Speak Without Interruption » Life Experiences

River separates life from death

Tyree Harris — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 20:19:04 +0000

River separates life from death

by Tyree Harris

The following is part two of a three-part series. See part one here.

With faint screams and smoke coming from the forests and villages surrounding, Simon Mudahogora, his sister, and his friend’s family all loaded up into a canoe, which had to be sunk to hide from the Hutu. They were heading to a refugee camp in Burundi, where many other Tutsi fled.

The border between Burundi and Rwanda was marked by a river — a river so dirtied with death that they had to move carcasses out of the canoe’s way to get across the river.

Simon knew he had to stay tough: “There was no crying.”

Crossing into Burundi, however, didn’t mean safety. The group then had to travel through two hours of swamplands, where the Hutu were often hiding and killing fleeing Tutsi. The thick vegetation and knee-high mud trenched and brushed across their fear-riddled bodies.

Simon’s sister was a teary mess; at the tender age of 7, she was fleeing from her family and everything she knew, knowing that it was virtually impossible for things to return to the way they were.

“There was zero hope that (my family) would make it,” Simon said. The group finally arrived at the camp after two hours of silently sloshing through the marshes.

For about six months, Simon and his sister slept in U.N.-provided white tents.

There were no blankets.

There were no pillows.

There was no soccer.

And every meal was identical: corn flour soup — for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

“It was fucking disgusting,” Simon said, nodding his head in disapproval, “Everyone was hungry 24/7.”

During his stay at the camp, not one family member was ever found. They had all been slain.

All 60 of them.

Simon’s tone takes a more somber, careful tone whenever he brings this up. The thought of his family’s murder puts a cold look on his face: “I’m still kinda bitter.”

Recognizing their absence permanently changed Simon’s role in life. His childhood was practically over — before he had even hit puberty.

Simon had an aunt and uncle who left Rwanda in 1975 for school in Sacramento, Calif. Somehow, she learned that he and his sister were alive, and she began to coordinate efforts to get them out of Africa. She connected them with her friend who lived in Bujumbura, the capital of Burundi, and he allowed them to leave the camp and stay with him and his family for a while.

“His wife didn’t like us,” Simon said. He had to do all the chores in the house, while her children did nothing. But Simon stuck to the lesson his mother taught him while he was attending school in the midsts of a war: “No bitching, no crying; you had to do what you had to do.”

Shortly afterward, the family moved to Rwanda. It was Simon’s first time back home in more than a year.

While in Rwanda, Simon went to the area his family had once called home. The jungle had consumed the long-vacated and burned down houses.

The farmland was no more; decades of blood, sweat and tears that his family put forth to make a living were wiped out in a matter of moments.

“It was depressing” Simon said, “That’s where I grew up. That’s my whole life right there …”

He stops mid sentence and looks down: It still haunts him.

“Everything was gone.”

To this day, he hasn’t gone back to the village.

Simon and his sister moved to his grandmother’s house. Because she was married to a Hutu man, she had received help escaping and survived the genocide.

While Simon was living there, he discovered that one of his cousins in the village actually survived. They saw her picture at a local orphanage.

The little girl had been smart enough at age three, to call every passerby mommy or daddy and make them feel bad enough to carry her along to wherever they were going.

Somehow she ended up in safety, but no one knows how she did it.

It had been three years since the genocide. Simon’s aunt in America was still working out ways to get them to Sacramento, and they found their cousin just in time. Shortly after, his aunt successfully found a family capable of taking in the three young refugees.

Finally, the three of them were escaping the war-tattered lands of Rwanda. They were heading to America — where a whole new series of challenges lay ahead.

by Tyree Harris

The following is part two of a three-part series. See part one here.

The border between Burundi and Rwanda was marked by a river — a river so dirtied with death that they had to move carcasses out of the canoe’s way to get across the river.

Simon knew he had to stay tough: “There was no crying.”

Simon’s sister was a teary mess; at the tender age of 7, she was fleeing from her family and everything she knew, knowing that it was virtually impossible for things to return to the way they were.

“There was zero hope that (my family) would make it,” Simon said. The group finally arrived at the camp after two hours of silently sloshing through the marshes.

For about six months, Simon and his sister slept in U.N.-provided white tents.

There were no blankets.

There were no pillows.

There was no soccer.

And every meal was identical: corn flour soup — for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

“It was fucking disgusting,” Simon said, nodding his head in disapproval, “Everyone was hungry 24/7.”

During his stay at the camp, not one family member was ever found. They had all been slain.

All 60 of them.

Simon’s tone takes a more somber, careful tone whenever he brings this up. The thought of his family’s murder puts a cold look on his face: “I’m still kinda bitter.”

Recognizing their absence permanently changed Simon’s role in life. His childhood was practically over — before he had even hit puberty.

Shortly afterward, the family moved to Rwanda. It was Simon’s first time back home in more than a year.

While in Rwanda, Simon went to the area his family had once called home. The jungle had consumed the long-vacated and burned down houses.

The farmland was no more; decades of blood, sweat and tears that his family put forth to make a living were wiped out in a matter of moments.

“It was depressing” Simon said, “That’s where I grew up. That’s my whole life right there …”

He stops mid sentence and looks down: It still haunts him.

“Everything was gone.”

To this day, he hasn’t gone back to the village.

Simon and his sister moved to his grandmother’s house. Because she was married to a Hutu man, she had received help escaping and survived the genocide.

While Simon was living there, he discovered that one of his cousins in the village actually survived. They saw her picture at a local orphanage.

The little girl had been smart enough at age three, to call every passerby mommy or daddy and make them feel bad enough to carry her along to wherever they were going.

Somehow she ended up in safety, but no one knows how she did it.

Finally, the three of them were escaping the war-tattered lands of Rwanda. They were heading to America — where a whole new series of challenges lay ahead.

Leaving family, genocide behind

Tyree Harris — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 20:13:17 +0000

Leaving family, genocide behind

by Tyree Harris

“Everybody got along,” said Simon Mudahogora, describing the Rwandan village he grew up in, “It was a poor and peaceful life.” The 26-year-old economics major’s hometown included about 60 of his family members.

Daily life was as simple as it gets: Simon and the other children in his family woke up at 6:30 a.m. and walked a mile to the river to fetch some water for the day. He’d get back, take a cold shower, have his morning tea and bread, and arrive to school at 8:30 ready for class.

For hours, young Simon sat on bench made of dirt, in a room stuffed with 35 students. His family farmed while he was at school.

“That’s the only life I lived. I had no complaints at all,” he said.

In the evening, when the blistering sun cooled down, all the kids got together for a game of soccer — with a slight catch.

“We didn’t even have a ball,” he said. The kids would tie rubber bands around plastic bags and do their best to shape the concoction like a ball. “It was the only sport we could play.”

Though they had far less money and minimal resources, Simon believes that Rwandans prior to the war were happier than Americans are today: “Here, you have to do so much to live a normal life.”

Rwanda was divided primarily into two tribes of people, the Hutu (85 percent of the population) and the Tutsi (15 percent of the population and the group that Simon’s family belonged to). They had a history of war, but at the time, they lived together tranquilly. They were neighbors, they were classmates, and quite often, they were friends.

But that peace Simon described was ruined when the civil war reignited in 1994. Tutsi, who were relocated in Uganda in the first war in 1959, wanted to come back to Rwanda. When the Hutu refused to let them in, the Tutsi in Uganda formed an army and began attempting to penetrate the border.

For Simon’s family, 60 men, women and children in a row of houses, everything began to unravel. Their lives were at stake every waking moment.

Fearing that the Tutsi residing in Rwanda would aid the invaders from Uganda, radio stations in Rwanda began telling Hutu to kill their Tutsi neighbors to prevent this from happening.

Simon’s family had to flee home at night and sleep in the jungles. They didn’t want to be slain in the night like many other Tutsi.

Not a wink of sleep came their way in those thick jungles — they were petrified by the humming of low-hovering military-grade helicopters.

When 6:30 struck, however, life continued regularly: He walked to the river, got water, ate and went to school — even though just the night before, he was silently tucked into an African jungle, wondering if he’d live to see another day.

At school, the Hutu children often told Simon and the three other Tutsi children that they were going to kill them, and that they were going to die soon. When Simon told the teachers, they did nothing about it.

They were Hutu too.

Obviously, during all this, school was the last thing on his mind. His life was threatened 24/7, but his mother never stopped sending him. He remembers being upset, feeling like she didn’t love him, but in retrospect, he understands.

“She was doing what was best for me,” Simon said, “Get over my fear, be a man, you know?”

And boy, did he need that fearlessness.

April 1994 was a rainy month in Rwanda. Not rain like Oregon, but rain like monsoon.

Roadblocks had been set up throughout Rwanda. They were checking IDs and refusing Tutsi access to the roads. Tutsi began fleeing south to the country of Burundi. Simon’s family knew they had to follow suit, but they didn’t know the conditions of the roads, or how difficult the roadblocks were to evade.

They had to send a scout — Simon was elected to do so, but he refused to do it alone, so they agreed to send him with his little sister.

There he was: carrying out a life-or-death stealth operation with his younger sister — before he was even 10 years old.

Sneaking through those farms and fields, avoiding the roads at all costs, he could hear the blood-curdling screams of his people, the infernos blazing their homes and bodies.

Entire families were lined up and impaled by a single stick.

They finally arrived to a friend’s house which was located near the border of Rwanda and Burundi, but his friend informed them that with that the only time to leave was right then and there — there was no chance later. Simon and his sister could either leave with his friend to Burundi right then, or go back home and be stranded for death with his family.

And so, with heavy hearts, he and his sister prepared to leave the country and family they loved so much, thinking that it was unlikely they’d ever see them again — and they were right.

Wasting Time

Michael Crumling — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 18:08:41 +0000

I arose from my tent early and found a mess left in the camp. The raccoons had found the cooler. They discovered that our breakfast of eggs could be found inside. Little hand prints were left as evidence of the burglary. The broken egg shells and disarray were not enough. The little marks noted their presence and also their prescience. They had no doubt watched us putting things away, or just somehow knew that they could find goodies in that box. I clean up then go about just sitting alone in my woodsy campsite. The kids are still sleeping, and so are the rest of the adults. You would think that I would be lonely without the company, but I am not. The breeze blows by my ears, my hair gently moving. The chirping of birds and bubbling of running water are comforting; downright relaxing. It seems that you see so much more when you take the time to just sit, put away your generated thought, and watch the world go by you. There are so many insects. Normally, I wouldn’t want them around, but they don’t seem to bother me so much today. Except for the flies, none are “on” me. On a boulder in the distance, I see a cardinal. It flits between rocks and gravel, in search of its’ daily sustenance. The red bird seems oblivious to anything not crawling on or under the dirt. He has identified his area of interest and actively pursues his objective. A few little pecks at the soil, and he flies into a nearby branch. It becomes obvious that he achieved his goal, a little breakfast du jour. Maybe a snack of flies would appeal to him? I suspect that he won’t get that close to me. At least he has had breakfast…

A few butterflies roam by. Their meandering flight path taking them here and there, lighting on a stump, and then onto the edge of my laptop. You never really notice them much. They are impossible to ignore today. I wonder what it would be like to be a butterfly for a day. What things would you see as a result? A butterfly can take a merry path which we humans cannot follow. Down over the cliff, zipping over to the trees, ah, then to the big yellow flower. The path is not a straight line, hardly. It is a zig and a zag, a twist and a roll, a here and a there.

After what seemed like an eternity of nothing happening, I spy a fuzzy squirrel. He is gently creeping along the edge of the camp. He stops every few steps to…watch. I don’t move anything but my head and eyes. His careful but circuitous path is a marvel. He slips by me and nearer to the card table of food and equipment. He snakes around the rocks and then climbs up the back of the one nearest to the table. Then he pauses. Little beady eyes seek me out, watching for any sign of movement; any hint of danger. After a minute or so, he spies the potatoes on the table. These were to be the partner in that breakfast of eggs. Ever so deftly, he slinks onto the table right next to them. He pauses again and gives me a furtive glance. I watched intently until he is ready to pounce. I hissed and he jumped a foot in the air and looked at me again. He wanted a potato though! He stayed right there. I hissed again when he made his second attempt. This time he looked at me studiously. When I stood, he scampered away. He crept out following the same path which he had used to get in. Poor fellow just wanted some breakfast. I would have given him something if I had it ready. I was surprised at his desire for a potato. Maybe they really are that good!

I hear the rustling of sleeping gear, and the zipping of tent flaps. My quiet time will soon be over. I will enjoy the conversation if there is any, as kids these days can’t breathe without their cell phones. I will enjoy the time spent. But, in the future when I need serenity, I will play a song in my mind. “ Sittin in the morning sun, I’ll be sittin when the evening comes” and I will think of what I have seen today… just watching the tide roll away…

Healing Dose of Happiness

Michael Crumling — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 21:10:32 +0000

So I’m sitting here in Spicewood Texas at a nice little place. There are plenty of trees, and a magnificent natural swimming hole with waterfalls and springs. My boss was calling and I didn’t want to talk to him, so I didn’t. I emailed him instead. It was a pretty lousy thing to do, but this is my once a year visit with my family, and it is only for a few days. I love my job, and will go back to working my six or seven days a week soon enough. There comes a time when you just have to decide what is most important to you. I chose to enjoy my family. I’ll deal with the consequences later. I did leave a few hours early, but I had tended to the needs of the company. If I had just said nothing, I would have been better off. I could still do the job by phone, and enjoy the time. My absence would hardly go noticed.

So why am I sitting here writing about it? Because this is a pleasure! I am surrounded by my loved ones, in a marvelous natural environment, and just enjoying some personal thoughts. I am sharing a few with you now… because I want to!

To see children in diapers, grown into adults, and to see some family becoming frail with the passage of time, it brings home the importance of what we have. The immersion in nature makes the experience all the more primal. Like cave dwelling peoples. We roost, eat, sleep, swim, and interact; being ourselves without pretense or nervousness. We are bathed in unconditional love. I am convinced that everyone needs a dose of this medicine from time to time. When I go back to work, I’ll be much more relaxed, restored, and in a few days time, I will make up for the time I took.

An adult knows when it is time to vacate your concerns, heal your mind …feed your soul. It takes the courage of your convictions and the will to make the right choice. The chirping birds and wistful breeze carry me back to the happy place where troubles go away and fun can be had by all…….

Farmer Judd

Bob Grant - Editor — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 13:58:08 +0000

Farmer Judd

by Bob Grant

Farmer Judd worked in the mud to keep his garden pure,

Don’t mix or match, you’ll surely catch, disease he was for sure.

Sam the Slug worked in his mud but with a different mind,

For what he saw – there was no flaw – for Sam the Slug was blind.

For days on end Old Judd would bend to keep his seeds in sync,

He’d cuss, and fuss, when Sam moved on and set his seeds to link.

Corn in the morn – for Judd to scorn – the peas and carrots too,

Combining seeds, and weeds in one, as in his mouth he’d chew.

As time went on, and seeds he spun, Judd hated what he saw,

Until The Fair – and he was there – the countries biggest draw.

He took the credit – you can bet it – and the first to tell,

I am the one – see what I’ve done – my plants that make you well.

The Rocking Man

Minnette Coleman — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 15:28:08 +0000

He sits there most afternoons before it gets too hot. He sits and rocks with his head forward eyes glazed looking at something the rest of us cannot see. His black hair is always shiny, his beard combed with a touch of gray. Each day brings a change of clothes that are worn and a bit ragged, faded with food stains and sweat but if you pass him there is no odor of poverty, no odor of muck or filth. He is mentally disturbed and disturbing no one as he sits and rocks on my neighbors steps.

For a time I wondered why he didn’t sit on the steps of our brownstone as others do. It is something happens in Harlem where there is no gate guarding the entrance to the steps and porch. Then I realized that he may be disturbed but he is smart. The house where he sits is owned by a couple who use the bottom floor as the parlor and kitchen area. They enter and exit there so he does not have to worry about getting up and moving if someone leaves or enters the house. Our house has lots of coming and goings like Grand Central Station. Plus he is situated under a nice shady tree.

But he just sits there for a few hours each day. No one knows where he lives although one man did stop and ask him his name one day. He got a response as I was leaving my house but The Rocking Man spoke so low I didn’t hear it. I said my hello, I always try to greet him for he is now a fixture on the block, but he had used too much energy to step out of the safety of rocking to give the man his name. I understood and did not feel the least bit offended. I never asked him anything because I didn’t want to disturb him. If rocking on the steps gives him peace then I want him to be allowed his peace without any problems. The man asking his name said he would pray for him and check on him from time to time. Nice gesture in a world where people don’t care about those whose suffering they can’t understand.

The Rocking Man has been coming to the block since last fall. He never wore a coat when the weather got cold. He wore layers and layers of sweat shirts. I asked him once was he cold and got no response, but as winter moved in he faded from sight. Once I saw him walking down an avenue. He seemed to know where he was heading and I thought about following just to see where he lived. But I felt that was intruding plus I would be late for work. My concerns were his health and welfare and he seemed to be fine except for that part of his mind that needs him to constantly rock to have peace.

Speaking to him is a family affair. He seems to be more comfortable talking to males than females and has said hello to my husband a few times. On Saturday as my youngest daughter and I came from grocery shopping we passed him and said our “Good Mornings.” He replied: “Good afternoon.” I realized that it was a few minutes past 12. Like I said mentally disturbed, not stupid.

Some people just walk past and don’t say a word. Yesterday one of the good sisters coming from one of the two churches on our block walked past The Rocking Man as I was leaving the house. She was loudly humming a religious song as she looked down her nose at him. Here was a woman who had just left the Lord’s house, dressed in her Sunday’s finest, singing the Lord’s song and looking at one of his children as if he was the scum of the earth. My heart ached and I was glad The Rocking Man did not look up to see her twisted face. How can you sing something akin to “Near my God to thee” as you light a cigarette and look down your nose at a fellow human? He rocked on and I let my anger go so I could be pleasant when I spoke.

He rocked without responding.

One day he won’t be there. He will disappear from the block as others have done. Something about our street is comfortable to him. The children don’t harass him, the adults don’t bother him and some people speak to him. He has made those steps his comfort zone. Sometimes he even eats a sandwich there and removes every crumb without fail. He takes his trash with him as he slowly walks away towards his home. I have to admit that when he is gone I probably will not have noticed for a long time. Then one day I will see someone who reminds me of him, a white man with thick shiny black hir and a well trimmed beard, and I will ask myself how long has it been since he rocked on the steps next door? I will ask my husband and my daughter and they may not have seen him for months. We will assume the worst, that he is dead. We will hope for the best, that he died in peace. And we will pray that wherever he is, neared to God than to earth, he doesn’t have to rock any longer to settle his mind. Maybe in heaven he is dancing and singing and praying for all of those who wished him well.

My daughter’s wedding

steve sangirardi — Mon, 12 Jul 2010 13:48:52 +0000

Stephen Sangirardi               My daughter’s wedding              Bard715@aol.com

The day of my daughter’s wedding: there’s quite a difference between the rehearsal dinner and the actual wedding. My God! Early in the morning I broke a plate in the sink. I was nervous. My wife and daughter saw that and were a bit shocked, and I think they became calmer themselves when they saw my nerves. I have taught thirty-three years in the classroom, but never was I as jittery as I was that morning. I almost resorted to taking a shot of Scotch, but instead popped six magic pills. I will definitely say this for all future fathers who must marry off their daughters. Rehearsal was easy, the menu. The actual wedding was difficult, the meal. For openers there were so many people in the house that morning—the bridesmaids getting dressed—and so many pictures were taken in different combinations, the three photographers barking orders left and right. Then there was the crowd of people outside, including the neighbors, the relatives, and the limos.
   And of course, drum roll, the litmus test that I had been preparing for the last four months: it was time to walk down the aisle with my daughter using only my canes, and not the wheelchair or even the walker, as I had promised a number of people, especially myself. There I was waiting in the back of Holy Name church, while the bridesmaids, grandparents, page boys and flower girls began their march. Then there were only two people left: the bride and her father. That terribly familiar wedding music of ‘here comes the bride.’ Gulp. I must tell you that I was very scared and began crying. I saw about a million people in the church expecting me to be peruked and stately for the final act. At the same time I was trying to think of the right metaphor for the occasion. It was not so much an emotional outcry as it was a physical fear of not being able to walk to the front of the church. The runner for one thing was a culprit. It looked too easy to slip on, and if I slipped I would have scuttled my daughter’s conjugal ship as well, and such a twin-sinking would have somewhat defeated the whole point of her marriage. As soon as I started my walk, I hit upon the strange metaphor: the Via Dolorosa. A man is not supposed to be thinking of crucifixions when he’s accompanying his daughter down the wedding aisle, but this is the image that sustained me and galvanized me from Point A to Point B, along with the Stations of the Cross on the sides of Holy Name. Mainly, though, my eyes were fixed on the ground. So as I caned down the aisle, all ninety feet, I grabbed onto each pew with my left hand, slowly, gingerly, with Stephanie’s arm occasionally aiding me. I was also fortified by the faces of friends in each pew; each familiar, encouraging face was good for another five steps. Eventually, after what seemed like a double-heaping of the wedding march because the father of the bride was taking so long, I made it to the front of the church.
   I should mention the slightly ominous sign that happened right before my walk. The page boy, who directly preceded us, tripped twice on the runner motoring down the aisle. I figured that foreshadowed my own fall. But then I thought—if one of us has to stumble, better the little guy than me. I think, finally, what I found most moving and comforting during my via dolorosa was how Stephanie reached out a few times to touch my elbow and ask if I were okay. She was the Queen, with a hundred women attending her, and looked stunning in her gown, and yet she thought enough of my plight to pause from her coronation march to ask me how I was doing and extended her left hand like a flying buttress to support my sunken, tottering cathedral.
   I reached the front. Perched with both canes in my left hand, with my right hand I removed her veil without ripping anything or socking her in the jaw. I shook Raffaele’s hand and kissed Stephanie. Then I sat in the big blue chair Father Biglin had placed in the front of the church for me. I was immensely satisfied, grateful, brave. As I sat, I never listened so carefully to the words of the Mass. My bow tie even stayed in place.
   During all this time in the church and before the church and after the church, amid the busy commotion, the miracle at the wedding feast of Cana occurred: the heavy rain predicted all day did not fall in New Rochelle. The rain fell heavily in the Bronx, White Plains, Pawling, but not in New Rochelle, as though a circle of angelic clouds created a sunny space for my daughter’s day. For when she stepped out of the house in her gown, the sun finally came out on this threatening day. The sun came out right after Mass when the rice and the rose pedals were thrown their way, and the sun came out when they took their pictures in Untermeyer Park in Yonkers. And then the stars came out at the end of the night when our guests left the Villa Barone.
   Now I’m not sure about something here. Either my father Angelo in heaven brought the sun, because he couldn’t attend his granddaughter’s wedding in person, or I brought the sun by dint of my insane prayer throughout the day. One of us petitioned the nice weather, but since I’ve been trying my best these days to eliminate all stupidity from my person, I will gladly give credit to my dad for the superb skies and thank him a billion times.
   What a day! What a night!

   Finally—here is the wedding message I wrote to Stephanie and Raffaele:
   A wedding message— 7/10/10

   By the time you read this card, the two of you will have walked down the aisle with me behind you. All things will have bloomed. All butterflies will have been unleashed by then, and the vows which have already been spoken long before today will have been repeated. Allow me to say what’s on my mind without in any way diminishing your thunder. I may have published a book, and taught for thirty-three years, and walked the dangerous streets of Queens Village at night in the seventies to dance with girls I had great crushes on, and showed grace under pressure when the Yankees won agonizing Game 7 of the ‘62 World Series. None of that compares to the loving anxiety of walking down the aisle with you today, Steph, on the day of your wedding, with a million memories swinging between us, and then dancing that dance we have practiced in the living room like a couple of debutantes.
   Now, no Sicilian can refuse a favor on the day of his daughter’s wedding. I am certainly not Sicilian, but today is my daughter’s wedding. And so here is the favor I honor: I will keep this father’s message short and do my best to make this day a happy one for you and Raffaele.
   Your father, Steve—peruked and stately for the final act.
　
　

Subway Story: No Conversation

Minnette Coleman — Sun, 11 Jul 2010 16:08:18 +0000

In the summer I don’t work on Fridays. If I wake up early enough I still fall into the rush hour pattern and take the subway to parts of the city to do some shopping for home and self. I like the early morning since most people are going to work. New Yorkers tend to do half days work on Friday so by the time they are escaping the office I am already at home, sitting on the deck eating lunch and talking with my family.

So why would someone try to pick me up at 9:30 on a hot Friday morning? Hey it’s New York and I guess he felt he had to try.There I was dripping with perspiration, my dark glasses so fogged up I could barely see. I wondered where all these people were going, many obviously late for work the way they kept checking their watches. But I didn’t care I was off to one of my favorite stores and I didn’t have to go to the office. The world around was just backdrop.

When I got on the train I headed for an empty seat next to a rather short gentleman. I pulled out a small towel that I got years ago when the Knicks were in some kind of championship. A long time ago and I am obviously not a basketball fan, but I noticed in the reflection in the window across from me that my seat companion was watching my every move. So I dabbed my chest to remove the dripping water and I touched my face until I was finally cool. Must have been something sensual about these moves to him because he couldn’t take his eyes off of me.

I am no raving beauty and I certainly was nothing to brag about in the persistent heat New York had been having all week. I didn’t feel uncomfortable as he watched me, that’s what some people do on the train. They invade your space by staring at you until you can’t take it and either move or freak out. I’ve seen it happen before. But I sat back and relaxed as the over zealous air conditioning cooled me down. I was on an express train and the next stop was mine.

“How are you doing today?” he asked. I was so startled I said a soft “Pardon me?” and he repeated the question.

What was this question really about I wondered as I gave him my best southern girl smile. It was the answer that would begin or end a conversation. I responded: “Fine, thank you.”

Then I waited.

The train flew down the tracks bypassing the local stops as I considered the ramifications of my short answer. I did not extend the tone of conversation by asking how he was. It could have turned into the history of his life or where he was going and what he was doing. Perhaps he would have never stopped talking. Perhaps he would have nodded and said nothing at all.

My answer was my protection. I was not rude or crude or unfriendly. I merely explained my disinterest in moving this relationship further with my response.

He didn’t speak again.

Being a very imaginative person I thought about what this man was doing. Perhaps he was interested in talking to women and couldn’t get up the courage to start a conversation. Someone may have schooled him on the finer points of etiquette and suggested that he start with something close to “Lovely day, isn’t it?” It was his lack of persistence that brought me to this conclusion.

But maybe I was reading too much into it. Maybe he was just being friendly. But why watch me wipe sweat from my body and wait until I was relaxed and settled to speak to me? It made little sense to me but things people do on the subway train often go beyond comprehension.

At my stop I rose and said “Have a nice day” to him. It was the least I could do once I realized he was not getting off with me. He said a mere thanks as I left the train feeling his eyes on me. That was a bit creepy.

Here’s the thing though: What did he really want from me besides a friendly gesture? How would I ever know? and If his mug showed up on the six o’clock news as a serial killer would I remember him?

Probably not. You see the thing about riding the subway is most of us try not to see what is around us. We don’t want to know the rest of the world. I have seen people who suddenly realize they are sitting next to a friend after they have been on the train for a few stops. We close out everything around us so that we will not be bothered on the ride.

I went about my banking and shopping sweating and smiling to be out and about. I had not been totally rude to the man as I have seen others do giving him the once over and not saying anything. And he did not respond as I have seen others do with a “Bitch, I just asked you a question. You think you too good to talk to me?” It is always how to respond to the lines you get on the train that make or break your day.

But deep instead you wonder, just like me, what did this guy REALLY want?

with or without them

paul perry poet — Sat, 10 Jul 2010 23:36:17 +0000

they’re all nuts

and they wanna drive us nuts

and they do,

some of us lose it bad

some of lose it good.

they are not happy

when you are happy when they are unhappy.

they want you to suffer with them

and die without them.

they are women

and they are out there

and in here

silently stalking

some irresistible

some tempting

all for the taking,

they hunt in masses

and alone

in search of our souls;

and they will get them,

cause we want their bodies,

their tits,

their asses,

their temporary love,

their attention and admiration.

that reassuring reward which comes with their approving conquest;

but we have to take their moodiness,

their insecurities,

that monthly instability

and long term lunacy,

promise to love them forever

have only them on our minds

and in our dreams;

though they shatter our fantasies

and create living nightmares

where they cast us on a journey through the maze that is their minds;

lost,

bewildered,

forever drifting

lost in love

eventual nomads of romance.

hence we continue to seek them;

the women!

the last of god’s creations

we go mad with them

and go mad without them.

I saw her there…

Michael Crumling — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 03:32:37 +0000

I saw her here,

I saw her there,

I saw her hair right down to there,

Her lips of wine,

Her scent divine,

God, I want to make her mine.

Her lovely face,

Her firm embrace,

Her dazzling eyes,

Make my heart race.

A heated kiss,

Our tongues entwine,

For me sheer bliss,

The girl is mine.

The pounding hearts,

And writhing flesh,

Pulsating parts,

As we enmesh.

The race is on,

The heat of fire,

Our faces drawn,

In our desire.

The sticky end,

Now drawing near,

She jabs her tongue,

Into my ear.

With screams so loud,

Our lungs exhale,

Two on a cloud,

Two bodies prevail.

With minds adrift,

And bodies afloat

Her bare midriff

No time to gloat.

Just drift away,

Her tummy of glue,

With nothing to say,

Just me and you…….

Cycle of Love

Jose Antonio Ponce — Thu, 01 Jul 2010 23:31:46 +0000

skinny guy,

plump girl,

riding on a two stroke dirt bike.

he’s scruffy

and she’s….well…I can’t tell

because he’s given her the better helmet.

full face.

they dart through traffic

and try to run down a pedestrian

crossing against the green

just for fun

he laughs.

she nods in agreement

and signals left for him

and they are gone…

gone…

in love.

no love story

paul perry poet — Thu, 01 Jul 2010 20:05:28 +0000

no love story

“Looking out the window on a gray day, I see two pigeons on the ledge of the old house across the street. One pigeon seems to be pecking at the other pigeon which sits cuddled by its side. Perhaps the one pigeon is being dear to the other pigeon, and I wish someone would be dear to me. Suddenly, the one pigeon that was doing the pecking bobbles away to the other side of the ledge, and eventually flies away. Perhaps they misunderstood each other. I wish someone understood me.”

There was a knock on the door. Jimmy Burns was sitting at a small table by the window. Ants crawled along the floor. “Maybe they’ll share something,” he thought. Jimmy could see footsteps through the crack under the door. There was a second knock. Jimmy sat silently still, only moving to lift the cigarette to his mouth.

“I know you’re in there you bastard, open the door!” came the voice from outside.

Jimmy didn’t budge. He was unemployed. Down. Out. Nowhere to go, nothing to do. Whoever it was knocking knew that. There was a third knock.

“Open the door asshole; I know you’re in there!”

Jimmy stared at the footsteps under the crack. “I hope she goes away,” he thought. He knew it would be a matter of time before things went bad. It was bound to happen. A devil and a saint could meet half way, but a man and a woman would eventually move in different circles. It all comes down to one thing; the possession of another’s soul. For good or for bad. It’s the meeting point. Three months without working, drinking all night and sleeping all day was more than most women could tolerate. Things had gone stale. The great painter bit was not working anymore. Jimmy could no longer use the talent to make himself appear as a future great one. He was just a drunk that could paint but couldn’t get it up every time the woman demanded. Basically, cause he didn’t feel like. There was a fourth knock. Then the phone started ringing.

“Open the door you crazy bastard, I wanna get my things!”

Jimmy looked at where the phone sat on the ground beside three black plastic bags. Inside them were the clothes and other material possessions she had left behind the day he kicked her sorry ass out. There was another ring.

“Are you gonna get the phone you lazy bum?” shrieked her voice from under the door.

Jimmy sat watching as he saw the footsteps under the door slowly start to disappear.

“F… you, you asshole. I’ll be back.”

“No you won’t,” Jimmy said in a low voice while getting up and walking towards the phone.

The phone rang again. He picked it up and put it right back down. Jimmy looked at the bags and walked towards them. He carried them over to the window. He opened the window and threw the bags out one by one. Jimmy watched the bags fall and splatter on the sidewalk. He caught a glimpse of the sun through the buildings and the shock of the faces of the pedestrians looking up. The phone started ringing again.

“What the f…! This has to be a conspiracy,” he shouted. He walked over to the phone and answered.

“Who is it!?”

“Mr. Burns”

“No, I’m Mr. Burns who are you?”

“Is this Mr. Burns?”

Jimmy hung up. “These people and their stupid questions!” he shouted.

He walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. He got out a carton of orange juice and set it on the counter. He then opened the freezer and reached in pulling out a bottle of vodka. There was a moment of temporary silence just before he heard her yelling from below:

“You sick bastard, you’re gonna pay for this!”

“I already have you crazy b…,” said Jimmy.

He peeked through his dusty blinds and saw her picking up her things. For a moment he felt bad and almost opened the window to express regret for her bags bursting open. But then he started to recall the hell she had been putting him through. She was no saint. She had become everything Jimmy hated about women. She took advantage of his lust for her and used it as a means to exploit his talent. She wanted him to forget art and get a real job. But Jimmy hadn’t had a real job in years. Rent, booze, cigarettes, and on some occasions, a good meal, was what made up a day of priorities for Jimmy. She wanted more. That was all that mattered. She had also begun to break balls about him sitting around doing nothing; waiting for greatness to be rw¡ewarded. She got on him for leaving the toilet seat up; when he should shower and shave; when he could come and go. It had all been too much for Jimmy. That’s why he threw her out and wasn’t about to open the window and say something to get her back. He watched as she picked up the rest of her stuff then walked over to the kitchen counter and rinsed out a glass from all the dirty dishes in the sink. He poured some vodka in the glass and on top of that he poured some orange juice.

“To liberty,” he said.

The phone rang once again. Jimmy watched as the ringing filled the room and echoed off the walls. He slowly walked over to it and answered:

“Hello”

“Hello, Jimmy,” said a woman’s voice.

“Who is this?” he asked

“You don’t remember my voice?”

“Mom?!”

“No silly, it’s Isabella.”

“OH, Isabella”

“What are you doing?”

“Having breakfast.”

“Are you busy today?”

“Not really, what’s up?”

“I’d like to see you.”

“Really, why?”

“I want to show you something.”

Jimmy had met Isabella at a party a few months back. They ‘d had a few drinks together and had a close encounter of some sort. Shortly after he met the woman who made his life a living hell, so he was unable to get to know her better. He was full of mixed emotions. Glad on the one hand because his sexual drive showed signs of rejuvenation; yet hesitant on the other because the last thing he wanted after regaining his liberty was another woman to try to dominate him and chain him down. “But what the hell,” he thought, “I’ll take them as they come.”

Decisions Made

Bob Grant - Editor — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 23:01:58 +0000

Decisions Made

by Bob Grant

Which one is first – the left or right,

when shoes go on in morning’s light.

Socks the same before you start,

conclusions formed but just a part.

Pants come next for you to choose,

they have to match your socks and shoes.

Swipe that stick for six or eight,

check that clock you can’t be late.

Shirt of white or maybe blue,

down one egg or go for two.

Decisions made like this and more -

you’ve yet to make it out the door.

THE WORLD’S BEST

timbryce — Fri, 25 Jun 2010 10:25:24 +0000

I find it rather amusing when people start touting their products as the “world’s best” or “world’s finest.” Such boasts are usually self-proclaimed and are not based on some independent person or group to impartially judge the products. In fact, such superficial claims detract from the company’s credibility as opposed to adding to it. For example, try an Internet search on “World’s Best (whatever)” and you’ll undoubtedly run into more opinions than facts.

I’ve been a baseball fan for a number of years, but even I snicker when I hear Americans brag about their “World Series” as the world championship. We’ve got some great talent in this country and in all likelihood we may very well win such a championship, but I think there are a lot of countries who would love to participate in such a series. Actually, calling it the “World Series” without such participation smacks of arrogance.

For years there has been a long ongoing argument amongst rock and roll aficionados as to which was the “World’s Best” band; with the Beatles, Rolling Stones, and Led Zepplin often mentioned. As much as I liked all three groups, I would have to say most adamantly, “Who cares!?” Isn’t it enough they each sold millions of records, made a lot of fans, and tons of money? Why can’t we just enjoy them for who they are?

There is something twisted in the American character requiring us to formulate a pecking order for everything thereby establishing bragging rights. I guess it is due to the competitive nature of this country. Somehow I don’t understand the logic when people say they have the “world’s best” philly cheese steak, chicken wings, chili, or whatever. Isn’t it sufficient to simply say something is either good or bad?

This obsession with “world’s best” has become so obnoxious, I openly laugh whenever I see it, which in Manhattan seems to be everywhere. Next time you see “world’s best” written down, ask the proprietor to show you the certificate awarded to them and the statistics used by the judges in the competition. Better yet, ask them if they would be willing to participate in an independent contest whereby you’ll act as the “world’s greatest” judge. Don’t be surprised if they balk at the offer.

Keep the Faith!

Note: All trademarks both marked and unmarked belong to their respective companies.

Tim Bryce is the Managing Director of M. Bryce & Associates (MBA) of Palm Harbor, Florida and has over 30 years of experience in the management consulting field. He can be reached at timb001@phmainstreet.com

For Tim’s columns, see:
http://www.phmainstreet.com/timbryce.htm

COMING IN JULY: “Tin Heads” – where transportation merges with communications. What is Bryce up to now?

Afterlife

Jose Antonio Ponce — Fri, 11 Jun 2010 04:13:19 +0000

We’re all heading

to the same destination in this life.

We end up

on the mortician’s table,

bloody and bruised,

old and twisted,

pale, toothless and thin.

Some of us racing

to get there while others

just mosey along

admiring the scenery

and waiting their turn.

What’s on the other side?

Billy Graham’s heaven”?

Billy Sunday’s hell?

Nothingness?

Another shot at life?

There is great debate about this.

In the end

we mete out our own justice.

Our suffering,

at least in this life,

is directly proportional

to the pain we have caused.

Purgatory is the discovery

on the other side

of what damage we have done

and the disappointment

hidden from our hearts

now exposed.

It is seeing the full weight of our sins

Brought to bear on this world

And the sins of those you loved

revealed.

And it is more terrible

than we can imagine.

Snakes and Wellies

Kaye — Fri, 11 Jun 2010 00:41:54 +0000

This past weekend was beautiful down in this part of the Carolinas. The sun was shinning and plants are in full bloom. Even the crape myrtles have begun to show off.

I’m an avid gardener. I love toiling in the soil, planting and waiting with eager anticipation for little seedlings emerge. Just about all of my life I’ve had a garden. I learned to love gardens and gardening because of my grandmother who planted a garden every spring. She always planted the same vegetables; yellow squash, waxed and green string beans, cabbage and turnip and collard greens. At the very back of her yard was a grape arbor that she cultivated and pampered so that in the fall she could make her delicious sweet wine. Her front yard, shaded by an enormous maple tree, was lush with shale loving lily of the valley and variegated hosta plants. Her side yard boasted a variety of red, yellow and pink roses, blue hydrangea, snapdragons and a lilac. My mother was also a gardener as are all three of my sisters and both of my children so, it’s in the blood.

During the spring, summer and into mid fall you can find me in the garden most weekends and several weekday evenings. It is a passion with me and no matter how often I say, “I’m not going out into the garden today”, I always find myself at least walking through one of the gardens I cultivate contemplating whether I should redo, leave alone or add to it.

I have come to learn over the years that southern gardening is a bit different than gardening up north. I can grow some of the same species of plant and some I can’t, although, I promise you, I have tried. The climate is different and garden pests are different from those up north. In the south there are snakes, big ominous snakes. Up north, the only snake I have ever saw in a garden or near my house was a little green garden snake and I have never seen one longer than 6 inches and no large than my little finger in diameter. Until…

Last Saturday was one of those classic southern sultry summer days. You know the stuff of novels like The Sisterhood of Blackberry Corner by Andrea Smith, Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird or novels by Anne Rivers Siddons. It was a brutally hot day. So after an early morning in the vegetable garden and a late afternoon in the herb garden my husband and I decide that we would throw something on the grill. We just wanted a hamburgers so we decide to use the little hibachi type grill we keep on the deck.

In the kitchen I prepared the mixture of mostly ground turkey and small portion of ground round to give the burger that beef taste combined with soy sauce, Worcestershire, World Market’s all purpose salt free seasoning and their out of this world Chicago Steak and Chops seasoning blend and popped those babies on the grill While they were cooking I prepared slices of red onion and tomato. I had the Kaiser Rolls sliced and brushed with extra virgin olive oil and waiting to be grill toasted. The dill pickles, ranch dressing and lettuce were at the ready while on the grill the burgers, having been turned twice, were ready.

I waked out of the kitchen door onto the deck and stopped dead in my tracks. There on my deck, between me and the grill, was a 4 foot long snake, no exaggeration. The blood curdling scream that emanated from my moth, I am sure, was heard around the entire state. It sure brought my husband and neighbor running.

My spouse doused the ominous reptile with gasoline and it left the deck with surprising speed and headed for one of my flower beds. I left the deck with surprising speed heading for the safety of my kitchen. With garden hoes in hand husband and neighbor eventually caught the snake and it met its demise. Two snakes perished that day, one in my yard and one in our neighbor’s yard.

In an effort to prove to me that it was safe to return to the deck and yard I was summoned to identify the remains. I reluctantly left the house but before I did, I donned a pair of Wellies which will be a part of my garden attire for the remainder of the season. I usually wear garden clogs when I’m out in the yard but from now on it’s the Wellies and my eyes will be scanning every inch of the property in the off chance that another mammoth snake decides to visit.

The $5,000 Pancake

Congressman Billybob — Tue, 08 Jun 2010 13:04:10 +0000

The $5,000 Pancake

Saturday a week ago I had a $5,000 blueberry pancake. Actually, I had two of them. They were just as delicious as the ones I had last fall. All of them were courtesy of the Scaly Mountain Women’s Club.

Scaly Mountain is an unincorporated community just down the Dillard Road from us, about ten miles from the intersection of the North Carolina, South Carolina, and Georgia borders. In the summer, Scaly Mountain swells to several thousand people. In the winter, it shrinks to a few hundred. But, there is never a shortage of fine people who willingly give their time, efforts and treasure for the benefit of others.

A lady whom we’ve met before, Kay Steele, was kind enough to tell us the history of the Women’s Club. It began 22 years ago with just 14 members. Now, it has grown to about 80 women. This is the seventh year they have run their Pancake Breakfast at the Community Center (which used to be a church, and before that was a one-room school, but more about that later).

How cute, you say. These nice ladies get together an cook up some pancakes. These ladies with their various efforts have raised more than $100,000 in the last ten years. They have put all of that money into scholarships. Last year they were supporting ten local children with college scholarships. They have five more in the pipeline that they want to help next year. Under their current leaders, Karen Mans and Faye Bellwood, I’m sure they will make their newest goal.

Here’s what to expect if you venture up, or down, the Dillard Road on the fourth Saturday morning of every summer month. The well-cared-for, white-painted plain board church is small, just ten tables fit in its space. Other tables are outside on its deck. The ladies serve excellent blueberry pancakes – plain ones if you prefer – plus local sausage cooked just right, and coffee and orange juice.

They also serve up a diverse menu of guests. Every single time that we’ve gone to the Scaly Breakfasts, we’ve met more people we’ve never seen before, from a variety of states and a variety of occupations, but all of whom enjoy good pancakes and worthy purposes.

I learned the history of the venerable building because Everett Miller was there. He and his father went to school in that building. And, they went there when they were too young to go inside. When the adults were busy putting in the crops, tending them, and harvesting them, there was no one to spare to mind the youngest children. They were brought to the outside of the school and asked to stay there and play quietly. Presumably, they would be allowed inside if it started to rain.

The ladies have a cook book and a silent auction in addition to the pancake breakfasts. The breakfasts cost just $5.50 each, so you can imagine how many they have to sell to make up $5,000. The cook book includes delicious old photographs and histories, as well as the recipes.

Is there a broader lesson in what these ladies are doing?

No bureaucrats are involved. No salaries are involved. The ladies even try to cover the costs of the food by having businesses put sponsor cards on each of the tables. The idea is to turn what is paid at the door into pure “profits,” which is to say, pure scholarships for the young people.

Anyone anywhere in the United States can do exactly what the ladies of Scaly Mountain have done. I don’t mean just pancakes, but if you do that, be sure to include blueberries. What it takes is organization around a worthy purpose, and then the gumption to see it through until it becomes successful.

That is not complicated. It’s not difficult, if you are willing to put one step after another toward your goal. And, it is very, very satisfying to all people concerned. As the saying goes, “Try it. You’ll like it.” I guarantee it.

About the Author: John Armor practiced before the Supreme Court for 33 years. John_Armor@aya,yale.edu His latest book, to appear in September, is on Thomas Paine. www.TheseAreTheTimes.us

John Armor, Esq.
Box 243, 421 Kettle Rock Road
Highlands, NC 28741
828.200-0320
John_Armor@aya.yale.edu
www.TheseAreTheTimes.us

Memorial Day Memories

Alan Caruba — Mon, 31 May 2010 13:55:33 +0000

Memorial Day Memories

By Alan Caruba

I have a few enduring Memorial Day memories. Most involve my Dad who never served in the military, being too young for the First World War and too old for the Second twenty years later.

Even so, there was never a Memorial Day in Maplewood, NJ when we did not go down to the park, also named Memorial, and watch the veterans, the police and fire units, the Boy and Girl Scouts, and the high school band march to the grassy area where town officials would give speeches about the fallen heroes. Little Maplewood had its share that had served in all of the nation’s wars.

Even as a child I understood my Father’s pride in his nation and in those who had fought to protect its liberty. Later, when I was in the military my other memory was marching through downtown Columbus, Georgia during the Memorial Day parades.

It is a different kind of holiday from Fourth of July. It’s about remembrance. It is focused on those whom Lincoln said gave their last full measure of devotion to their nation.

It is a sober holiday, but it is also a day for picnics and barbecues. In a way, those who died are honored by the mundane activities in which we engage on a day dedicated to their memory. They would have done the same had they lived.

What strikes me most is the way, then and now, so many young men enlisted to fight our wars. Others accepted conscription and fought bravely too. What is so very different is today’s all-volunteer military. Nobody has to sign up for duty, but they do.

The demarcation line came in the 1970s when Americans, seeing the carnage of war in Vietnam on their nightly television news, watching the casualty numbers grow, gradually came together to protest year after year until the conflict ended.

While we have great pride in our military, regarding it more highly than other element of our government, Americans have become detached from the bloodletting of war. They are fought at great distances. Mostly, Americans are highly resistant to any losses in battle despite the records in past wars of literally thousands of casualties. Those were wars we needed to win.

The news lately was of the one thousandth casualty in Afghanistan. We have been there since shortly after 9/11. We lose 40,000 people to death on our highways every year; more by far than the totals of those we have lost in Afghanistan and Iraq.

It doesn’t make it any less painful for their families, but in the long battle for freedom, it is a remarkably small price to pay and the extraordinary part is that there are still heroes willing to pay the price.

Plato said it best. “Only the dead have seen the end of war.”

U.S. problems rooted in poverty

Tyree Harris — Thu, 27 May 2010 11:40:49 +0000

U.S. problems rooted in poverty

by Tyree Harris

One of the greatest lessons I’ve ever learned was that if you really want to solve a problem, you must start at the origins of it. Rather than spending time wrestling with the effects of a bigger issue, one should focus on the source of hardship, and that will usually eliminate any resulting side issues.

Apparently, America skipped school the day that lesson was taught.

We live in a nation with high incarceration rates, high obesity rates, drug problems and questionable high school curriculums. America has dedicated countless funds, bills and infomercials to ending all these issues, but the problems seem to be going nowhere.

Why? Because they are just the results of something larger: poverty.

Poverty brews mis-education

Raggedy books. Prison-style windows. Unheated buildings. Teachers more concerned with discipline than academics. All of these are common sights in America’s inner-city schools. Because these areas are low-income, with not as much tax money and neighborhood support going to their schools, they often have outdated books and a piteous curriculum with limited advanced placement courses, little emphasis on higher education and overfilled classes.

Suburban schools don’t feel these same effects — just ask anyone who went to Lake Oswego, or anyone who went to a suburban school in Baltimore, Md. According to a 2008 report from CBS News, 81.5 percent of the public school students in Baltimore’s suburbs graduate, compared to just 34.6 within Baltimore’s inner-city schools.

Ouch.

Because people are living in poor areas, they are much less likely to graduate (17 of the nation’s 50 largest cities had graduation rates lower than 50 percent). Poverty has a direct relationship to poor education, because of our schools’ dependency on regional taxation and neighborhood support. If your area cannot afford to pour a lot of tax money into schools and extra curricular programs — too bad. All our nation has to say then is, “Good luck earning your GED.”

Poverty leads to crime and incarceration

From great poverty arises great desperation. As we saw, many inner-city children were never taught to appreciate an education, and in turn, weren’t granted the necessary skills to succeed in society.

No money, no school and endless pressure to survive create a perfect storm for a life of crime.

America has the highest rate of intentional gun deaths in the world — not coincidentally, America also has the worst distribution of wealth amongst industrialized nations, and one of the highest poverty rates.

The formula is clear: High poverty plus high needs equals high crime rate.

Understand that I do not support any type of drug distribution, violent crime or illegal behavior of this nature. But if I am ever hungry, jobless and have children to feed, there isn’t much I wouldn’t do to make those ends meet. Sure, it’s easy for us, sitting in this academic fantasy world, to sit on our high horses and speak lowly upon what some people do to survive in poverty-stricken areas; but you know, if you grew up the way some of those kids grew up, maybe you’d be able to understand.

Our nation continues to fight crime and drug distribution with stiffening laws, a hypocritical death sentence and even a “war on drugs.” But a war on poverty would have far greater effects on reducing our crime rate than any of the current methods of crime prevention.

And to think, they wouldn’t have to send 2 million Americans behind bars in the process.

Poverty is not earned. It is ascribed.

Because of poverty, you are more likely to be both malnourished and obese, to be robbed and convicted of robbery, and to be caught both selling and using drugs. When you are poor, you have the highest potential to be the criminal and victim — and this award is ascribed to us at birth.

According to heartsandminds.org, one in four children lives below the official poverty line. That means one in four children is at a higher risk of all the previously mentioned issues by birth right. Combine that with a culmination of studies that indicate that when you are born poor, you most likely will stay poor, and a horrible truth is realized. One in four of all American children are at a very high risk of falling victim to all of our greatest social problems, just because they were born into certain families and certain areas.

Completely unfair, and directly contradicting the romanticized dreams of the American way.

A fat, dumb nation

The issue of poverty is the single greatest problem in our society, yet it is cast aside and overshadowed by its more visible aftermath. Nothing can be solved without the understanding of origins. If America cannot pull together and fight poverty as a nation, it will continue to grow more obese, more stupid and more violent.

To cure poverty is to cure America.

Empathy

steve sangirardi — Wed, 19 May 2010 01:36:37 +0000

Stephen Sangirardi     Empathy    Bard715@aol.com

    By the way, what is empathy? I’ll tell you what is, and keep it locked in your cranium! You walk into a small men’s room at some public place, and noticing that the one stall door is closed, you rightly conclude that someone is squatting on the bowl, doing number 2. You can even see his pants rolled down to his Wing-tip shoes. Tee-hee. Now haven’t you been in that position before, bub, when you’ve fervently hoped that no one would enter the bathroom as you discharged excrement, sometimes lingeringly, or if someone did walk in and absolutely had to pee, that he would pee quickly out of consideration for your predicament? That he would rinse his hands quickly and not linger in front of the mirror, pondering the wave in his hair? That he would be considerate of your self-conscious pose and your wish that what you’re doing here…you could be doing at home?
   Go, therefore, and do likewise.

Shaped, Shifted, and Well-Picked

Tyree Harris — Wed, 19 May 2010 01:34:01 +0000

Shaped, Shifted, and Well-Picked

by Tyree Harris

Growing up, my mother never let my hair grow out. I’d run around, bald scalp glistening from all the hair grease, never really understanding why I just couldn’t let my hair streak down in glorified rows like Allen Iverson’s. For whatever reason, my mom fancied sitting me down in a chair, setting the clippers on the lowest blade and hacking away at my poor little baby curls until I looked like the shiniest Milk Dud in the box.

Nothing was worse than hearing that loud “TYREEEEEEEE, COME HERE!!!” with the faint buzzing of hair clippers in the background.

Thus, I resented baldness. Spending nearly all of my early life with a naked scalp grew tiresome. I wanted to let my hair grow free! I wanted to spend endless time shaping, shifting and altering my hair! Hell, I even wanted to have bad hair days where people would look at me like I was crazy. But all of that was stripped from me, at the hands of a clipper-wielding mother with a fixation on shiny craniums.

My sophomore year in high school, however, my streak of baldness ended when I grew my hair out for the first time.

“Take that, Mom,” I thought to myself.

My hair grew for about five months, which meant it was long enough to be braided for the first time.

I jumped on the first opportunity I saw — a lady who said she would twist my hair into Iverson-esque designs for the low price of $10. I met her on a Sunday night at her place and hopped into her kitchen chair in front of a 16-inch TV.

The act of human torture that followed was one of the worst pains I have ever felt.

Her fingers were small machetes — carving and knotting inexplicable designs into my head; I felt the tightness of the braids literally pull my forehead and eyelids up.

It didn’t help that her kids kept interrupting her, making the slow deterioration of my skull an even slower process.

Two hours and 15 restrained tear drops later, the masterpiece was complete — and let me tell you, beauty always seems to be worth the pain. Lush little braided circles lathered in Blue Magic danced upon my head in all directions, and I was convinced of their perfection until I went to bed that night and couldn’t sleep. The pain was completely unmanageable. I only had those braids in for about 24 hours, and I was so scared to get them done again that I immediately scheduled an appointment to return back to the baldness.

The low-fade was back, but I still resented it just the same.

It wasn’t until the beginning of my senior year that I decided to let my hair grow again. But this time it was different. I had motivations beyond a loathing of baldness.

I began to think about the images of professional black men in the media. They are always short-haired. Hairstyles such as braids, dreads and even afros, are associated with being gangsta, ignorant, thug or “hood.” I grew tired of these norms. I shouldn’t have to keep my hair low just to not look “hood.” I should have the right to do what I want with my hair and still be able to maintain a high level of professionalism without sacrificing my soul to the gods of baldness.

If an employer doesn’t hire me because of the unprofessionalism of my hair, then I wouldn’t want to work for them anyway.

So, with this newfound rebellion on two fronts (against my mom’s tyrannical rule of my scalp and antiquated social norms) I decided I will never cut my hair again. I love this huge black cotton wad on my head; though it can be virtually unmanageable at times, the fact that I have tied so much symbolic value to it makes it almost priceless to me.

But beyond symbolism, the afro, I’ve learned, is quite practical: I no longer have to suffer from a cold noggin in the winter — my ‘fro serves as a windbreaker.

Rain is no longer an issue. Umbrellas? Hoods? Please! All I need is a well-picked afro to catch the drops of rain and encase them in its shell.

I no longer need a pillow — my thick afro offers plenty of comfort and support.

I love my hair, and it takes me a long time to get it looking decent. For some reason though, people think they can just run around and touch it at will.

You don’t run up to a woman with well-straightened hair and bash away at it, and you don’t go to a man with nicely gelled spikes and rub your hands all in it — so why would you decide to streak your gritty little palms all into my style?

If another drunk college kid throws a hand into my afro, I might spend the rest of my life behind bars.

It may be just an afro, but to me, it is a way of life.

Somebody’s Watching You

Minnette Coleman — Tue, 18 May 2010 18:30:10 +0000

It used to be that New York was open 24/7/365. But the years have worn the Big Apple to the core and somethings that were once popular to do have changed and gone the way of the dodo. You can still find someplace to find a bite to eat at 4am but the pickings are getting slimmer. Doors at clubs and eateries are watched to keep out undesirables. Some places are so afraid of problems they close early. And while the city boosts a rich cultural diversity there is always the problem that big brother is watching you. We still live in an age of profiling those who are different.

It happens more frequently than one thinks. And it happens so quickly you might not know it. While dressed in a suit I went into a famous store in this city and looked around for a present for my mother. It was a work day and I had just come from a meeting so sales people were falling all over themselves to help me. That weekend I returned the store was not crowded with shoppers and I was dressed in a leather jacket and some jeans. No one came to wait on me and one salesperson actually looked me up and down like I was a beggar when I asked for some assistance. The other women were dressed like me, casually in jeans and slacks but they were all white. I even had on boots, no sneakers. But I was not a person that was expected to buy. At over 50 I was profiled because of my color. Even when others didn’t buy they had help while the only person watching me was the security guard at the door. I made sure to purchase what I wanted but I found that manager to help me. Thus the commission for what I was getting went to none of the idiotic sales people. When she asked who helped me I replied: “No one.” She turned bright red at the prospect of the store losing a sale because of race. Maybe she should have taught her staff that all money in this country is the same color.

While many people complain about the law that Arizona is trying to enforce they don’t take into consideration the laws the state is breaking. If I am not under suspicion of doing anything other than walking while being Latino why should you treat me with disdain? How does an immigrant look, really? Because this is not targeting immigrants from Poland, or France or Italy, or even Africa. What ever happened to being treated as equal? We know it is still a myth, yet there are those of us who would die to see it become true.

My husband and I were given an option once of a discounted weekend at a resort at the Jersey Shore if we listened to a sales pitch. We booked the rooms well in advance and paid the small fee. On the day of arrival we were sent to an older part of the resort in a building that looked like it was on its last leg. Our suite of promise was to have two bedrooms and a kitchen. The room they were trying to force us in was not big enough for two and they had added fold out beds. The woman at the desk just knew because we were black that we were going to use every profane statement we could think of to get what we thought was ours. Even after showing the receipt for the room with all the amenities they still didn’t understand why I thought I should get this exclusive room. Quietly I told them: “Why can’t I get what I was promised?”

I said no more. I sat in the chair at the reception desk while they apologized and got us the room we were promised. I could tell they had profiled us and were sure sure that they would be able to remove us because of our behavior. But their own ability to see that just thinking a person is going to act one way ended up making it clear that maybe not every person of color is going to be angry. Just like not every white person is going to be right or rich.

Somebody is always watching us no matter what we do. They are waiting for us to make a move classic to the profile their minds have established. To step out of that mindset is a daring feat in a world ripe with prejudice. Say a friend is from a certain country and you will get a response like “Well, I hope he’s not a terrorist.” Tell an acquaintance that someone white moved into your Harlem neighborhood and watch them snap with disgust at how the white people are always trying to take over. Say your neighbor is Mexican and they may call them drunks or wife beaters. We watch and we profile. The bottom line is we shouldn’t.

If you are profiled for any reason you should report it. Too many people sit back and take it and grow weary hoping someone else will take up the cause for them. It is up to every individual to fight for what they think is right and to stop the madness of profiling. You have to show the world what you are made of because it probably won’t ask you.

Girlfriends

Kaye — Tue, 18 May 2010 01:37:48 +0000

Mara Brock Akil created the UPN television series Girlfriends staring Jill Marie Jones, Persia White, Tracee Ellis Ross and Golden Brooks. It was a sitcom centered on the lives of four women and their friendship, their girl-friendship.

One of my dearest friends I met in college, we were roommates. We lost touch and for 25 years we went about our lives out of touch but not out of heart or mind. One day last year she found me. We’d matured and changed somewhat but the core was in tact. What ever made us bond back then was still alive and active.

I have a beautiful circle of girlfriends, some of them have been my friends since before grade school, some have been in my life since high school and some became my friends more recently. There aren’t that may of them but they are all tried and true. My childhood friends don’t live nearby anymore. After high school we drifted apart moving to different states or parts of town. We went off to college, married, raised our children, some of us got divorced and remarried but some how we managed to keep in touch.

These women know most of the important things about me. They know my sisters; I know theirs, they know my parents and grandparents; I know theirs. We’ve advised each other, consoled and commiserated with each other. We’ve shared intimate secretes, makeup and clothing. We were in or attended each others weddins. We cried for and with each other when there was death and we cried for and with each other when there was sheer joy. We were overjoyed at the birth of each others children and were ready to go to war when a spouse failed pt some man did one of us wrong. We boasted with pride when there was an accomplishment and never felt envy.

Some of my friends have passed on now, I miss them desperately. A few I’ve lost touch with but I think of them and wonder where they are and if they are alright The not long ago I came across a picture of my Sweet 16th birthday party and there were many of my oldest and dearest girlfriends all smiling back at me, looking so young and beautiful. We were baby-boomers coming of age. Now we are all leaving middle age, on the cusp of becoming seniors. Our children are now adults and we are grandmothers. We live in different states and don’t see each other very often but we email regularly, sometimes we call and without a doubt I still consider all of them my girlfriends, there through thick and thin.

It’s Just Little Girls Dancing- But There’s the Rub

Minnette Coleman — Sat, 15 May 2010 04:19:44 +0000

I am about to be practical, historical and honest. All in the same post. I am really sick of hearing about the 8 and 9 year old girls clad in skimpy costumes dancing to Beyonce’s “Single Ladies”. It has made the news, the polls, Youtube and things that make you go umm. Let’s be honest, it is just dancing and good dancing at that. But if it wasn’t for the advances we have in communications, law enforcement, the study of the mind and racism we wouldn’t be so concerned about little girls dancing in something a bit more than bathing suits.

It is not lewd behavior. It is the dance of the tribe of the young these days. But in looking back at the history of racism dances that require women and often men to move to something other than a waltz have been looked upon as nasty. While Dick Clark was trying to integrate American Bandstand whites in the North and South were calling the dancing that young ‘colored’ people did disgusting. In fact, they said it was jungle dancing to jungle music and was uncultured. Of course that is not altogether true or false. It was not part of the white culture but it was part of the black culture. It was part of a history that many wanted suppressed.

Saying that this dance is partly seductive is also not wrong. All dance has a bit of seduction in it otherwise who would want to watch or participate. I have been to a few Carribbean countries where young children mimic their parents in dances move provocative than this. They move their bodies in such fashion as to embarrass those with overzealous Puritanical backgrounds. But they are doing the movements of their ancestors. That so called jungle dancing is a pure part of African culture. Bodies move to tell stories that words cannot. And for slaves that only had the drums for a while this was a way to carry on their history, to pass it down from generation to generation. from body to body. There were dances to lure mates and dances to celebrate the harvest. There are and were dances for everything. I am not saying that Beyonce’s popular song or video will be around in the next thousand years or so. I am saying that the dance is nasty only when we think of what we know now in this century.

In the United States we now have Amber Alerts when children go missing. We also have sexual predators that use the Internet to get what they want or to look at the pictures that they want to satisfy some awful behavior that people didn’t talk about hundreds of years ago. We can post pictures of these perverts on websites and send out pictures of them to the neighborhood. they can even be found guilty of their crimes against children. Years ago women wouldn’t report rapes for fear of how others would act around them. Children assaulted by priests sent to care for them did not start protesting until recently. Modern conveniences have made it easier to be a predator and to be captured. That does not mean that children should stop dancing because someone might, MIGHT, look at their picture and get the wrong idea. Ancient Romans and Greeks all got the ‘wrong’ idea. In the courts of medieval Italy and France they got the wrong ideas. Children were mistreated and often died of their injuries.

That does not mean their singing or dancing or being painted in gold as one little boy had done in the court of the Medicis (he died from the paint seeping into his skin) should be stopped. They are not the crazy ones. They are the ones that need to be protected.

Protection does not come from cancelling their creativity, however. The parents of the young girls in question say they were just in a dance competition. People have complained about the skimpy costumes. Most of the other dancers probably had the same type of outfit. If we are going to stop children from these kind of events because they might became victims of sexual nutcases we need to stop children’s beauty contests, and baby contests. We need to take commercials with children off the air, we don’t need to let children act at all. In fact the only way to protect them against everything in the world is not to have them. And we know that doesn’t work.

No I wouldn’t want my four year old granddaughter dancing to Beyonce’s song. She is not a very goo dancer yet. But if she was in a group I would hope her parents would tailor the costumes to be more childlike and to let her have fun instead of making her think she had to win all the time. But the predators don’t need that video or that song to do their damage. Some of the creeps just stand at a bus stop and smell the essence of a child before getting their jollies. We can’t stop them with hiding a few things that children enjoy for the pleasure or the history or the culture of it like dancing.

Remember this song lyric from “Oklahoma”: “Everything’s up to date in Kansas City. They’ve gone about as fer as they can go.” Well, we really haven’t. More and more technical stuff comes to light each day. The problem is the more we create in this world the more we know and learn about the strange behavior of others. and the more frightened we become.

So many things have played into this controversy that it will be talked about for a while. All I have to say is let the children dance but watch those watching them. That’s all we can do.

Arizona-Land of the Free

seamus — Fri, 14 May 2010 18:34:32 +0000

Amazing how many high government officals (including the Attorney General), political pundits, politicians, school officials and religious leaders comment so harshly on the immigration law in Arizona and publicly admit they haven’t read the ten page document.

The document basically states that when being stopped for a traffic violation or questioned concerning a crime that the police have the right to ask for identification. Haven’t they been doing that for years? Every ticket I’ve ever received the first thing out of the cops mouth was license and registration.

Oddly you can ask a waspish soccer mom for her drivers license after running a stop sign but the liberals cringe, bitch and moan if you ask a non wasp for the same thing. Members of the Obama cabinet can’t say the words terrorist or radical Islam but thet can call the Governor of Arizona a racist. Absolutely amazing!

When your friends can’t explain why they voted for Democrats, give them this

seamus — Fri, 14 May 2010 15:46:28 +0000

Pick Your Reason

10. I voted Democrat because I believe oil companies’ profits of 4% on a
gallon of gas are obscene but the government taxing the same gallon of gas
at 15% isn’t.

9. I voted Democrat because I believe the government will do a better job of
spending the money I earn than I would.

8. I voted Democrat because Freedom of speech is fine as long as nobody is
offended by it.

7. I voted Democrat because I’m way too irresponsible to own a gun, and I
know that my local police are all I need to protect me from murderers and
thieves.

6. I voted Democrat because I believe that people who can’t tell us if it
will rain on Friday can tell us that the polar ice caps will melt away in
ten years if I don’t start driving a Prius.

5. I voted Democrat because I’m not concerned about the slaughter of
of babies through abortion so long as we keep all death row inmates alive.

4. I voted Democrat because I think illegal aliens have a right to free
health care, education, and Social Security benefits.

3. I voted Democrat because I believe that business should not be allowed to
make profits for themselves. They need to break even and give the rest away
to the government for redistribution as the democrats see fit.

2. I voted Democrat because I believe liberal judges need to rewrite the
Constitution every few days to suit some fringe kooks who would never get
their agendas past the voters.

1. I voted Democrat because my head is so firmly planted up my ass that it
is unlikely that I’ll ever have another point of view.

High life shattered by addiction

Tyree Harris — Wed, 12 May 2010 10:47:11 +0000

High life shattered by addiction

by Tyree Harris

Jerret Hooey, 22, said he usually slept in until about 1 p.m., but on one night last October he awoke at 4 a.m. by an all too familiar aching: He was fiending for a high.

Hooey made his way to the bathroom with his mind set on heroin.

As his body demanded, he opened a bag of dope and put several little pieces onto tinfoil, lit it and smoked it using a hollow ink pen.

For now, his fixation was suppressed, but the relief was short-lived.

A loud banging on the door began — it was the FBI.

Hastily, Hooey sprinted to his clothes room and grabbed as much of his stash as he could.

If he didn’t get his stuff down the toilet — fast — he would be caught red-handed.

Luckily he had enough time; right when Hooey got to the bathroom and flushed the evidence, the front door was bashed down.

He was detained and taken in for conspiracy to distribute heroin. Hooey was a part of a massive drug ring in Medford.

Hooey grew up in a lush five-bedroom house with his father. He went to a private school, had maids and gardeners, took trips around the world and was even in the Junior Olympics for snow skiing.

“I got everything I needed,” Hooey said, but he never really understood how his father, who he never had a job, was able to support this lifestyle. He didn’t figure it out until his eighth grade year, when he stumbled upon his dad’s huge stash of drugs.

“Oh, that’s what he does,” Hooey remembers thinking.

His beautiful lifestyle was all thanks to the drug trade.

Nice.

At age 15, Hooey followed his father’s footsteps by starting to smoke and distribute weed. Just a year later, Hooey moved up to selling and using cocaine. Life was then a blur, he said, “I remember things, but not time and date wise.”

Even though he was using coke frequently, Hooey said he didn’t think it was a problem because he didn’t have to rob or steal to get his fix. People he sold to often stole from strangers and parents alike, just to satisfy their needs. This was how Hooey judged an addiction. So because he was well-off financially and could afford his cravings, he created a detachment between him and his customers.

He wasn’t like them.

When Hooey turned 17, the police rushed his house and found weed and coke in his possession. He was sent to Oregon Youth Authority, a juvenile hall for people 25 years and younger.

He spent a year there, but it didn’t do him any good. Just two months after getting out and earning his diploma and working (legally), Hooey was right back in his father’s footsteps.

He learned when and how to get coke cheap — often driving out to California for it.

But to him, it was never a problem.

When Hooey began doing OxyContin, however, the addiction was clearer than it had ever been. His nostrils would scab up from all the cocaine he snorted, and his body would twitch, ache and crave for “Oxyies.”

His entire life was centered around his next high.

A friend of his introduced him to heroin. It felt good — so good, that he quickly began distributing it and became a familiar face to big names.

“I kinda worked up the ropes to the top dogs,” Hooey said.

And from there, he began living the American Dream: a nice three-bedroom house, motorcycles, a $4,000 couch, a whole room just for his clothes — anything a young man could ever want.

His life was that of a rampant party animal; he did whatever drug was in front of him, distributed to whoever had the funds and didn’t give a damn about consequences.

He was invincible — until that fateful night that he was busted by the FBI changed everything.

All of the coke, dope, pills and wild nights were gone, and Hooey only had a withdrawal-riddled body and guilty conscience to show for it. “When you get sober, so much comes out later … I should have been there for my family … I was doing drugs and wasting my life,” he said.

The court released him to rehab, where he finally was able to put an end to his drug problems. But his legal problems are just beginning. Hooey recently pled guilty to conspiracy to distribute heroin, and the plea bargain on the table was more than seven years in federal prison.

If the judge agrees to the plea bargain this July, Hooey will be 29 by the time he gets out.

Though he doesn’t know what he is going to do with himself over these next few years, he is happy that he has had the opportunity to sober up — as far as he knows, he could be dead right now if he hadn’t.

But optimism is hard to come across for Hooey. “I’m only 22 years old and drugs already ruined my life,” Hooey wrote in a journal entry.

Born into a life sponsored by drugs and diminished by his inability to escape them, we can only hope that young Jerret Hooey can learn to reverse the age-old adage that has seemed to bind him to a terrible fate: Like father, like son.

Burqa Mentality in the Blue Ridge

Congressman Billybob — Sat, 08 May 2010 16:25:48 +0000

Burqa Mentality in the Blue Ridge

I read, and I write for, the Highlands Newspaper, a weekly paper with a modest circulation. The Editor, also my editor, is Kim Lewicki. She ran an article in last week’s issue that was excellently written and edited, and worthy of sharing with my national audience.

The week before, Erika Olvera, a former Police Officer in this town, filed an EEOC Complaint against the Town of Highlands. Our experience with Officer Olvera was limited, but we found her to be diligent and capable. She worked for the Town for two years. She is a naturalized American from Mexico, who has lived in this area for about 20 years.

About six months after she was employed by the Police Department, a nasty rumor circulated that she had had an affair with Police Chief Bill Harrell. (In a small town, everyone hears everything.) I said at the time the rumor may have nothing to do with her, but may be an effort by one of the other officers to undermine the Chief. Suffice to say, Bill Harrell is married.

The rumor got worse. A year later, it claimed that she had gotten pregnant and had an abortion, paid for by Harrell. In January, 2010, she was called into Town Manager Jim Fatland and Town Attorney Bill Coward. She was questioned about the rumor, and denied all matters. Eleven days later and at the request of the Town Manager, she took and passed a polygraph exam on the same questions.

There is no mention of any polygraphs or questioning of Chief Harrell, or any of the officers who were spreading these rumors. There is more to the article, and the complaint, but stop there and ask yourself a few questions. Why was Officer Olvera the only person called in for questioning? Why was no one else asked (demanded, really, when keeping your job is on the line) to take a polygraph exam?

I was in a lunch shop several months ago. One of the other officers was there and we started a conversation. Out of the blue he told me the nasty rumor. (I know of some of his prior conduct, and think he should be fired like a shot for an entirely different situation he was involved in. My point is, if I knew he was one of the rumor mongers, the Town Manager and Town Attorney should have known, and acted on that knowledge.

The last item was that Officer Olvera drove on of the other officers home during a rain storm at the end of their shifts. Five inches of rain or a foot of snow in one day is not unusual, here. And, as she said, “I have a four-wheel drive vehicle. He did not.” The Town Manager then decided that she should “never ride in a patrol car with any male officer.” Since all of the other officers are male, that made her effectively unable to respond to serious situations in which two officers are required.

The thinking behind that prohibition is, of course, right out of the pages of fundamentalist Islam. It is, all men are dogs, and the mere presence of a woman in close proximity will drive them to think wild thoughts and do nasty things. He might as well have required her to wear a burqa on duty. “Oh, the woman in the bag is our new policewoman.”

The Town of Highlands is, in my judgment, going to lose big in this case. It deserved it. It earned it. But if it does not identify and fire all of the male officers, from Chief Harrell on down, who permitted, encouraged, and contributed to this outcome, it is doubly foolish.

If you pay a few hundred thousands of dollars to learn something, it is beyond stupid not to apply the knowledge you have gained. As for Officer Olvera, I hope she finds a new job where the Department appreciates a capable officer who is diligent, smart, and bilingual.

Overdose claims relationship (part two)

Tyree Harris — Tue, 04 May 2010 18:20:29 +0000

Overdose claims relationship (part two)

by Tyree Harris

The following is the second part of a two-part series started in last week’s “In These Eyes.”

Cynthia Wick lies on her couch, crushed. No food in her system, no hope on her mind, no sleep in her near future. In fact, for Wick, the act of sleeping now means enduring horrible nightmares that wake her up every 30 minutes.

Since she lost her boyfriend of two years to an overdose, her life hasn’t been the same.

“I had no desire to do anything,” Wick said.

Wick doesn’t even sleep in her bedroom anymore — it reminds her too much of Devyn Lorett.

Wick doesn’t stop wondering how different things would be if she turned her car around that night.

And Wick will not quit giving herself false hope — hope that maybe Lorett will get in contact with her and this terrible dream will end.

“I know it’s real and I know he’s really gone, but I still text him and call him,” Wick said.

Upon his passing away, Lorett’s Facebook page turned into an endless memorial service, and Wick often writes some of the things she never got to say to him on his wall: “I need you Devyn, I’m sick of feeling alone and I don’t wanna hurt anymore,” one wall post read.

The hurt sent the 18-year-old high school senior into a comatose state — drowning in her own emotions, not attending school or work, repeating memories of the last time she saw him and just trying to convince herself that what happened actually happened.

It wasn’t until a month and a half after Lorett passed that Wick finally decided to return to Sam Barlow High School in Gresham and finish out her senior year.

She wanted to walk across that stage — not for herself, but for Lorett, who will never have the opportunity.

However, the path to academic recovery was almost as hard as the emotional one.

She had to do a month’s worth of back work, was placed on an attendance contract, had to drop some classes, and even had to battle with one of her teachers, who wasn’t going to accept her work.

But now, after months of hard work, Wick, a B+ student, is finally all caught up and on track to graduate. She is thrilled to escape Gresham and start her new life at Boise State this fall, but it seems as though her love life will continue to bear scars: “I feel like I am going to spend the rest of my life alone,” she said.

This situation will pain her and those who loved Lorett for many years to come. Lorett, a kid described to me as a genuine, loving and intelligent individual, was cherished by those in the Parkrose community and throughout the city of Portland. Wick said she’ll remember the way he looked into her eyes, the way he taught her to be a more positive person, and his radiating presence.

Lorett, you have made those lucky enough to know you happier just by being in their lives, and I know by reading the comments on your page and by the reactions I saw, that you will always live on through those who love you.

When Cynthia Wick walks across that stage this June, bearing a tattoo on her side that says, “I’ll never forget, forever and for always Devyn Bryson Lorett,” we can all rest assured that though his untimely death prevented him from graduating, his name will go across the stage, and someone he loved dearly will accept a diploma — in his honor.

Devyn Bryson Lorett Sept. 13, 1991 – Feb. 6, 2010. Forever and for always

Up on the Roof with the Girls

Minnette Coleman — Thu, 29 Apr 2010 15:28:57 +0000

This happened not quite 20 years ago. A Saturday afternoon that turned into a Sunday morning when the girls got on the roof of a friends apartment building and enjoyed each others company for hours. My husband called at 2am to see when I wanted to come. I could have told him never I was so happy to be in the company of women my age, all of the artists of some kind and all of them taking out these hours to just be one of the girls. There was no competition, no showing off, no mean words. We weren’t all friends when we went on the roof but when we left we were united as sisters because of one story that was told when we decided to discuss “the first time”.

I arrived on the roof in my linen outfit and straw hat to find a cooler filled with ice and champagne bottles and a table dressed with fluted champagne glasses. When the girls got on the roof we did not stoop to paper plates and plastic utensils. We were well bred women who used the hostesses crystal, china and silver without breaking or chipping a thing. No one wore jeans or sweatsuits. We weren’t elegantly dressed but we were casually elegant. We weren’t celebrating anything but women being together.

At some point between eating tiny delicious crabcakes and opening several bottles of French champagne we mellowed beyond daily chores and started talking about life. Someone did a survey of the 12 women on the roof in the warm July sun that turned into a warm July evening. Only one of us was still married, four had no children, and none of us were native New Yorkers. Sometime around sunset we started talking about first dates and that led to talking about the first time we had sex.

Perhaps it sounds boring, a bunch of over 40 year old women sitting around talking about the first time they got laid. But you must remember that our first times came at the beginning of the sexual revolution when sexually active women were frowned upon and birth control pills were something taken by ‘loose’ women. We all remembered the nervousness, the fumbling, the fear of pregnancy, and what was worse since most of us were dating men from the Viet Nam era, the fear of diseases that had no cure and no names except the title “Jungle Rot” which signaled diseases of that era. As the champagne flowed we laughed about our then sexual ignorance and the men who were supposedly going to educate us. Only one of us did not recall her first time with a smile on her face. She was the last to speak and what she told us spoke of what we had forgotten about our generation.

It was her fourth date with a boy she had met at church. They had attended the same school but he had graduated two years earlier. She was fresh out of high school and not sure if she was in love or not, but she was deeply in like because this guy was supposed to be a prize, a catch. He had wined and dined her like a fine gentleman and after each date he walked her to her door and kissed her good night, each evening getting more and more passioante. Her parents approved of him so she started inviting him in when she returned at 10 or 11pm, her curfew. They would sit and talk for a while in the den which was on the other side of her parents’ bedroom. He would kiss her trying to push things further. She would say no and he would say he understood.

Then one night he didn’t understand any more. On the sofa in the den on the other side of her parents’ bedroom he raped her. He forced himself on her and she screamed hoping her parents would come in and rescue her. When he had finished ravishing her and she was crying he asked what was all the drama about. In was the 70s and he had done her a favor by making sure she wasn’t a virgin anymore. He laughed and left.

What transpired next sobered up all the girls on the roof.

She ran to her parents room in tears asking why they hadn’t come to her rescue. Both mother and father pushed her away calling her a whore for allowing herself to be violated. They had heard her cries but they believed she had asked for sex, that’s the only way that nice boy would have allowed himself to be with her that way. When it turned out she was pregnant they made her marry the boy and called her worthless for ruining HIS life.

We had questions that night on the roof because we knew that she had gotten a divorce several years prior. It turns out that she had two children by him and that each act of sex was an act of violence. After the first time she didn’t enjoy it. She felt she was a bad person and eventually she sought therapy. This man beat her, raped her and put her down in front of her children. Children she bore and children she actually hated until she saw beyond what had happened to her. For years she had nothing to do with her parents because of how they maligned her. His mother said she was no prize even though she put herself through college while working and raising the children she never asked for. By the time we were on the roof that night she was a loving mother and was dating again. She had only recently learned that sex could be enjoyed. She was glad we had enjoyed our first times.

We drank and talked about fun things the rest of the evening not looking back anymore on the first time. The last story was a painful reminder of what life was like before the idea that women had rights and were allowed to enjoy sex became part of the culture in this nation. I never talked with sex with my mother, neither did any of the other women. But had I been raped, and in my parents’ home, and on the other side of their bedroom screaming for help, I think my mother and father would have burst in to save me.

It was hard leaving that roof at 3 in the morning with that memory imprinted on my mind. We met again a few months later and the sad woman did not come. I saw her on the street some time later and she still had a lost look about her. Therapy or not sometimes memories rule.

Overdose claims relationship

Tyree Harris — Tue, 27 Apr 2010 11:27:11 +0000

Overdose claims relationship

By Tyree Harris

After a long afternoon playing board games and talking with 18-year-old Devyn Lorett, her boyfriend of more than two years, she decided it was best if she left his house. It was too difficult for her to be around him; they had been broken up for almost a month.

“I just wanted to tell him how much I missed him, how much I loved him, and that I didn’t want us to be apart anymore,” said Cynthia Wick, 18.

But as much as she wanted to say this, and as right as it felt, Wick knew she couldn’t be with him.

She met Lorett while trying out for a cheerleading squad her freshman year. At first sight, he told her she was beautiful, displayed clear interest and instantly pursued her. Initially, it was to no avail, but Lorett was determined. Though he couldn’t get her attention in person, he managed to track her number down through mutual friends and began texting her.

Wick was thrown off by his inexplicable perseverance.

“I thought it was weird, and I totally wasn’t interested,” Wick said.

She was under the impression that he was a player. Plus, the fact that she had a boyfriend at the time didn’t really help Lorett’s chances. But his persistence paid off when Wick became single; it wasn’t long before Lorett finally got an opportunity to hang out with her.

They met at a mutual friend’s house to see each other for the first time. Things went well.

So well, that Wick said that after just their first time spending time together, they were “pretty much inseparable.” The two made it official on Nov. 6, 2007.

She recalled the long days on the beach, the countless trips to La Carreta (their favorite Mexican restaurant), and most importantly, how amazing being embraced by him was.

“He gave the best hugs in the entire world!” she said. “If you gave him one arm, he would get so upset … he was very particular about that.”

In Lorett’s world, hugging was serious business.

Though they ran into several road blocks and trust issues, all the hardship only seemed to bring them closer — until Lorett hurt his back and was prescribed strong painkillers, eventually leading him to take them recreationally. Wick said it was never a full-on addiction, and he only did it occasionally.

This obviously was concerning to her; when Wick first met Lorett, he was like her — never using hard drugs. And now, he was taking his painkillers when he didn’t need them.

His troubles with drugs grew bad enough to be the end of their relationship — Wick found Oxycontin in his possession. He had been doing it with some people she went to school with.

“That’s not the kind of person he was … he had so many goals,” Wick said. Lorett hoped to attend Oregon State University and study architecture.

They continued to talk every day, but they didn’t see one another for almost a month, during which Wick said he was on the right track and beginning to get his abuse problems in check.

She didn’t see him until that same February 3 she remembers so well…

Now outside, sitting by her car and talking to Lorett, they shared one last (literally) breath-taking embrace and parted ways. He texted her as soon as she left the driveway asking her to come back — but she didn’t. Instead, she headed home crying, reading a typed love letter he had written to her.

That was the last time Wick ever saw Lorett. Just three days later, his family found him dead.

He overdosed on opiates.

Bring Out The Silver, Honey!

Genevieve — Wed, 21 Apr 2010 18:02:11 +0000

When I was in my early 20′s, my grandma Graham finally agreed to move to an old folks’ home, or whatever the term is. So she emptied her centuries-old apartment of anything even vaguely interesting. Much anticipated squabbling between family members ensued, and I ended up with some silver. I actually didn’t want any silver, but my parents encouraged me to buy it from her. Read that again: BUY silver forks and knives and all that from my Grandma, for $3000 of my own money. Seriously? Oh, yes, Genevieve. It’s a great investment.

What did I know about investment? I’d been saving up for a car, but okay. If they said so.

I ended up with two very nice, heavy boxes filled with any kind of silver serving utensil you could ever dream of. I even have an Angel Food Cake slicer. I can’t even identify some of them, actually. Sadly, one of my wooden handled salad spoons split, but when I reason that the spoon was probably close to 150 years old, I can’t really complain. Dwayne’ll glue it. He’s good like that.

He’s also good at practicality. When we moved out here, many extraneous things got packed into wherever. The two boxes of silver were tucked under the stairs. The other day, he came home and said we should break out the silver and start using it.

“But honey!” said I, aghast. “That’s for special occasions!”

“Which are happening … when?” he asked.

What do you know? The silver fit perfectly into the dishwasher, along with our good (wedding gifts) china. Sadly, we no longer have our crystal wine glasses because they shattered somewhere along the way, but the rest is really quite … spiffy, if I do say so myself.

Got me to thinking. What else do I pack away for special occasions? Well, I have a number of books that I want to read, when I finally finish whatever I’m reading. I’d like to go to Europe, but there’s a practical (financial) reason that hasn’t happened. I’d like to stay up late and watch more movies. I’d like to spend a night or two listening to celtic bands in pubs (sorry, Dwayne). I’d love to lose some weight – but let’s just ignore that one for now.

Mostly, I’m pretty good about doing exactly what I want. Have I mentioned how spoiled I am? (thank you, honey)

But it also got me thinking about what some of my friends are up to. In particular, I have a friend who packed up her mom and her son, and traveled here from Scotland, to improve (she hoped) their lives. That takes serious nerve. When the government finally allowed her to make an income, she wasn’t sure what to do, and settled for the typical working-in-retail route, which most of us have done at one point or another. But while she did that, she’d pop in occasionally and style my family’s hair. She loves doing hair. She used to do that in Scotland. Dwayne pointed out that she could be saving gas and energy (her own) if she gave up the day job and opened her own salon.

But how do you do that? How do you step into the unknown and trust that things will work out? How do you reach into that hidden box of valuables and say “Okay. Now it’s time to use this”?

She’s done it, and is having a wonderful time, albeit a busy one. And I say that’s a fantastic reason to use the good china.

What about all those people who hear that I’ve written a few books and say “Oh, I’d love to write a book.” Really? What are you waiting for? Do you think I knew what I was doing when I started? Nope. Not a thing. Do you think I started off writing obsessively? Nope. That’s kind of recent. Set up all by yourself and write/type/dictate for ten minutes a day, if that’s all you can spare. It’ll start to take shape and you’ll be amazed. Another reason to use the china.

My daughter made a new friend today. China time!

I think the answer is taking that one gigantic step of faith. It could go well, or it could fail. As long as you’re not discussing something life-threatening, I say go for it.

Our world is so full of hopes and dreams that we never get around to living them. Life is quick, and this is the only one we’re sure of getting. Have you always wanted to paint but it’s an expensive hobby? Check out basic water colours at the loonie store first. Have you always wanted to learn the piano? (oops. that’s a plug, because I’m currently looking for students) Do you wonder what that old friend is up to late? Look her up and ask her. Do you wish your bedroom was a different colour? Have you always wondered what that really expensive store was like inside? Just do it. Don’t wait.

You spend your life wishing, and before long, life is done. What happens to all those wishes when you’re gone? They’re gone. They go unfulfilled and dissolve into nothing. How sad!

So break out the good china. Drink an expensive bottle of wine. Try a new food. Get out and taste those dreams. Does someone you’ve never met look interesting? Go introduce yourself. Maybe, if you’re really brave, move to a totally new place, where you know no one and adventure/experiences wait for you to discover them. Why wait?

Hey! I just finished a new blog. Good for me. Time for the china.

Bus Story: Mean Blind Woman

Minnette Coleman — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 14:46:05 +0000

She got on the regular passengers cringed for we had all been her victims before. This blind woman was angry, perhaps because she lost her sight. Maybe she was always that way: negative, angry, mad at the world of the seeing. But when this woman gets on the bus school children who usually are rude to everyone older move out of her way and old women who seem like gentle caring grandmothers curse under their breath. They know she can hear them and they don’t care. They want her to hear something of the havoc she is causing in a usually peaceful environment. But it is obvious she doesn’t care. It seems she is on the mission of misery loves company.

She pounds her cane on the floor at the front of the bus where the elderly and handicapped get priority seating. The cane lands on legs and shoes of those over 65 and the swollen sandaled feet of a very pregnant woman.

“I need a seat,” the blind woman announces as she goes from left to right with that damn cane. Someone not privy to the cruelty that this woman inflicts tells her there is a seat in front of her to her right. The blind woman doesn’t thank the woman as she begins her usual attack. The cane becomes a whip thrashing about the supposedly available seat. A seat to her right, but the kind woman’s left. The man in the seat yells and the blind woman curses. “You dumb bitch. You didn’t say it was your right.”

She changes directions and bangs her cane in the seat to make sure it is empty. She sits down then yells to the driver where she wants to get off. Her voice carries like an opera singer, but it has no beauty to it. Just lots of hostility and anger.

The bus starts to fill and a passenger has to stand over her. Of course this is not pleasing and when the blind woman shouts: “Why are you so close to me?” I get the sense that she is probably claustrophobic. The standing passenger ignores her and doesn’t move. There isn’t much room for him to go anywhere. When the bus reaches a main thoroughfare people exit but he doesn’t move. He stands over the blind woman who now and then raises her head with her ire and says things like: “Why don’t you move to the back?” and “You want me to get up and give you my seat? Is that why you’re standing over me?” The man says nothing but when he gets a chance he does move and stand somewhere else. No one says a word as he shakes his head. No one wants to speak ill of the handicapped for fear that they

When the bus driver announces her stop the blind woman shouts, “It’s about time.” She rises and once again unleashes her cane. Passengers fold their legs away from the aisle and those standing apologize for being in her way. She pushes them anyway trying to create a scene rather than avoid one. She acts as if she wants someone to challenge her, to say just because you are blind does not mean you have to be rude. But the passengers remain silent in the wake of her anger and her infirmity. They try not to stare but the scowl she has for the world cannot be covered by dark glasses.

When the bus stops she mumbles as she exits but her words are indecipherable. I watch her on the sidewalk as she askes a stranger which way is 79th Street. The man points then realizes, as he looks down at the cane, that he must say it is behind her one block. He says it rather loudly as is the habit of many people when they talk to the blind. She shakes her head then asks the man is he hard of hearing. When he says no she asks him why is he shouting at her. She turns towards her destination as I wonder how she will get across the street if she antagonizes the entire population.

But just as I am caught in what will happen at the corner to this unhappy woman, another blind lady gets on the bus. She does not demand a seat, she moves down the aisle and when she finds a place that she feels is vacant she politely asks: “Is anyone sitting here?” A few people respond with flowers in their voice and she smiles at their kindness. She has already told the bus driver where she is getting off, she had already apologized to those she has hit. She has melted into humanity instead of blaming it for her problems.

But on the street the mean blind woman attacks the world and makes no friends as she approaches the corner. These women probably both attend the school for the blind in the area but the school cannot teach the type of human kindness that makes it easy to survive being different in the world. And then again maybe that is how the mean woman wants to exist. Maybe she wants to remind people that behind the facade of blindness there is a human being that can be just as nasty as anyone else.

Learning from mistakes

scottqmarcus — Wed, 07 Apr 2010 22:30:51 +0000

“Oops!”

“What do you mean, ”oops”? Nothing good ever starts with ‘oops’.”

“Really? I’m not sure about that. ‘Oops’ means I made a mistake.”

“I know what it means; I’m not stupid. But it never leads anywhere good.”

“I don’t agree.”

“OK, how ’bout this? I was at the dentist a few months ago. I was getting a tooth pulled…”

“Ouch; that’s not fun.”

“No, it’s not. So, they’ve got me in that chair that looks like something from the Spanish Inquisition. My mouth is numb, I’m drooling like a one-year old – ”

“Sounds attractive.”

“Anyway… They have the chair leaning way back, the light is in my eyes, I’ve got one of those rubber things in my mouth – what do you call ‘em?”

“Dental dam.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a dental dam in my mouth and the dentist is yanking and pulling on my tooth. Suddenly the tooth pops loose, the dentist loses his grip, I hear him say, ‘oops;’ and before you know it, he’s got me out of the chair, flipped over, patting me on the back like he’s burping a baby.”

“Wow! What happened?”

“Apparently, he dropped the tooth into my throat.”

“Really? Was it dangerous?”

“Well, he was concerned that it could get in my lungs. But it didn’t; apparently I swallowed it.”

“So everything came out OK in the end?”

“Is that meant to be cute?”

“No, maybe I worded it poorly, but I meant what I said.”

“Yeah, sure, I was fine.”

“So ‘oops’ was a good thing then.”

“No, it was a bad thing. He made a mistake. It could have had terrible results.”

“But, it didn’t, because he saw that he made a mistake, and corrected for it real quickly. Let’s say, he didn’t admit the mistake and just pretended that he still had your tooth in his pliers and just went about his business, not telling you what was going wrong.”

“Well, that wouldn’t have been smart. I could have got hurt.”

“Right, because he admitted his mistake and he learned from it, things got better. And, you know what? I’ll bet he’s much more aware of that problem now then he was back then.”

“I’m sure he is.”

“So, future patients are probably better off, right?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess so.”

“So admitting his mistake took care of you quickly and will help others prevent from experiencing what you experienced. That’s two good things from one ‘oops.’”

“But it’s embarrassing to make mistakes.”

“Maybe. But it’s more embarrassing to make them repeatedly, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“So, the quicker we acknowledge we made a mistake and the sooner we adjust the better off we are.”

“But, wouldn’t it be better never to slip up?”

“Sure it would. And wouldn’t the world be better if everything worked out exactly like we expect it to?”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Spot on. And it’s equally unrealistic to assume you won’t screw-up now and then, especially if you’re trying new things. So without mistakes, there is no reason for adjustment, which means we’re not learning anything; therefore nothing changes. So, one could say mistakes are actually step one in improving our life.”

“But only if we acknowledge them and change them.”

“To do anything else would be a mistake.”

STROKES SUCK

seamus — Tue, 06 Apr 2010 13:52:01 +0000

Several months ago I woke up feeling odd (not strange for me). Got out of bed, took the old good morning pee, moved down the hall following the smell of coffee and then had to grab a gaudy table halfway down the hall to keep from falling. Not normal but what the hell. I caught my balance then proceeded toward the living room.

Upon hearing me make my way, my wife got me a cup of coffee, generally a prize for the last one getting up. I gave her a kiss and sat down, feeling odder by the second. She sensed something was wrong and asked and I told her I didn’t feel good. I was slurring my words and having trouble concentrating. After not meeting her request of sticking my tongue out straight, she brought me a pair of shorts, called out doorman and BAM, I”m in the ER. By this time I don’tt know my name, social security number, what day it is, nothing. Well not quite nothing. Oddly, all I remembered was that I had a hair appointment that day and kept telling the docs and nurses that I couldn’t stay, I was supposed to get a haircut.

Three days later most of my long term memory had returned bit I had lost all short term memory. Major league scary. I’d also developed an eye tic and my left leg dragged. Thankfully, after a couple of months of rehab, the tic is gone and most of the left leg dragging has disappeared but I lost half of my vocabulary. It’s frustrating having to ask the name of things but it’s starting to come back. Beats the alternative by a long shot.

Will I ever write again? Remains to be seen. Thankfully I have a five book backlog. I lose concentration when going over an edit but my editor is working with me extra hard. This is the longest piece I’ve written to date but I’m going to use Brother Bobs site as practice so I’ll be posting regularly.

One thing I’m absolutely sure of—STROKES SUCK.

Everybody is a Star!

Minnette Coleman — Mon, 05 Apr 2010 16:51:10 +0000

I was asked what I did for a living. At the time I was in an off-off- Broadway show on The Ridiculous Theatrical Company. The theatre had a following in the gay world but was very popular in the theatrical circles. My picture and positive review made Theatre World Magazine and I got pats on the backs from actor friends. I was an actress. But when I replied to the what did I do for a living questions with “I’m an actress” I got: “Really? What movies have you been in? Are you some kind of star?”

It didn’t stop me from responding that I was an actress because despite the limited thinking of those who seen more movies than plays and live on celebrity gossip it was my profession. I had good friends who ‘made it big’ and I was glad for them. Temporarily I was sad for me. Especially when it was time to pay bills and my less than spectacular theatre jobs were barely making ends meet. When I couldn’t get into a play I wrote one for myself and actually got paid a few times to perform it. The people who saw it appreciated it, but still they wanted to know why I wasn’t a star. Why I wasn’t in Hollywood.

Every time I heard that I reminded myself of the Sly and the Family Stone song “Everybody is a Star.” The important line is: “I love you for who you are, not for who you feel you need to be.” That solar system called fame is a bit misguiding to those in it and admiring it. Not everyone lasts long there. The fall from grace in Hollywood can be like a falling star: “ain’t no stopping til it hits the ground.” But we all shine in something and it doesn’t matter that society says you have to be their description of a star.

Some will say in order to succeed in this world you must compete. You must aim to be the best, but that does not make you a star. You shine for who you are, for what you do that is you and that makes you. It is your achievement of self that makes you bright.

When I look at my theatrical resume I am proud of the things I did. Now that that part of my life is over I look back with a smile at all the times I felt I shone. It was not a matter of getting paid big bucks. I was a matter of getting a chance to make my soul happy and act.

The same goes true now for me and writing. The rejection letters come, the agents don’t have time or don’t like the story and still I write. I write because I shine when I do it. I believe to a few groups of writers and in the past year have learned more from being with them than admiring them. When I tell people now that I am a writer they ask for book titles or magazine articles. I point out the achievement of the Internet to reach millions that printed matter can’t. They nod, understanding what I am saying but not quite sure how to take it. Then they ask the question that is important to them: “Do you make any money off of your writing?”

This is a question designed to hurt and humiliate the novice into thinking his or her only worth is viewed as monetary in any realm of life. I respond to the question with “Yes” because I have been paid honorariums for some writing seminars I attended. Plus when I say “yes” they leave me alone trying to figure out my worth in their world of money.

Mine is a world of words. And the worth I feel is make those words count to those who read. Whenever someone says they loved something I wrote, or wants to argue with me about something I wrote, I feel like a star. I really feel the shine coming on. I have done my best and others are seeing for what it is. I can’t brighter than that.

We need to do our art for the heavenly feeling it gives us. And if we get to another level, a level that pays well and makes life comfortable, then we should remember that our roots in art were started when we wanted to reach the heavens and we felt it many times before others saw us there. We are all stars in our minds and that helps us move along in life.

Together- Forever

Minnette Coleman — Fri, 02 Apr 2010 15:22:38 +0000

My husband is on the phone giving advice to a younger man about love and marriage. We are supposed to be going out together in two hours. It will certainly be three. He tells his friend:”Minnette and I are completely opposites. she does things zip, zip, zip and asks me why am I moving so slowly. But man, it works. We are together, in part, because opposites attract.”

He is not always late, he just does things at the last minute. I have a tendency to do things and get them over with. Hence my early morning posts as opposed to late night contributions to this site. I write and move on, sometimes writing more. But as the years together progress I have learned to slow down. Not to smell the roses. I have always stopped to do that because the smell is creative to me, an olfactory muse. But I have slowed down to seethings from his point of view. And fortunately there are times when he moves at what he calls my speed of light. A relationship that clicks like a business started 35 years ago. Most of my life with one person. Together.

It is nice to be in love this long. I thought, and he said, it might get boring over the years. We were lucky that didn’t happen. My friends laughed at me, the good little Catholic school girl, with the wild haired Jimi Hendrix fan who stayed up all night to listen to rock music while I would rather go to a musical. I was neither demure nor shy about my thoughts or feelings about anything. Unlike many southern belles I said what was on my mind and he enjoyed the challenge. But that was the magic of being together.

He loved art but didn’t know a lot about it. So while dating in Atlanta we jetted to New York to visit his mother and take in the sights. I explained the art we saw, he explained rock music. We appreciated what the other had to offer. So marriage came, and children and life got better, richer because we were together. Lucky I knew. Together is not a word of longevity in the world of marriage these days.

The operation that saved me from the cancer I almost had almost killed me. the infection was deep in the saved breast and all I could do was rest. I would wake to find him sitting on a chair next to the bed, The New York Times spread out as he tried to red between my unsteady breathes. I never forgot the sleep he didn’t get and the loving eyes that watched over me. I remembered it later in a poem about waking to find him putting cover on me. My favorite line was “did my fire go out?” I think if it had we would have both expired with the flame.

So the young man listening explains that he is happy with his wife and children andt hat he is just calling to thank him for the advice my husband gave over 10 years ago. The young man jsut wanted to know how we were making it together.

And my husband laughs. He has this full rich, boisterous laugh that is so full of joy it is beyond infectious. he tells the young man. “Be careful. You might be together forever. And that means you have to learn something everyday.”

Moving On (an Ode to the College Student)

Lauren Harrison — Tue, 23 Mar 2010 19:15:52 +0000

I think I am finally beginning to understand that this is not easy. Any of it. I been so busy scrambling for a hold on life that I’ve hardly had a chance to write. I was flicking through bits and pieces, trying to find something to inspire me to post for this website before Bob asked me to leave (thanks for your patience Bob!) and I came up with pretty much nothing. Well, not nothing perhaps, but not anything I thought would be worthy. Sometimes it’s so hard to believe that I will get anywhere worth being. And that’s the worst of it. I’m so hard on myself that I never get started. So. Here I am, pissed off and PMSing and taking it all out on my keyboard– along with whomsoever attempts to make sense of where I am going with this. If it’s going in the direction I feel like it’s headed, that would be nowhere. But simply here is somewhere, isn’t it? And if I can make up my mind and decide that that’s precisely where I want to be, then I’ll be content with my life and move on. But that’s the problem. I can’t seem to take that simple step forward. (And maybe I’ve been reading too much Lewis Carroll)

“‘Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?’

‘That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,’ said the Cat.

‘I don’t much care where–,’ said Alice.

‘Then it doesn’t matter which way you go,’ said the Cat.

‘–so long as I get somewhere,’ Alice added as explanation.

‘Oh, you’re sure to do that,’ said the Cat, ‘if you only walk long enough.’”

And maybe it is like they say, it’s the walking that is the joy in life– moving forward, moving on. I mean, a first place is a step forward, even if I haven’t chosen what university to transfer to yet. And sunlight streaming through the blinds onto beige carpet is beautiful. And it doesn’t much matter that there’s no dishwasher or closet space. (But we have hot water!) And still I feel like I have to decide what I want to do, do it well, and most of all do it quickly. Jump! That jump is the scariest thing of all. What if I make the wrong choice? And there are so many things to choose. Most of the people I have talked have absolutely no idea what the hell they are doing or what they are going to do. And it is terrifying. There is a constant questioning that goes on: am I right? is this the right way/choice/action/place to be?

And part of me, the part stuck somewhere in the middle– the fence sitter– says yes. Stay here. You are making the right choice by not choosing at all. You don’t have to. The world will continue to move around you no matter which way you go. And that is okay. If you are happy and healthy and loved then you are in the best possible place to be. Enjoy it while you can before your joints turn to cement and your brain deteriorates so far you can’t remember your own name. Life is beautiful, this is beautiful and no, no one ever said it was easy. But would it be as exciting if it were? Making a choice right now is not necessary. Take those steps forward, even if they are the stumbling steps of toddlers.

And that is my favoritest voice of all.

Feeding Starving People

Congressman Billybob — Sat, 20 Mar 2010 19:57:38 +0000

Feeding Starving People

by John Armor

Last Saturday, we did something that was only a small step up from mindless, unskilled labor. I’m glad we did it. We recommend it to everyone else.

An enthusiastic lady came to our Rotary meeting a week before. She was a teacher, acting as a volunteer for her church. She asked us to join with people from another half dozen other Rotary Clubs to pack 100,000 meals for starving people in Haiti. We decided it was a good cause, and we went.

There were two shifts requested at the National Guard Armory in the County Seat of Franklin, North Carolina. We arrived at 10:30 am, early for the second shift. A nice guy in a Rotary jacket gave us the good news that about a hundred extra volunteers had shown up for the first shift and there was not even room to park.

We came back in forty-five minutes, found a spot to park, and went in to sign up. We both got hairnets. (It was the first time in my life I’d worn a hairnet in public.) And we took our places at a table set up for five workers. There was a funnel in the middle of each table, with pre-printed plastic bags underneath. On the corners of the table were four containers: soy meal, vitamins, dried vegetables, and rice.

That was the order in which the people on the corners were supposed to fill the bags. As the labels said, each bag would provide minimal meals for six people, when boiled for 20 minutes in water. When each table filled a small box of plastic bags, we’d call out “runner,” and young people would take the box to the sealing tables.

Those people would adjust the rice (placed on top) slightly so each bag would be within two grams either way of the intended 390 grams. Then they would heat seal each bag. They’d box them up and seal the boxes. And every time another 5,000 meals were placed in the waiting semi-trailer, a gong ring and the 300 or so people in the room would cheer, and then get back to work.

The organizers of this whole effort were a North Carolina group named Stop Hunger Now. Their overall goal was to get a million meals packed and shipped through the Rotary Clubs and churches just in Western Caroline. We gathered that parallel organizations in other states would do the same thing we were doing. The result would be hundreds of millions of meals, produced and delivered at a cost of 25 cents per meal.

We asked about the distribution of the meals. The first targets in Haiti were the schools. This provided a double benefit. Parents would know that their children would receive at least one, nutritional meal in a day. And, the children would have some exposure to learning.

You know me. I can’t avoid some discussion of politics. I know the history of Haiti. When it was a French colony – and when it had slavery – Haiti was a net exporter of food. Haiti had a successful revolution only years after our Revolution. But for more than two centuries it has been plagued by incompetent and/or corrupt government.

Based on the speech of the President on Haiti at the White House two weeks ago, Haiti still has incompetent, self-destructive government. From a rich island which produced much food, it has been reduced to a nation of starving beggars with collapsible houses. The lady who spoke to our club brought along a sample of mud cakes. These are mud, shortening, and salt, baked in the sun, that mothers give their children to at least make them feel like they have eaten.

Beyond Haiti, two other examples of competent verses incompetent government are Zimbabwe and Singapore. The former was once the bread basket of Africa, exporting food to surrounding nations. Now, its people are starving; reduced to butchering and eating the carcasses of dead elephants. Also, its currency has been inflated almost to the point where printing money reduces the value of the paper.

Contrast that with Singapore, one of the most crowded nations on earth with the least amount of natural resources. Yet, Singapore is one of the Four Tigers of Asia, with a standard of living close to that of the United States.

What is the difference between Haiti and Zimbabwe on one side, and Singapore on the other? Singapore has a free and competent government, and it is dedicated to free markets as the basis of its economic prosperity.

Obviously, I support feeding people when they are starving. But in the long run, feeding the starving depends on policies of government, not packages of dried food.

About the Author: John Armor practiced law in the US Supreme Court for 33 years. His latest book, on Thomas Paine, will be published this year. www.TheseAreTheTimes.us Reach him here: John_Armor@aya.yale.edu

John Armor, Esq.
Box 243, 421 Kettle Rock Road
Highlands, NC 28741
828.200-0320
John_Armor@aya.yale.edu
www.TheseAreTheTimes.us

It’s difficult – until it isn’t

scottqmarcus — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 21:58:40 +0000

It’s not that difficult

Sometimes – one might even argue “always” – wisdom and truth are found in the most basic statements. One of the simplest, yet most empowering comments I have heard is from Dr. Sue Morter. Aside from being a powerhouse speaker, she’s extremely inspirational, a dynamo on the stage, and outstandingly wise.

“So, what did liberating life-altering observation did she lay pass unto you?” You ask, breathless with anticipation.

“It’s difficult until it isn’t.”

“Huh? That’s it?”

Yep; five words; seven if you don’t count contractions. But, consider the message in that unvarnished declaration. Most of what we want for ourselves is really not difficult to obtain. We possess the tools (or know where to get them) and we know what we desire; all we have to do is go get it. The hitch in the giddy up is how we assemble the plan, making it complex and complicated. We smother it with all makeup of parameters to which we really cannot – or do not want to – abide. We spend so much energy building the golden pathway that we’re too exhausted to walk upon it.

As case in point, how ’bout we look at losing weight? (Wow, who would think I’d choose that as an example?) The bottom line of weight loss is brilliantly clear: Eat less; move more. Period. No pills, no programs, no late-night TV promises. See? That’s not difficult, is it? If I regularly shut my mouth a few minutes earlier and move my feet a couple of steps further, the pounds “magically” falls away. We all know that. Yet, because we’re in such a hurry to “get there,” we go overboard in the implementation and develop barriers to actually achieving what we want.

Boldly, I stand tall, placing my fists upon my hips, puffing out my chest, and proclaiming to anyone who cares (and many who don’t). “I am now on a diet! (Insert trumpets…) Therefore, until I lose 30 pounds, I shall not be able to go with my friends, family, or business associates to any eating establishment. While imprisoned in my barren, spartan, kitchen, I will consume only unprocessed, all-natural, organic, high-fiber, sugar-free, mostly tasteless, foodstuffs. Furthermore, I will rise two hours earlier each and every day and spend that time meditating, journaling, and exercising. I have calculated that this plan will shall allow me to lose three pounds a week, which I will do this day forth until I have achieved my goals.” After my pronouncement, I twirl spectacularly on my heels, place nose firmly in the air and stomp dramatically into my self-established sensory-deprivation chamber, where I shall remain in exclusion until I have achieved a smaller waistline.

Hey Tinkerbell, can we put down the fairy-wand and step out from fantasy-land for a moment?

What began as extremely unfussy and obtainable intention – eating better and moving more – has erupted into a full-scale mega-production requiring learning how to cook differently, shopping with new eyes, rearranging schedules, altering relationships, and devising self-inflicting intimidating goals. Building such blockades makes the procedure ridiculously difficult and horribly unpleasant.

After ramming one’s head against the wall enough, we will look for doors, finally “letting go” and releasing as unproductive the artificial rules and limiting beliefs; which allows us to get down to basics. We find something we will actually do and take one small, simple, easy, baby step; which we repeat until we get actually get what we want.

It was difficult. Then it wasn’t. It is up to each of us to determine when we want that to change.