United States. My eyes welled up with tears as I read about it. And so I offer the following:

People are people. If they look different from you, they are still people with feelings and thoughts valid to their experience of the world. We do not own other people. We do not control other people. We are in charge of ourselves. And we are barely capable of that. We cannot even manage sitting still and quietly for a few minutes with our thoughts floating by like clouds in an endless sky. Try to be in a state of calm and peace. It's harder than you think. And, it is the simplest thing in the world.

Give it a go. Give yourselves some downtime.

Suck It

Homophobic remarks make me cringe. Actually, any sort of derogatory remarks about other human beings make me cringe. But when a person is derided because of something as intimately personal as their sexuality, it seems especially harsh. To attack an expression of love is in my book, the lowest of the low. Then, the fighter comes out.

At a pool party, a large-bearded white man asked a less large-bearded white man, "Which would you rather do: suck a dick (and finish the job) or be a vegan for a year?" And then, "Which would you rather do: suck a dick (and finish the job) or consume nothing but hot dog water for a year?"

Let me clarify the fact that I was not present when these questions were asked. Let me also clarify that since I was not there, I cannot say with all certainty that these exact words were spoken. I am piecing together two accounts of what was said and coming up with my own version. Let me also clarify that these questions were asked by a grown man, not an adolescent.

Instead of being present when the above-mentioned questions were asked, I was at a cookout at my gay neighbor's house. It was peopled by many other gays. We talked about music, movies, and books - things that I am familiar with and enjoy talking about. It was a nice time and I was not too eager to leave. But I had committed to go to another function. The above-mentioned pool party.

It was early evening. All I knew about this party was that it was next door to my ally's friend. So I went to the ally's friend's house and sought evidence of a pool and people around it. I timidly walked into the backyard of a person's house whom I'd never met before. There was a pool. There were people lounging around it. I looked for someone I recognized. Once I confirmed that my ally was there, I proceeded to enter the gated area. I walked by a string of people whose faces I did not know, needless to say their names. Was I to introduce myself? Was someone that I knew supposed to meet me at this string of people and introduce me? I didn't know. I just said "hi" and walked on by.

I sat down in a small cluster of people I know and chatted with a friend whom I hadn't seen in a while. That was nice. But our chat was interrupted by the extraneous happenings of people made boisterous by alcohol. It was during one of these interruptions that my ally filled me in on what had been said: the above-mentioned questions that I found offensive. My ally said this had been going on all afternoon and it was pretty funny actually.

No. It actually was not funny.

I felt like I was in enemy territory. I immediately put up my defenses and scouted the faces around me for hostility and aggression. I experienced that elevated heart rate and quickened breathing that occurs when anxiety hits. I, this person who inhabits my body, this person who attempts to manifest love in a world sorely bereft of it, felt threatened. In the past when I felt threatened, my tendency was to run. This time, I was alert and ready to fight.

I became quiet, knowing that anything I said could be used against me. This is the paranoia of anxiety. I observed the people around me. A group of people departed, leaving significantly fewer people to worry about. One woman's gaze was fixed to her phone most of the time. I did not perceive her as a threat. Then, a whole row of people were staring into their phones. It was at this point that I began to wonder why I had come at all. My ally informed me - after the fact - that things were winding down when I arrived, that I had missed all the fun. After the fact, I realized there was absolutely no reason for me to have left the comfort and ease of my neighbor's cookout. Except actually, there was.

As I was not given an opportunity to speak out against remarks that had been made before I arrived, I felt a pesky dissatisfaction. I felt such a great hostility and disdain for the sort of homophobia that breeds such remarks. I thought of all the great things I would have said to the large-bearded white man if I had been present when his remarks had been made:

So are you suggesting that sucking a dick is bad?

Then:

If dick-sucking is so bad, then I guess you don't allow women to suck yours?

Or:

Sounds like someone wants to suck a dick. Why don't you just do it?

Or:

Being vegan is a bad thing?

Or:

Are you simply saying that being vegan, drinking hot dog water and sucking a dick are all such ecstatic experiences, it's hard to choose?

Alas, I was not able to say these things to this large-bearded white man. I watched him leave with his children and felt a huge sorrow for his children and an increased loathing for large-bearded white men.

This incident - which doesn't even qualify as an incident since I did not actually experience it firsthand but experienced the aftershock - further awakened in me a conviction to put up with bullshit less. It reminded me of my responsibility to call out ignorance and intolerance. It convinced me to proclaim with ferocity that from this day forward, if I ever hear anyone make such confounded and confounding remarks, they will feel my wrath. I will not run. I will not be silent. This is the dawn of a new era in which the voiceless will use their voices against all oppressive forces. Even the ones that emerge casually and in jest at a pool party.

Especially those.