working it.

Posted on by
3

For the first time in my life I work with sixty four other people – In the same office. I’ve been a part of large and small organizations and sometimes even felt like a contractor in my last job when I was an office of ONE. But I’ve never worked in an office with this many people.

In an office of 65, you don’t have to like everyone, work with everyone, or even talk to everyone. It’s foreign, compared to the smaller places I’ve worked where you kind of have to find a way to deal with everyone’s crazy.  I mean we’re all crazy – right? It’s a matter of whether my crazy works with your crazy or not.

What this new office has made me think about is what makes a good company? What makes people want to come to work everyday, what makes people positive instead of negative?

So far, I’ve realized, nice is better than cool – considerate is better than cool – organized and trying to be a better collective organization is better than fighting the world for the ideas of one influential leader.  The opposite of patriarchy is good. Positivity is good when it’s real.

Smart people doing good work together is cool.

These things seem obvious, but why are so many organizations dysfunctional then?

In a world where we are so conscious about service, why do we sometimes choose to work in environments that are less than employee-centric? Aren’t we the internal customers of the companies we work with?

Maybe a better way of saying that is – isn’t there something in it for the company you work for if you get better at your job and become a better human being? I think there is.

Working for a company that so far embraces me for who I am and what I bring to the table and allows me to play to my strengths is where I believe the future of successful businesses is going. It makes such good sense that I find myself mistrusting it every day, I keep thinking, this can’t be real. But so far – it is.

Employer got you down? They most likely aren’t going to change unless you do. Nothing is static, everything changes, start with yourself – it’s the only real control you have.

In any good relationship as you change so does your partner, you communicate, you talk about change. If you’ve changed and your work/boss/environment hasn’t or can’t come along with you, maybe it’s time to find a new place to work. As painful as that can be, it’s worth it, you’re worth it.

If you’re a business, you might want to think about how you treat people, how you engage with them, how you influence them, or stifle them. Are you thinking only about what you’d like? Or are you asking the tough questions about what the people who work with you actually want?

The world is changing to be more inclusive will you keep up with that change?

July 1976_searching

Posted on by
4

It’s my birthday.

For my birthday, I’m putting up this writing session which makes me sad, but at the same time, it makes me happy. I look back at the little me at five and think, you’re amazing. GO! I also look back and think, THAT HAIR! And a pink shirt!?

I am pretty certain that my Mom must have cut my hair for this photo and for some reason it looks orange. My sister always argued with me about this photo and one other saying it was her, but I know this was me. So there. Regardless, it could have been any of us.

We’re human, we’re amazing, it’s what we do with it that matters.

~ July 1976 ~

“Momma, I can sing real good if you want me to.” I said. She looked down and said “No girl, singing’s not going to get you anywhere. Learning is what you need.”

“But Momma, I’m big when I sing.” I stand up tall. She shakes her head back and forth, short curls swaying close to her head. ”No girl, singing’s not for you.”

“I’ll be right back, don’t come looking for me either.”

I know she is not coming back, the little feeling that I’m choking comes up in my throat.

“How long Momma, how long will you be gone?”

Looking down at me she lifts a hand, the back of it brown from sun, she slaps her leg and laughs a little. Her mouth is empty, only a few teeth left, those are black and brown and broken on the edges, she has one gold one in the back. We aren’t that bad off if she hasn’t had to sell that tooth yet.

“I can’t find peace with you Gaaddamn kids”. She mostly smiles with her lips pursed straight across, so that she doesn’t have to show her teeth.

I need to know how long she will be gone.

“How long will you be gone Momma?”

Her serious sad face, her saggy skin hanging down “Just a few minutes.” Turning to the door

“Is a few more than a couple?” I ask. “A couple means two right Momma?” “Yes a few is more than two.” she says “Like five?” “Yes, three, four or five is a few.” “No more than five, right Momma, that would mean many and you said a few. Do you promise Momma? Do you promise it will only be a few?”

“Yes, only a few minutes.”

I throw my arms around her leg and take hold.

When she lies, I feel all tingly on the inside, I can tell so I ask more questions to see if I can figure out the truth.

“How long, how long, how long, don’t leave, don’t leave.” the rhythm of the words choking back tears. Please just tell me “5 minutes, 10, an hour.”

“Now let go of my leg and behave” her polyester pants scratching me as she moves her leg, her hands pushing me down and away. My hands turn cold and as she gets close to the door; I run to it pressing my hands against it as it closes.

I run back to the couch and sit stiff like a board.

“Three, four, five, she’ll be back in three, four or five.” I sing, “3, 4 or 5. 3, 4 or 5 is a few, means more than a couple, that means 2.” I watch the clock. I always watch the clock when she is gone. “Sit still, very still or you might cry. Watch the clock. Watch the clock.”

“3, 4, 5.” I sing, in a small and quiet way.

At three minutes I am hopeful. I can move a little now because I know she’ll be back soon. Four feels good, hopeful. Five is very long but by six she’ll be home, she said so. Five comes and goes and I am not sure what to do. My head says she is not coming back. Five, five, five, she’s not home. I rock back and forth, running my hand along the seam of my pants. They are my favorite pants, purple pants. What if she doesn’t come back?

I punch my leg hard. Maybe I won’t think about her never coming back if I do something else. I hit the place where the bruise is deep, black and lumpy.

The bruise is from Peggy and a game she plays with me to see how much I can stand before I cry. Peggy hits me over and over. I don’t even feel it anymore. It’s just about being strong enough to not cry.

Last week when Momma was in the kitchen making noodles, I was on the couch, watching the black and white TV. Peggy sat beside me and hit the soft fleshy part of my thigh. I winced, but no crying. Pausing, in between the balling up of her fist, she pinched. I looked straight ahead, no crying. My face hot, not saying a word. It could have been worse she could have been kicking me or hitting me with the brush or broom handle, or threatening to stab me with a knife, which is much more scary than this.

Smack.

“Ready to cry yet?”

“No”

Smack. Sucking in air, holding my breath

“How about now”

“No”

Smack, smack, smack.

“Now?”

No longer able to hold back the breath, chest rising and falling, the tears came, giving away the pain. I couldn’t stop them once the bruise was deep enough.

I didn’t want her to be able to make me cry.

She turned away happy, smiling, her wavy brown hair flying behind her bee-bop walk into the other room. I got myself back together and just as she was about to leave the room, I laughed and I couldn’t even stop myself from doing it. I laughed and laughed, which brought her back and the hitting and asking started again.

Today, when I hit myself, it doesn’t hurt much. The tears are already welling up because Momma is never coming back. The punching makes me wince, but I’m not afraid of that hurt. Only afraid she is not coming back. It’s 8 now. I want to go looking for her. She said not to, but I have to.

I know when I go looking for her I don’t like what I find.

I can’t wait any longer. Ten minutes is too long for me, I will check with Granny to see if she knows where Momma is. She’s not really my Granny, but that is what everyone calls her. She is smaller than Momma and bent at the shoulders, her blue and pink flowery housedress is always pressed and clean, small glasses shade her eyes, her thick panty hose sag at the ankle. I don’t know her real name. She lives next door and I like that she only has a basin and a toilet, no bathtub or sink in the bathroom. I would like it if I did not have to take a bath. There is a sink in the kitchen, but none in the bathroom. If Momma is not there Granny will give me a cookie, she always does, the kind with jam in the middle from the store, not the kind we have at home.

I peek out the front door though the plexiglass window. It used to be glass-glass but has been broken too many times from angry slams. Every time it broke Momma started crying, someone cleaned it up and put cardboard in the window. Whoever broke it was always long gone and the rest of the day we’d all try to be quiet to not make Momma cry anymore.

After checking the front door, to make sure no one is lying in wait, I open the door, the handle jiggles because it is loose. The smells of summer, grass, lilac, rough wood siding, slip through me. I run down the stairs and across the cement that was replaced earlier in the summer, but has already shown wear because one of my brothers didn’t know how to mix cement. There’s always something half way finished around here.

Running fast across the two driveways, ours and Granny’s, touching the big maple tree that stands in-between them. Hand hitting bark, rough, it’s not smooth like a birch. The gravel is hard on my bare feet, but I am a fast runner and I don’t care.

I hear them after me already, my brother Bobby and his friends, Phil, Joel and Pat, like a wild pack of heathens. Momma calls them that. I am not sure what a heathen is, I imagine it as some sort of monster, gray like a rat with yellow teeth and the legs of a lamb, where you aren’t quite sure what you are going to get the good side or the bad.

Yelling, they chase me.

“Yeah, get her, we’re going to pound you AmyBeth.” They say my name as if it is one word all strung together. Stomach lurching, eyes darting back and forth searching for an exit, I run faster.

At Granny’s door, I know I should knock and wait for her to come but if I knock they’ll be here before I get in. And today they might wring my neck good. I reach and grab the doorknob, lungs pumping, hands slippery wet with sweat, open the door shove myself through and quickly but gently close it behind me. I slide my back down against it, breathing out fear.

I hear Momma laughing in the other room, a laugh that comes from the belly, the kind like you really mean it.

“Who’s there?” Granny calls, she sounds like the voice on an old record.

“Probably one of those gaaddamn kids looking for me.”

I walk through the kitchen, the dining room, and into the sitting room. Passing the cookie jar, which seems to smile at me as I walk past. Standing up tall and proud, a fake smile across my face, maybe they’ll think I’m pretty.

“I found you Momma.” I say as sweet as I can.

She looks angry and rolls her eyes. My shoulders fall forward, head down.

“I told you not to come looking for me.”

She nods to Granny “I can’t stay away for not one minute.”

Granny who smells like liniment, laughs and smiles at me as if to say you’ll be ok.

“Now gaaddamn it I told you I’d be home soon now get the hell out of here, I’m having a quiet time with Granny.”

It hurts me in my heart, more than punching my bruise, when she says things like that. I turn around and run but know I can’t go back outside, I don’t want to get beat up just yet.

I’ll wait until I hear Momma leaving.

I pretend to leave, opening and closing the door and then shuffle into Granny’s bathroom, lifting the lid of the white wicker hamper, I hike one leg up and pull using my back to push forward, I slip down into the hamper and close the lid. The rubber rim around the lid does not make a sound when it closes. I sink down into the dirty clothes. It is musty here, but it feels safe. The smell is like the hair from Granny’s trash that we burn on the burn pile. She wears her hair in a bun, when she lets it down it’s down to her waist. When she brushes it hair gets trapped in the brush, she pulls it out in little bundles and throws it into the trash that we collect, because we are always helpful to Granny. I like to watch the long gray hairs burn, bright red at the ends, winding around through paper. The smell of it is nice and bad all at the same time and I like it.

In the hamper, I get nervous that if I don’t go home Momma will hit me with the paddle for coming to look for her, I wait for a while longer, which is probably only a minute or two and scramble out of the hamper, head first, hands out, the whole thing tilting behind me. I make the few steps from the hamper to the door silently. I stand on tip-toes looking out the glass-glass in Granny’s window. No one is around. Bobby, Phil, Joel and Pat are in the backfield. I grab the handle and turn it as quiet as I can. Sliding out the door, this time not running at all. They may not hear me if I walk soft. I pass through gravel, tree, dirt, broken cement, uneven stairs that creak which reminds me. Momma says they’ll need to be fixed by winter and where the hell is she going to get that money?

I’m not tall enough to see in the door window from the outside. Most times no one is home during the day but me and Momma, so I don’t feel too much worry going back into the house.

It’s quiet inside and smells of dust and plaster.

Maybe if I can sleep, I will wake up and she will be here. That’s what I’ll do, I’ll sleep, close my eyes.

To be safe, I move the couch out just a little using my hip and leg to push with force. I grab a wadded up blanket from the chair and slide behind and under the couch. The heathens can’t find me here. Momma will know to look for me if she comes home though. She knows all my hiding places. Lying there, I stare at the wall. She might be gone forever. Sleep, sleep, sleep. Sing your song. Sometimes singing makes me sleepy. Go on sing. I know that singing makes me feel better especially if I get all the words right. Where is thumbkin, where is thumbkin? I sing quietly, the words rock me back and forth. I use one finger from each hand to talk to the other.

It takes a long time to fall asleep during the day, especially if when Momma is gone forever and I don’t know where I’ll get any food. But, if I am behind the couch with a blanket it seems like a cocoon and that is good. I know I can’t get up and look at the clock because she is still not home and it makes the lie seem bigger the longer she stays away.

I pick at the plaster and at the peeling off wallpaper. No one can see it here, it’s ok if I peel it off. I won’t get yelled at. The paper is brown on the edges. It used to be tan, now its ugly and torn like someone peed on it. I am sure someone probably did or spilled some slop on it. The carpet behind the couch smells like dirt and old things. It’s red and yellow with a wavy curly design in it. It has been worn thin, even here behind the couch. Yellow fibers show through where there should be red. Sometimes the dusty smell makes me sneeze. I know how to sneeze real quiet so no one will hear me or find me back here. As long as I am hiding, no one can see me, they can’t bother me.

The creak of the door scares me, hot air streams in.

Parallel Lives

Posted on by
Reply

Amos passed a Hispanic family, the father driving and smoking, the mother looking out the window with a wistful expression on her face. Amos, couldn’t swallow, so dearly did he wish to be one of them…Why does this happen to us? Because we have abandoned an infinite number and variety of pure possibilities, and perhaps they live alongside the choice we did make, immortalized in the cosmic memory. Perhaps there are unknown lives walking alongside ours, those paths we didn’t take, and we reach for them, we ache for them, and don’t know why. We have, none of us, lived our lives as we ought to have and maybe that’s a good working definition of sin.  God doesn’t care, the angels don’t care, no one is mad at us for our failures. But what agony, to know our better selves, the life we might have lived is there, just out of reach! ~ Amos Townsend – The Solace of Leaving Early by Haven Kimmel

It’s not often that I quote a fictional character, but this quote has stuck with me since the first time I read it. It’s as if Haven Kimmel was speaking directly to me when Amos said these lines.

My whole life I’ve wondered these kinds of things – what if I were there instead of here, what if I were born to them instead of these people, what if I chose x, y, or z and what if – I don’t.

I’ve always wondered why we make the choices we do, why we choose red, instead of blue? Choice. What’s behind the choices I’m making?

Some might say it’s destiny/fate/insert some god’s name here behind the choices we make.

Some say that our entire lives are lived in an effort to become more whole, more of our own true selves and if we don’t choose to move forward in life, the universe will catapult us in that direction anyway. How could that be? Some say that our psyche drives us toward the things that will heal us or help us find our piece/peace in the world.

What is not brought to consciousness, comes to us as fate ~ Carl Jung

What if there are unknown lives living alongside us and we could capture them if we make a different choice?

What if?

What if  – is the question that for me leads to anxiety. Too much information. Overload. 

Sometimes I feel like I’m stuck on a loop, in a cycle, where I keep making the same choices over and over.  Why? I take it as a sign that I haven’t learned an important lesson that I’m supposed to learn.

Sometimes I can’t get to the real question because I keep asking – what if?

What if all you had to do was make one choice differently?  What would it be, would I even think about it or choose without thought, to see if destiny/fate/failure/lesson-learning was true? What would you do?

Mercury in RETROgrade

Posted on by
5

Mercury is in retrograde.

I said this out loud with a group of colleagues once and this guy says “You believe in that stuff? I stopped believing in all astrology when they said Pluto was no longer a planet.”
I paused and replied “Yeah, I believe it. If we know and believe that
the moon pulls the ocean,
why wouldn’t I believe that other planets/stars/things in the sky are
impacting us in some way?”

Boom. Conversation over.

Astrology is a mystery to me, but I do believe in the information it can offer. In the unscientific study of my own life, I can say that the things I’ve learned about astrology do seem to be true.

I don’t know the “science” behind why Mercury goes retrograde, but I have experienced what happens when it does go retrograde. Ever since I heard of Mercury in retrograde I watch for it and watch for what happens during that time. It never fails.

Some might say that because I’m looking for it, that’s why I find it, but the reason I started looking was because I was experiencing periods of frustration and aggravation that seemed to be in a pattern and that pattern aligned with Mercury being in retrograde.

In astrology Mercury is the planet of transportation, trade and communication.  When Mercury is in retrograde, communication becomes a problem, flights are delayed, airports seem more hectic, email doesn’t work quite right, computers break, negotiations stall, that thing I bought turns out to be something that doesn’t work quite right. Everything I say seems to be taken the wrong way – everything I hear, I hear in the way that I want to hear it, not the way it is. Everything is frustrating.

I’m not saying these things don’t occur otherwise, but I’ve noticed in my unscientific study of my own life that these things appear seem to be elevated during Mercury retrograde.

Mercury goes direct on November 26th and I’m looking forward to it.  In the meantime, my patience and understanding are taking a beating and I seem to be super frustrated all the time.

GO! Mercury – hurry up and go direct.

This post is likely full of typos and inaccurate information – thanks Mercury!

1975_Laundry

Posted on by
14

We don’t have chores in our house. We do what we’re told when we’re told to do it.  If we don’t do what we’re told, we get the paddle. No amount of whining and complaining can make a difference, although we all try it.

We are lucky though because most of the time Momma does everything and this is how I think she feels like she is taking good care of us, although we would be glad to help if it made her less anxious. She’s always worried, worried, worried – about everything.

Laundry

 ~August 1975~

“Gaaddamn it, get the degreaser.  Hurry up, put the Gaaddamn degreaser in.”

I don’t know what degreaser is and I’m not sure why I should put the damn stuff in. I do know it comes in a yellow bottle.  It’s tall with ridges on the outside.  I can’t always open it quick enough and I hope Momma didn’t tighten it with her grip of steel, because if she did I’ll never get it open before she yells it again. “Put the Gaaddamn degreaser in!”

Laundry is a science to Momma and she’s always rushing around as fast, as fast as she can. With ten kids the laundry takes up the whole day and she doesn’t mind reminding us every time she does it.  She starts while the sun is still light and bright without heat and takes the sheets right out from under me while I sleep.  She does the same thing to all ten of us. Sometimes it wakes me up, but sometimes not. The older kids complain about it and fight with Momma over being woken up, but I don’t care much about getting up early, because I get to help Momma if I get up early. She doesn’t like help and I have to do things just so, because laundry is important. She says, “We might not have money, but you kids aren’t walking around dirty.” There something about being poor that makes most people dirty, but not us.

“Amy Beth, where’s the damn degreaser, quit fooling around and get over here.”

I step up on a rickety old stool and grab the cool metal cup from the shelf that is hung half-crooked, the cup slides if you don’t put in the right place, it perfectly covers a ring on the shelf from the rust on the bottom of the cup.  I’m careful while pouring.  For something named degreaser, it’s very greasy.

“Just half full not all the way full, or you’ll have to start over, don’t waste it.”

We have an old-time washing machine, a wringer washer. It’s white with a red ring painted around the middle, smooth on the outside and cool to the touch.  There are two rubber rollers on top and if you don’t watch out, your hands will get the hell pinched out of them when the rollers are rolling and squeezing the water out of the clothes. That’s what Momma says.  There is a rusty stain on the underside. I’ve tried to wash it off, but it doesn’t work, it’s stuck on there, forever and ever.  The washer stays in the back room over the basement door in the floor.  I’m glad that it hides the basement door, I think bad things are down there and all the other kids tell me so too. I will not go down there unless I am forced, that has only happened once and that time I saw a man’s butt crack, Peggy said – “See! I told you – plumber’s smile!” Staring at the backside of some guy working on our water pump.  I don’t understand what that means, but I laugh and laugh so I can get the heck out of there.

Momma and I boil water on the stove for the load of whites. Sometimes we have hot water on the tap and sometimes we don’t, because we can’t always pay our bills and even if we have hot water, she yells, “That water isn’t hot enough, boil it some more, I like my whites white! And don’t touch that pot, it will burn the hell out of you.”  It takes three giant pots of water to wash the whites.  We make one pot of hot for the colored clothes, mixed with cold water.  For dark colors or when we are lazy and don’t care if we stink and our whites are dingy, we can wash in cold, which is never.

The cold water comes from the hose, which tastes like the metal ring at the end of the hose. The hose runs from around the side of the house and we prop open the screen door to keep it from pinching the water off.  This lets the flies in, but there isn’t any other way to get the hose into the back room.  Then we spend the afternoon killing flies with the pink and white flyswatter that has a long wire handle and is covered in guts. Sometimes in a pinch Momma will swat us with the flyswatter, if the paddle isn’t close enough.

I fill the washer with hose water, turn off the water and unhook the hose from the faucet and leave it lying on the ground, but far away from the house so when the water we drain from the washer comes out, it doesn’t run back on the house and rot the foundation.  I learn a lot from Momma, she explains things as she goes along and I might not understand it all, but I am good at remembering.  I have to know everything or else someone yells about something, so it’s easier to remember everything and do what I need to do right, the first time.

Momma let’s everything soak for at least 30 minutes because we are all so Gaadamn dirty.

Once the clothes have soaked, Momma plugs the electric cord into the light bulb on the ceiling and then she lets me flip the switch that turns it on.  The washer makes a loud grinding noise and the whole backroom shakes. We let it agitate, that’s Momma’s word for swirling the clothes around, for 10 or 15 minutes; standing there not hearing another sound in the world except the grind of the washer.  After agitating, I take the end of the hose and screw it to a spout that comes out of the bottom of the washer, the spout is old and needs to be cleaned with “C Cleaner” which Momma says gets the calcium off.  We open the spout on the bottom and drain the dirty water outside through the hose.

I run outside to watch the water come out and make sure there are no hair or other clogs that back it up.  I hope with everything that there is no clod of hair that gets stuck. I almost throw up thinking about it having to touch it. The water flows dark and murky, making a trail down the dirt driveway.

Once the water has drained, we taking the sopping wet clothes and run them one by one through the wringer to squeeze out all the water.  I am not allowed to put them through the wringer. I am not old enough yet.  My job is to catch the clothes as they come out.  Momma doesn’t like them slapping onto the dirty floor when they come out all squished flat.

Then we rinse the flattened clothes by adding cold water from the hose into the washer and firing it up again.  One more time through the wringer and they are ready to hang on the line in the yard.  There are two lines, one short and one long, both run from the house to the barn, which doesn’t work like a barn anymore, it’s now just an old building full of junk and wasps.  It does have an outhouse on the side of it, but you can’t go to the bathroom in there anymore, it’s been sealed up tight.

Momma doesn’t talk much during laundry, she explains what she’s doing so I know how to do it on my own one day and she yells out things to do “Degreaser!” “Turn the hose on!”  “Now turn it off Gaaddamn it!”

Before we start hanging the clothes, we start another load to soak.

I’m not allowed to hang the clothes, because Momma says “You don’t hang things right, they’ll come out all wrinkled if you hang them, and I’m not spending the whole day ironing.  You’ve got to hang them so the breeze can get through them.”  I don’t even hang socks right, which are supposed to be easy.  My job is to hand things to Momma real fast so they don’t get too wrinkled sitting in the basket and then I take a metal pole and raise up the laundry on the wire.  It’s heavy to lift, but I can do it even when Mom yells at me not to.  I just laugh when she yells when we are in the yard, because she is too far away to smack me.  While she’s hanging the laundry I look for wasps and bugs that bite because I’m afraid of them.  If I see a wasp or a bee, I run in the house until it goes away.

“Get your ass back out here” Mom says, but I just pretend I can’t hear her.  I’d rather hear Momma yell than get stung by a wasp.

~

I had no idea that there is any other way to do laundry, in the winter we do go to the Laundromat sometimes, so I know that there are indoor washers and dryers, but I have no clue that someone could actually buy one and have it in their house.  I also have no idea that all my other friends are having their clothes washed inside their own house.  I assumed that everyone washes clothes like it’s 1950.

I’m sure it seems that Momma was mean to me, but I never saw it as mean, she had no patience for misunderstanding and if you did something wrong or ruined the load of wash, it could cost her hours of time.  I learned to cook the same way, trial by fire, get it right or get the hell out of the kitchen!  If you put too much salt or milk in something you were helping Momma make, it could mean none of us ate that day.  I understand why she felt like doing it herself was faster.  She was doing the best she could and for that I’m thankful.

Summer in Portland

Posted on by
Reply

It’s summer in Portland. It’s Portland.

It is summer in PORTLAND!

It’s the best time of year to be in Portland. Summer officially starts on July 5th in Portland, the rest of the country has already enjoyed sometimes a month or two of warm weather and sun. In Portland, summer starts slow and almost never gets unbearable, maybe a few days in August or September are too hot for us pasty white Pacific Northwesterners, but mostly it’s perfect and PERFECT.

Summer makes it a challenge to focus on anything, even writing, which is a place where it’s easy for me to focus. Everything slows down and speeds up all at the same time. I want to be out in it, doing, soaking up the sun and at the same time want to be relaxing in the sun. Calm and energetic all at once.

Eating summer meals, drinking summer drinks, sitting on the front stoop of our house – people watching, exercising, bike riding. Summer is here and I’m not going to let it derail me forever, but I’m not writing as much. I do think about writing, at almost every turn I have a thought, an idea, a glimmer of what’s to come through the pen and I jot it down or think on it as I ride my bike around in summer sun, but I’m not quite writing as much as I’d like.

If my biggest complaint is that I write less in Summer, I’m going to stop thinking it’s wrong and be thankful for it.

Reading is easier in summer, light all day, enough to read, reminds me of summer book clubs when I was young. Maybe I need to get used to the seasons and get more in touch with how my writing changes in those seasons.

Maybe my writing and life in general comes in waves with the seasons. I’m not going to keep fighting it. I’m going to trust it.

Spring – rising light, new and full of energy – spring into action (when I edit and push forward new ideas)

Summer – sun, hope and growth of ideas – the dog days of summer (when I calm down and settle into reading and fun)

Fall – gray light, turning inward and melancholy – harvest (when I think and think and prepare and writing begins again)

Winter – reflection, dark and broody – the winter of discontent (when I write most)

It’s summer, it’s exactly as it should be – TIME TO GET OUT IN IT. There is time enough for everything – there always is.

Write YOUR OWN MANIFESTO

Posted on by
Reply

Knowing who you are and communicating that to the world is essential to being in the world.

How you communicate it defines who people think you are and how people respond to you. It can even shape how you think about yourself.

Right after I was fired from my job, I wrote a manifesto and it was empowering for me to see myself on the page in TRUTH and not apologize for it. To see in myself things that maybe no one else could see, to hear from myself instead of someone else what I was worth.

How does one go about writing a Manifesto?  Take the answers to the ten good things about yourself from my be your own patriot post and put them into action.  Write about those ten good things – BE BOLD about it, although a manifesto is usually a public declaration, no one ever has to read it if you don’t want that. BE BOLD. 

Start your sentences with CONFIDENCE – I AM, I WILL, I DO, don’t use I think or I feel. A manifesto is not about thought or surface-level feeling, it’s about getting down into your gut, that visceral reaction. The thing you want to shout, or maybe at this stage just say into the mirror in your bathroom and believe just for you.

It’s about inspiration, what would you say to yourself to inspire yourself if you could actually form the words to encourage yourself.  For some it might be words you’d like to hear come from someone else’s mouth about you. However you get there doesn’t matter, but getting the words on the page in honor of yourself is a a step toward freedom, knowing yourself, putting yourself out there, believing.

It’s not about writing pages about yourself, it’s not your story, it’s short powerful sentences. Yours may end up taking a different direction form eventually. Be creative.

Someone asked me after reading my manifesto, “I’m wondering why you think you can say these things about yourself?” I replied with confidence “I believe them and I am that good.” And that was the truth. There is sometimes a small part of me that says, that’s not true and I just allow that in too. We all have doubt, it’s what we do with it that matters. TRUTH.

BE BOLD, no one else is going to be bold for you.

Be your OWN_patriot

Posted on by
1

In honor of Independence Day – I decided to send a call out to everyone – BE YOUR OWN PATRIOT!

We all have those moments when we think – is this all there is? Isn’t there something more? I’ve had those moments lately thinking about this blog. I haven’t been doing two posts a week like I said I would and sometimes I think, what’s the point?  What is the point? The point is that in a year, I’ll look back and say, well you let yourself down on that one, or I’ll look back and say, it wasn’t easy but – I did it! I started and I kept at it and it wasn’t easy, but I had the courage to continue.  Guess what? It’s up to me to recommit. To DO IT! Do I care enough about my own interests to be my own patriot?

As I sat down to write today I thought about Independence Day, how I might re-frame it as a call-to-action.

Independence Day is the day the representatives of the 13 colonies signed a Declaration of Independence from Great Britain, it was the birth of American independence.

What, or who is holding you back from your own independence?

I hear people all the time say, I can’t do that, I can’t talk about myself like that, I don’t know where I want to go, I’m terrible at standing up for myself. I don’t know where I’m going. My question – IF NOT YOU? THEN WHO?  There is not a magic decision making fairy who will decide.

It’s you.

Be your own patriot.

def. a person who loves, supports and defends his or her country(YOURSELF) and it’s interests with devotion.

Can’t you give yourself a little patriotism?

Give yourself permission to think good thoughts about your interests with devotion.

Today – right now write down ten good things about you, ten good things you’ve done, or ten good things you want to do. GO! do it. and then – BELIEVE IT. and if you don’t believe it – keep doing it, everyday, until you do.

Be your own patriot. Independence is not far away. 

Jenny_in the hood.

Posted on by
10

There is an old woman who rides around my neighborhood on a bike. She rides slow. I walk faster than she rides.

Even in winter, she rarely wears a coat and many days wears pink shorts. She sometimes carries a bag of cans, that I assume she takes to the corner market, The NuRiteway, to exchange for cash. I love the name of the NuRiteway. Right?

Her skin is black, ashen. Her hair is cropped short, and pushed back and down on her head. I imagine she smells like pomade. Her eyes are sad and lonely and remind me of my mother.

She drinks. She uses the cash she gets from the cans to buy booze, beer or MD 20/20. I don’t think she has a preference.

She never speaks to me, but every now and then I will get a nod from her.  I sometimes say hello, but she doesn’t respond.

A few days ago, I was out for a quick dinner on Mississippi Avenue and walked past her. She was sitting outside of the Crow Bar, a divey joint that serves drinks late into the evening, long past my bedtime.  I stopped after walking past and thought – I’m going to buy her a drink. I thought again, that’s crazy, what if she thinks you’ll always buy her drinks? I’m annoyed at myself for thinking this so I go back.

I’m nervous about saying hello to her, but I breathe in and then say “Hi, I see you around a lot and we never say hello. I’d like to buy you a drink and have a conversation with you. Would you be good with that?”

She replied “Yeah, that sounds good.” Her tongue, heavy in her mouth as she talks slow, like she rides her bike.

“Good, I’m Amy and what’s your name?”
“Jenny.”
“Good, got it. Jenny.”

We go inside, it’s dark and damp, she says “She’s paying.” I check the bartender and he raises an eyebrow.  “Yes, I’m paying, Jenny, what are you having?”
“A White Russian.” she says, without hesitation.

She does have a preference of what she’d like to drink. White Russian.
I order a white wine, which is not a very good white wine given it’s the Crow Bar, but nonetheless, here we are.

We go back outside and sit in the sun and I ask Jenny questions.

“How long have you been in this neighborhood?”
“What was it like then?”
“How have you made a living?”
“Do you have any children?”

Jenny, has no children and used to be a bartender and a housekeeper. She drinks most everyday all day. She doesn’t know why anymore. She does smell like hair product.

She gets more animated as we talk and I realize, she’s a nice lady and could be anyone.

After our conversation, I’m ready to head home. I say to Jenny.

“Now that we know each other a little bit, maybe when we pass each other on the street we can say hello. What do you think?”

“Yeah, she says. Yeah.”

I’m not sure if she’s serious, but she smiles at me a little and takes another drink of White Russian.

She didn’t accept another drink, even though I offered. She didn’t ask for anything else, we had a nice conversation and I left her in her space.

We’ve had some drug dealing and shady characters in our neighborhood lately. One person even took a picture of Jenny and posted it to an online forum thinking maybe she had something to do with it.  Maybe she does, I don’t know.

What I do know is that I like to think that all people are inherently good and given the chance they’ll find their New Right Way to be in the world, but not everyone gets that chance, or chooses to take it. So, I try to remember when I see people in the world who are different than me and who’ve made different choices than me – that they could be me and I could be them – if either of us had made different choices.

I’m glad I sat down with Jenny and hope the next time I see her she’ll say hello, one neighbor to another.

Ham Sandwich_1978

Posted on by
2


Fight or flight – you learned it early in my family, there was no other option.

My fight or flight instinct was activated, over and over and over.  Most anything that happened was traumatic and dramatic.  In those moments, the world might have actually come crashing down. Today, I have to remind myself that life is not as dangerous as it once was and that I’m grown now and I’ve evolved into an adult and there isn’t much to be “AFRAID” of anymore. Other than the scary things, like wars, republicans, pollution, genetically modified foods…imminent danger is not always near.

Ham Sandwich

~June 1978~

I want a ham sandwich, I have asked Patrick and Bobby to make me one and they are too busy to even listen to me.  Peggy says “I have to take a shower, no time for you.” she smirks and laughs a litle, knowing I know she has all the time in the world, she just slept around 900 hours.

I can do most anything myself, but I like it better when someone else helps me, but I’ll never tell them that.

The yellowy-green refrigerator is old and rattles when it kicks on.   I sling open the door, which I can do because no one is here to tell me not to, someone is always telling me what not to do, they’d probably tell me not to make this sandwich by myself, but since they won’t help and I’m hungry, I’m doing it.  I keep the fridge wide open letting all the cool air rush around me, the marischino cherries in their sweet syrupy juice inside the glass jar in the door catch my eye. I’m not supposed to eat them, but my hand is just the right size to slip down into the jar and take only one.  My mouth watering, I look away. I know Momma will be mad at me if I keep eating those.

A giant platter, the good kind you only use on a Sunday because it has flowers on it and isn’t made of plastic, holds the ham.  Tin foil covers every inch of ham. Momma says it won’t dry out if you cover it.  She swears there is nothing worse than dry meat.

I reach in and slide my arms back and forth to get the platter onto my arms. The bottom is cool and slick.

I back up teetering under the weight of the platter, sliding my feet out to steady my balance. I turn, take a few quick steps to the chair next to the table, the platter moving me on it’s own toward the table and hike one foot up on the chair to boost it onto the table, because I am not tall enough to reach it otherwise.  I slide my arms back and forth again to rest the platter on the table.

Standing on the chair, I’m careful peeling back the foil, one tear and the meat will dry out when I put it back in the refrigerator. I hop down off the chair and step to the drawer, there’s red wallpaper behind the sink, with pretty ladies in dresses with black hair and flowers that look like they are flying all around. It’s peeling off in places, but that’s okay, looking at those ladies makes smile and not think about how the paper is peeling off.

I pull out the drawer. Loose silverware jingles, I’m not supposed to touch the big wooden-handled knife in the drawer, but ham, is a tough meat and a butter knife won’t do. That’s what Momma would say if she were here. I’m careful carrying the knife back to the table, holding it out in front of me as far as I can, the blade facing away from me, and slide it onto the table before I climb onto the vinyl-covered chair.  I hop up, and stand low and wide, I ease the knife off the table, pointing the blade away and set to sawing on the ham, back and forth trying to cut a big piece.  I can’t slide the knife all the way through the meat and have to jiggle it to keep cutting, the knife sticks and I can’t get it out of the meat.  I pull with both hands balancing on the chair.  The knife slips and jumps free.  I teeter and fall sideways, one foot forward to balance, the other lifting, moving in slow motion, trying to find balance.  My left hand slips down onto the table the right raises the knife up high. My feet lose their grip, my arms turn in wide circles and the knife lands on my head.  I feel a sting. The knife slides right through skin and then I feel blood.  For the longest second everything is still and quiet and blood is leaking down my face. I drop the knife from my hand as if it is hot, open my mouth and scream, my tongue lolling and body shaking, I scream and scream.  “I cut my eye! I cut my eye!  I cut my eye!”

Peggy runs out of the bathroom – naked. I stare with only one eye.  She is 15 and has boobs and I have never seen naked boobs before.  I want to look away, but her pink round boobs are staring at me.  She has hair between her legs. For one second I want to laugh, but remember I have just stabbed myself in the head, my head throbs and I forget laughing about her hair.

“My eye!” I yell at her “My eye!” in case it wasn’t clear enough through my sobs.

She scrambles toward me across the plywood floor, water streaking behind her, her wet hair flat against her head.  She grabs a dish towel, her hands grab my head and mushes it onto my eye.  A throbbing headache settles into my left eye.

I am crying, sobbing and sucking in breath while still screaming.

“My eye, my eye, I cut my eye!”

“Shhh, shhh, shhh.” She says to me quietly, rocking just a little. It feels like Momma.

I lay my head against her naked shoulder, sniffling and crying.

I want her to put clothes on but my head hurts too bad to ask her.

She pulls me down off the chair holding the towel on my head.

“Let’s go in the bathroom, so I can get dressed and we’ll get a washcloth.”

Momma’s answer to most anything is a wet washcloth and now it’s Peggy’s and mine too.

I’m lightheaded and sick in the back of my throat.  My throat is closing up.  She steers me toward the bathroom, because I’m squeezing my eyes shut.  I don’t want to see the blood.

She pushes me down and I sit on the soft shag cover of the toilet.

She pulls my hand up and presses it on the towel.

“Hold this right there.  Press hard so it stops bleeding.” She’s not being so nice anymore. She’s like that, sometimes she’s meaner than mean and sometimes she’s nice, I never know which one she’s going to be.

“My eye!” I’m still yelling over and over and crying.

“Shut up!” she yells back at me with a heavy pause in between the words.

“You’re not dead, let me get my clothes on and we’ll look at it.”

I stop yelling like she says and sit stiff, holding the towel as hard as I can against my head. I’d stuff the entire towel inside my head if it would make the blood and the hurt stop.

I hear her slipping pants on and shuffling around.

I know I’m blind for sure and will have to wear a patch over the place where my eye has been taken out. I’ll be teased by people and asked stupid questions about what happened. “I’m wearing a patch, what do you think happened?” I’ll say matter of fact.

“Ok, let me see” She kneels down in front of me, touching my knee, her clothes brushing against me.

“No, I don’t want it to bleed anymore.” I know she has to look at it. Someone always has to look at it.  I want her to wrap my entire head in gauze with the wet washcloth and let me lie on the couch until it heals.

“Amy, take the towel off, I need to look at it and see if you need stitches.” She says firm but not mean.

“No! No! No! I’m not going to the hospital. You can’t make me, I’m not going!”  My sister Jenny once went to the hospital to visit old Mr. Micky when he was dying and she passed right out and smacked her teeth into the marble wall outside the elevator, so hard that they left a dent in the marble and knocked her teeth out.  I can’t imagine what will happen to me.

She grabs my hand and pulls the towel off holding my chin with her other hand.

“Sit still damn it.”

It stings and I know the blood is pouring out.

I want to run away from her and bleed to death somewhere else.

“It’s not that bad Amy. It’s not that bad.” Softly again.

She leans us both into the tub and turns on the water.

She pulls a washcloth off the side of the tub, wets it and puts over my eye and pulls my hand back up to hold it.

My shoulders shake each time I cry.

My eyes are still pressed shut.  She stands me up and pushes me into the living room, but I drag my feet.

“Let’s go look at it in the mirror in Mom’s room, you’ll see it’s not so bad. I promise.”

Her hand in the middle of my back she pushes me until we are in front of the mirror in Momma’s room.

She takes my hand down from the towel. I keep my eyes closed.  I am afraid to look at it.

“Open your eyes, it’s not that bad Amy” I turn my head.

“No, I don’t want to see.”

“It’s just above your eye Amy, it’s not that deep, it’s ok, you can look.”

“No!  I don’t want to. I want Momma.”

“Ok, I can’t leave you here like this, please look, it’s not that bad and then I’ll go look for Mom.”

“I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe, I want Momma!”

“Calm down, you little freak. Just look at the damn thing, you’re not going to die.”

I feel light-headed and a pain in my chest, and a dark black hole in the middle of my neck.

I have to look.

My head is down, I open my right eye and there is blood on the floor.  I am in trouble for that for sure. I want to run.

Peggy raises my chin with her hand and moves in front of me.  She touches my forehead. I feel her breath on my cheek. Her wet hair smells of strawberry Suave shampoo.  I love strawberries.

“When I count to 10, open your other eye and look in the mirror.”

“Ok” I whisper.

She moves to the side of me,

“1, 2, 3” I stiffen

“4, 5, 6, 7, 8” I squeeze my eyes shut as hard as I can

“9, 10, ok look.”

Ready, I sigh, open my eyes and shut them again.  I catch a glimpse of myself.  Blood is smeared around my face.

I open again and look. I hold my breath.

I lean in and look.

My eyebrow is split wide open with white bone underneath.

I turn away and run in circles screaming, my arms and legs flying this way and that.

“You lied! You lied!  I can see the bone! I can see the bone!” I’m running so fast I get dizzy.

She runs around after me, with the bloody washcloth, catching me, shoving me against the dresser and clamps the rag back on my split open head. It aches and throbs.

“Calm down Amy.”

“Liar! Liar! I’m telling Momma you’re a liar, I want Momma”

“Ok” she pushes me into the living room, “Sit your ass on the couch and hold that washcloth on your head and I’ll go find her.”

“You can’t leave me alone, I’m bleeding to death”

“You need stitches, so I have to go find her, there isn’t anyone else to stay with you, I’ll just be a minute.” I don’t believe her and don’t want her to go, a minute lasts hours sometimes.

Sucking my stomach in and out, I cry into the bloody wet rag. Blood smells like the monkey bars at school. I don’t want to die.

I hear the door slam as Peggy leaves.  My eyes are shut.

I wait and wait and wait and wait for what seems like hours, tears leaking out of my good eye.  Pressing the rag against my head as hard as I can.  It hurts and the blood keeps seeping through onto my hands.

~

There is more blood than I think you are supposed to lose out of your body.  I learn at the hospital that cuts on the face bleed more than anywhere else on the body.  It’s even more stressful than it should be, because we don’t have a car and Momma has to ask around for someone to take us to the emergency room, which takes even more time and me crying out “My eye!” When someone finally to take us to the hospital, I lay in the back of the car and cry while we drive.  I end up with 3 stitches and leave the bandaid on for weeks. Momma yells at me to take it off and eventually just rips it of my head one day after my bath, because I would not dare remove it. EVER.  The stitches are taken out a little too late, by our neighbor Mrs. Faust, who used to be a nurse. This too is traumatic and dramatic, someone having to hold me down to get them out. Everything is complicated. Always.

~

I’ve been hesitating lately at putting any new memoir writing sessions up, but I said I would and that’s what I’m going to do, hopefully the path will continue to unfold as I move along through this process.  Not sure why this piece of writing is what I posted, but it’s the piece I kept coming back to, so it’s here now.

This is my third grade photo, if you look above my left eye, you’ll see the scar.  I still have it today, it’s just a lot smaller, or my head’s a lot bigger. Maybe both. And that’s the point right? Hopefully as we learn and grow and distance ourselves from a traumatic event, we can heal ourselves. I used to think this story was 100% funny, but now I have compassion for both me and my sister for having had this experience.

Peter Levine in Waking the Tiger says: Traumatic symptoms are physiological as well as psychological…trauma represents animal instincts gone awry. When harnessed, these instincts can be used by the conscious mind to transform traumatic symptoms into a state of well-being.

We don’t have to be victims. We can heal ourselves.