Michigan, you make me cry

Dear Michigan,
I really, really love your great lakes, your endless green meadows, your Go Blue and even your Spartan cities.

But I have to ask:  Seriously, Michigan?  Rape insurance?  You do a disservice to women: http://bit.ly/1dWjmhf

I wish it wasn't so.  I can't believe my ears and eyes.  You make me want to cry and barf at the same time.

I would like to say I'm shocked and surprised, but I have lived in your lily white and black streets before, somewhat curious about the lack of shades in between and the token Chinese restaurant.  I had thought maybe you just needed some time to grow up a little--and thought that maybe some progress had been made.  The last I visited there was even a Korean restaurant, along with a *gasp* Asian grocery store!

But, I digress.  And I am doing a disservice to the brave men and women who fought the amazing fight against bigotry and marginalization.  Who make a difference every day in someone's life, by pouring hope and love into their children's lives and widening their perspectives with the development and understanding of social responsibility--despite living in the now large umbrella of f-ing rape insurance.

Duke University Freshman

I’m not sure how to react to the whole Duke University freshman working porn to pay for college tuition thing.  I’m in agreement that sex workers should have rights and not be marginalized.  I am so not in agreement about stigmatizing people or treating people as less than human, because of repressive messed up views on sexuality.  

And, I am so not in agreement about men exploiting women, period, and my limited experience and knowledge about porn is that this is the case.  My understanding is that this industry originated for men by men to make lots of money off of exploiting women and women’s bodies, and the men are the ones who get the biggest piece of the money pie and the women get much smaller shares.  That it is an industry that exacerbates and perpetuates stereotypes of women and women’s sexuality, based on a gender biased fantasy that has a real life impact on how men view women as a whole, and that kind of pisses me off, especially when said creators are clearly not interested in expressing women’s voices and women’s sense of pleasure and sexuality.  Or is it different? D id I miss something?

I also wonder if the Duke University freshman will regret her decisions—that seems to be a common internet subject line—that she doesn’t know what she’s doing now, she’s still a teen, that it will stigmatize her for the rest of her life.  Perhaps she is not the first freshman to pay for tuition this way, but in the internet era, she is the first to be recorded for all in the world to watch.  When it’s not vitriol and denigration, it seems to be disbelief that she actually knows what she’s doing.  That for her to say she’s ‘proud’ and ‘at home’ doing porn, is merely a poor decision and observation only the youthful can make. 

As a fellow woman, I do not want to add any more judgment or admonitions to the story, I do not want to denigrate or tear down another woman, especially a young woman who is stepping forward in our crazy world and making sense of it in her own way.  I am more worried about the online bullying and real life bullying that will likely exist.  And to be more worried about that—does it mean I’m sidestepping an opinion?  Maybe it does.  I’m still trying to figure it all out.

I do know this—if this was my daughter, I would be truly unhappy, because of what I think of the porn industry.  I do not want my daughter to choose to sell her body to pay for college or for ANYTHING.  I would want her to be free in her decision to have intimate relations with people she cares about and loves.  That, I hope, is not a repression of sexuality, I hope that is sacred and wonderful and special, an experience she can share with someone (or several someones as she learns about this world and learns what relationships are) who loves her in just the same way.

I don’t know where this puts me on the feminism spectrum, because I identify with being a feminist.  I guess this subject is a conundrum for me, and I’m doing my best to wrap my head around it.  And I may not be succeeding to well, but clearly it’s something that is concerning, and I’m failing at finding the right words.

New Opportunity, 2.0

I received a most unexpected call—to interview for a job that was referred from a friend.  Where I live (and most likely in other places of somewhat insular communities), this kind of opportunity is rare and difficult to find, because it really is “all about who you know.”  So I had applied, even though I knew I was re-starting a job that I enjoy—a job that offers me stability and satisfaction, and for which I had thought the time away from it was enough to inform me that it was time to “come home.”  And it is/was like coming home—safe, familiar, I feel confident with navigating the various departments, staff, and job responsibilities.

Well, it turns out these people at the “new” potential job are really nice—and not in the bland vanilla ice cream way, as an inspired by what they do and how they go about doing it kind of ‘nice.’  When I first stepped into the interview room, I felt a pleasant chime of camaraderie that was friendly and almost familiar with the directors.  And throughout the interview, I felt myself tapping into a part of my brain that I realized I missed all these years, the writerly side of my heart, not just in a daily journal type of way, which I love, don’t get me wrong, but in a general sense of a potential full-time career way.  It was exciting to be talking about writing and art and how the two juxtapose to create a final vision that is not just text and not just images, but a full composition, a story, unified by a theme that stems from the creative process.  Wow.  I was just…blown over by the entire experience.

And here’s the kicker—they invited me back for another interview.  They wanted me to take a closer look and review their publications,  I think so that I could better answer their pointed questions about my vision for the magazine and what I would like to see happen.  Or how I might set an agenda for future publications.  I think this second interview is an important step in the process, that they are seriously considering me, and giving me a chance to formally respond to their work.  It’s exciting and fresh and has all of my creative juices flowing.  Reminiscing on what I love about the literary world, of capturing a voice and telling or re-telling a story—that in the act of reading, words become more than black marks on a piece of paper (or screen), but breathe life into an experience.  I am, in a word, inspired.

And also intimidated.  To be truthful, my skill set in this area is about 12 years old.  The last that I oversaw lay-out and design was so long ago, I had to pull examples out of wide-ranging cobwebs in my brain to think about what it was to be an editor and all of the responsibilities that come with that package.  That it wasn’t just copyediting, but lay out, and it wasn’t just grouping stories, but the final vision.  And truthfully, I was the co-editor, I gathered stories, I solicited writing and permissions and assisted in the general overall thematic content—but the overall nuts and bolts of production and editing were carried out by the staff.  And I was mentored the entire time by a full professor in English.  So maybe I’m in over my head. 

Or, maybe this is a challenge that I can rise and face, one that is both inspiring and exciting.  Because I wonder if part of my fear here is that gender biased social reinforcement that I’m not good enough, or that I can’t feel good enough.

At any rate, I’m really excited by the pending second interview.  My therapist had told me to go into the interview with "joyful curiosity."  And maybe that’s how I will go into this one as well, but with "joyful honesty."  I think I will just be truthful, that I was inspired by the book I worked on so many years ago, because it had a personal relevance to me.  And that I was part of the editorial process in an intimate way, but I was also guided by a professional, mentored almost every step of the way.  That perhaps this job is not only an opportunity to offer my vision and input, my dedication to story-telling and people-telling, but also an opportunity for my development as a writer and editor, and I would be growing with the process.  That I am by no means an expert, but I’m willing to learn and become an expert one day.  And that’s a lofty goal, because I’m a firm believer that you can always learn, even if you feel like an ‘expert’ and confident one day, there will always be another day where you find yourself lacking and in my case, feeling like a complete idiot.  There's always room for improvement.  (Lord knows, that's the damn truth, in my case!)

 

Two houses

Two houses suck sometimes. I know my girls think that.  They don’t come out and say it with words, instead, they might wake up grumpy when it’s time to go to school, knowing they’re going to their second house in the afternoon.  They don’t want to get out of bed, they don’t want to brush their teeth, they certainly don’t want to pick out their damn dress, even though the night before they gurgled with joy about how they couldn’t WAIT to wear the ruffly one with sparkles on it.  Nope, all evening lovely memories of canoodling and smooshing each other with kisses and cuddling up with book time about the Happy Lion are forgotten.  Poof, into thin air.

I suppose I could blame it on the early morning rise which begets our single mom commute to school and work, weaving in and out of traffic as I drive across mountains (literally) to deliver my DDs to their respective drop offs, myself sprinting to my job (I hate running, but I’ve turned into an early a.m. sprinter.  I seriously wear tennis shoes to work).  Or maybe it’s the pre-dawn light and aroma of chocolate chip waffles just not doing it for them, particularly for DD2, along with the fruity pebbles on the table that DD2 has decided to protest in honor of NOT picking out her dress due to lying on the bedroom floor in a heap just mere minutes before—mean old mommy then making an executive decision to pick one to take along, declare it was ‘pajama day’ at preschool for now.  Then carrying DD2 and plopping her in her breakfast chair.  The nerve.  (and yes, it was a sugary breakfast day, sigh).

But mostly I know the overall crankiness is due to the fact that despite ‘the routine’ and kids ‘thrive on routine’ and ‘knowing what to expect,’ having to go to two houses kind of sucks.  We can’t forget a beloved blankie or a favorite lovey, and sometimes they might even get scolded for taking their beloved lovies over; we can’t forget to pack the lunch container from that house or spoon, etc. (and god forbid I forget to pack a sock or two, got a list of missing panties.  Counting panties, seriously.)  And just when they get settled into the routine at our house, then it’s time to go to the second house.  And I’m sure it can’t be easy doing it the other way, too.  Sometimes, they come home and are sad because they’re worried about their dad and what he has said.  Who knows what they say over there about me (mean fruity pebbles tyrant mommy?)  And it doesn’t help that every time they do go over there, I have inward panic attacks about what might happen, because I know what he’s capable of, and yet I have learned to control said fears behind a herculean strengthed mask of smiles and support and positivity because no matter what, my kids love their dad.  

And when they DO share with me concerning anecdotes or questions (i.e. daddy says this and crying commences), I comfort as much as I can, and knowing that the challenges will only increase as the kids get older and start questioning like older kids will, do everything I can to make them comfortable to ask me the hard questions and tell me the hard things--never judging only answering as best as i can.  Translating hard answers into something that doesn't shit-talk their dad (not helpful, and i see how stressed they get when they deliver shit-talk about me from over there), but helps them understand that human beings have limits, and people love other people the best that they know how, and NONE of it is their responsibility.

Two houses suck. 

p.s. I am grateful for the big changes and daily live the potpourri of reasons on how much our life has improved.  I am so very thankful for that.  I’m just saying, even in the best of circumstances, the house juggle can be a pain in the a$$.

Arrows from my heart

I love this quote about children by Kahlil Gibran--and I think of it when I think of my young kids growing up.  I was such a handful as a teen, and I imagine my girls will be, too. 
  
I pray I can have the wisdom to deal with the potential craziness that we didn’t have to contend with—like the possibility of every embarrassing moment EVER, recorded on camera phone and potentially uploaded to youtube.  I mean seriously, the thought of the stupid things I did when I was a teenager, having it uploaded for posterity, gives me the shakes.  If my girls were old enough, it would probably give THEM the shakes—of embarrassment.

Anyway, when I am trying to bend DD2 to my will to eat every damn last green bean on her plate before dessert, or commanding DD1 to not raise her voice in protest one more second when doing her math homework—that it’s okay to be upset but it is NOT OKAY TO THROW SHIT around the room in anger, or time out NOW, I try and remember this.  

 I’m doing my best to shape them to prepare for the future—of life as a young girl, teenager, young woman in our beautiful, but also maliciously unfair world.  To give them boundaries on what is acceptable for them to do and equally important as to what is acceptable for them to expect from other people—in a life that can be full of hope and at the same time full of injustice. 

My sweetheart 4 and 7 years olds, I love you.  I cannot control you, you are arrows from my heart, I can only do my best to prepare you for what the world might bring to your feet, and hopefully give you the tools to forge a path all of your own. 
::
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
 
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.
 

A marker in the sand

I’m finding it difficult to write about our journey these days.  I will be truthful, this is my third attempt at blogging.  The first I took offline when my marriage disintegrated—it was written primarily for me to keep in touch with my people far and wide, dispersed among the country thousands of miles apart.  It was a mask of what our life was really like—the stormy rages disguised by sweetheart pictures of my children, the beautiful ocean, crafts, friends.

Believe it or not, those posts that I kept up so that I could remember a sweeter time, were entered into evidence against me, as a kind of proof that the domestic violence didn’t happen.  Right now, I can almost laugh at the ludicrousness (is that even a word), when it’s clearly not a laughing matter.  But who honestly writes and posts detailed accounts of violence committed in their own home, by someone who they love and trust?  Needless to say, that blog went dark.

I then attempted a second blog, where my said beloved people across the nation had to sign in to keep up with the happenings.  It was there that I bled and cried and tore my hair out in fear, frustration at the court process, terror that something would happen to us, but having learned from my blog 1.0 experience, it was safe from the hands of my ex-husband.  And for a time I kept that up, even loaded up pictures of me and my children—surviving, growing, developing a life all on our own.  And then…when the final nail in the divorce coffin drove in, I somehow drifted away from that, resorting to facebook and Instagram and text as an easier and less time consuming means to reach out to my people—between the whirlwind drop offs and work schedule and whirlwind pick ups and extracurricular, homework time, dinner time, clean up, bed time, story time, etc. etc.   In fact, I still reach out to my people that way—email, phone calls, and few and far between visits, notwithstanding.

But somewhere along the line, I missed the writing--of putting to words pieces of my heart and soul.  And i needed to do it all on my own, in the open, without fear of someone finding it and trying to use it against me.  Of helping my healing process along by joining words to emotions, feeling, experiences, and maybe in some miraculous way, connecting with others who might be swimming in the same sea.  That somehow, leaving these words along the page, virtual or real, are a kind of buoy in the drift water, or a marker in the sand.  We are here, we are living and breathing, we are surviving, hoping, wondering.  We are pushing forward in our new, unexpected life.  We are not alone. <3