I try to be thankful everyday, but sometimes I get trapped in my Tilt-A-Whirl brain, going back and forth, around and around, on a useless orbit of self-doubt. The only way to stop the dizzying assault is sleep. Fortunate that my sleep aberration allows me relief from my relentless inquisition.
It is a gift. I must remember when I am disgusted by the sloth-like creature that can not move after 7:00. I am thankful for medications that keep me awake alert and able to function at my job. I am so grateful for work that is challenging, inspiring and fun, a family who accepts and loves me despite everything, the animals who bless my life without judgment, endless forgiveness and a joyful spirit.
There is much to treasure on this big earth. The people I have walked with, even for a few steps on this incredible adventure have shared their life, their time. Some have moved on to another road and those I miss dearly, but there is hope, for new possibilities, frontiers, because forward is the only way this path goes.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
The M & M Club
I have two sisters, both younger. Our names all start with M. When we were growing up with our mother, we called ourselves the M & M club. This of course included eating the wonderful colored candy. There was only the plain version, and way too many brown ones. We fought over the greens and reds.
We were always very different. I was dramatic, a reader and a bit of a loner. My middle sister was good, a hard worker and very sensitive. She cried a lot. My youngest sister was fearless, dancing in circles for hours, draped in beads, and a hat. She loved being naked with accessories. We would grow up and follow these paths of personality. I married young, worked in a library and school. The good sister works in law enforcement donating time and money to worthy causes.
The youngest, she is a provider, a modern day working girl, the internet her virtual street corner. Forty seven, without teeth, though she does have an upper plate. Her lower one was stolen by her twenty year old, convict ex-boyfriend. She is a recovering meth-heroin addict, catering to octogenarians, mentally, physically disabled social security recipients, foreign visitors, judges with specific proclivities and other assorted characters.
I learned of her career choice when she called me at 2:00 am crying hysterically that she was in jail and I needed to call Roger to bail her out,” But wait he doesn’t know my real name he knows me as Vicki.”. She then proceeded to give me names and numbers to call without a breath in between, just sobbing. She was so distraught she had relieved herself and not the liquid way on the jail floor. She said the black girls wanted to beat her up for stinking up the place.
I sigh and say I will do what I can. It is very late, even in California where she lives. My husband doesn’t even turn over, so accustomed to crazy calls in the dead of night. She does a stint in County, finds Jesus and vows never to use Craig’s List again. She has learned much from her cellmates.
She embarked on her improved career with some business acumen, peer networking, and confidence. She can now pay her child support. She risked jail for nonpayment and ironically by her method of making payments. The state ignores her failure to file federal taxes. They just want the money, for her five children living with fathers and grandparents after the courts rightfully declared her unable to care for them. With a rap sheet inked with burglary, solicitation, driving under the influence along with other offenses, traditional employment is difficult, a living wage impossible. She is making more money than she has in her life, all conveniently untaxed. She is independent and concurrently dependent on men.
She takes great pleasure in sharing her work experiences in graphic pornographic detail. Here is an edited example.
The Tale of the Lost Toy: It was the night before my sister traveled home for a visit hoping for extra spending money she had a “date” with a patron, who spoke very little English. He had a request involving a battery operated utensil. No problem, she applied ample amounts of petroleum for the procedure, but mid-application she screamed. Oops, during this session was in the same league as a surgeon or a barber’s oops. The still moving object was not visible anymore. After several attempts at ejection the language barrier became more pronounced accompanied by anxiety and impatience. This was supposed to be a relatively quick exchange. She had to pack. He made a frantic phone call to his father asking for advice to dislodge the object, after demonstrative pantomiming from Vickie; he emerged from the restroom, triumphant. She found the forgotten plaything still vibrating in the bathroom sink.
Her life is a sad contradiction, if you choose to see it that way. My sister embraces her career choice sticking it to the man literally and figuratively. She does not apologize or conceal her profession, with legal exception. It is her choice. She is happy to be paid for these acts instead of bartering or taken without consent. She has a semblance of control.
She does not worry about aging or tomorrow, one day at a time.
We were always very different. I was dramatic, a reader and a bit of a loner. My middle sister was good, a hard worker and very sensitive. She cried a lot. My youngest sister was fearless, dancing in circles for hours, draped in beads, and a hat. She loved being naked with accessories. We would grow up and follow these paths of personality. I married young, worked in a library and school. The good sister works in law enforcement donating time and money to worthy causes.
The youngest, she is a provider, a modern day working girl, the internet her virtual street corner. Forty seven, without teeth, though she does have an upper plate. Her lower one was stolen by her twenty year old, convict ex-boyfriend. She is a recovering meth-heroin addict, catering to octogenarians, mentally, physically disabled social security recipients, foreign visitors, judges with specific proclivities and other assorted characters.
I learned of her career choice when she called me at 2:00 am crying hysterically that she was in jail and I needed to call Roger to bail her out,” But wait he doesn’t know my real name he knows me as Vicki.”. She then proceeded to give me names and numbers to call without a breath in between, just sobbing. She was so distraught she had relieved herself and not the liquid way on the jail floor. She said the black girls wanted to beat her up for stinking up the place.
I sigh and say I will do what I can. It is very late, even in California where she lives. My husband doesn’t even turn over, so accustomed to crazy calls in the dead of night. She does a stint in County, finds Jesus and vows never to use Craig’s List again. She has learned much from her cellmates.
She embarked on her improved career with some business acumen, peer networking, and confidence. She can now pay her child support. She risked jail for nonpayment and ironically by her method of making payments. The state ignores her failure to file federal taxes. They just want the money, for her five children living with fathers and grandparents after the courts rightfully declared her unable to care for them. With a rap sheet inked with burglary, solicitation, driving under the influence along with other offenses, traditional employment is difficult, a living wage impossible. She is making more money than she has in her life, all conveniently untaxed. She is independent and concurrently dependent on men.
She takes great pleasure in sharing her work experiences in graphic pornographic detail. Here is an edited example.
The Tale of the Lost Toy: It was the night before my sister traveled home for a visit hoping for extra spending money she had a “date” with a patron, who spoke very little English. He had a request involving a battery operated utensil. No problem, she applied ample amounts of petroleum for the procedure, but mid-application she screamed. Oops, during this session was in the same league as a surgeon or a barber’s oops. The still moving object was not visible anymore. After several attempts at ejection the language barrier became more pronounced accompanied by anxiety and impatience. This was supposed to be a relatively quick exchange. She had to pack. He made a frantic phone call to his father asking for advice to dislodge the object, after demonstrative pantomiming from Vickie; he emerged from the restroom, triumphant. She found the forgotten plaything still vibrating in the bathroom sink.
Her life is a sad contradiction, if you choose to see it that way. My sister embraces her career choice sticking it to the man literally and figuratively. She does not apologize or conceal her profession, with legal exception. It is her choice. She is happy to be paid for these acts instead of bartering or taken without consent. She has a semblance of control.
She does not worry about aging or tomorrow, one day at a time.
Friday, November 5, 2010
This I Believe - Losing My Religion
I believe that religion should never be used as a weapon, as an excuse, as a method of dominance, for financial gain, to subjugate another culture, gender, or those deemed by society as inferior.
Phillip Roth recently stated "When the whole world doesn't believe in God, it'll be a great place."
I am reasonably sure he meant all pseudonyms encompassing God, Allah, Mohammad, Buddha, Jesus…. God and religion have continued to mutate beyond recognition. Beyond the presumption of one Supreme Being, there is the shared belief among faiths of treating each other as one wishes to be treated. This has been lost in translation, morphed into a grotesque version of treating others as one's religion dictates or how one interprets the coinciding law book of morals.
I was raised Catholic and much of what I learned was pre-Vatican II. It took years for all the installments of user-friendly Protestantization to inhabit the parochial school teachings. It was the belief that our religion was the correct and only one, but it also included a respect for other beliefs, not to preach, but show by example what being a Catholic meant. Bibles were rarely used for more than a family record. I was taught people were made in the image of God and were to be treated that way, regardless of sexual orientation, race, disabilities, gender, or religion. As an enthusiastic child of God I embraced the kindness toward all philosophy. This of course was not necessarily followed in the male hierarchy of the church, as they were exempt from rule following.
I would lose all the shininess of celestial glory when the years of priests’ molestation crimes were no longer shielded deep in the catacombs of church doctrine. The political, financial, church-sanctioned cover ups of depraved abuse toward children with total disregard for their protection, was not explainable, not excusable, but the antithesis of God.
I have found no comfort in other organized religions. Each with judgments and decrees on what is right, what to believe, who to hate, who to blame, why it is superior, why I must obey. Each designates a copious book of rules and edicts written by chosen males.
There is no need for all this superfluous verbiage.
Treat each other as you would wish to be treated. If the whole world would lose their religion and live by this one simple phrase, how could war, poverty, and hatred exist? When the world practices humanity, kindness, generosity, acceptance, it will be a most wonderful world.
I believe, however one knows God, God would be pleased with this world.
Phillip Roth recently stated "When the whole world doesn't believe in God, it'll be a great place."
I am reasonably sure he meant all pseudonyms encompassing God, Allah, Mohammad, Buddha, Jesus…. God and religion have continued to mutate beyond recognition. Beyond the presumption of one Supreme Being, there is the shared belief among faiths of treating each other as one wishes to be treated. This has been lost in translation, morphed into a grotesque version of treating others as one's religion dictates or how one interprets the coinciding law book of morals.
I was raised Catholic and much of what I learned was pre-Vatican II. It took years for all the installments of user-friendly Protestantization to inhabit the parochial school teachings. It was the belief that our religion was the correct and only one, but it also included a respect for other beliefs, not to preach, but show by example what being a Catholic meant. Bibles were rarely used for more than a family record. I was taught people were made in the image of God and were to be treated that way, regardless of sexual orientation, race, disabilities, gender, or religion. As an enthusiastic child of God I embraced the kindness toward all philosophy. This of course was not necessarily followed in the male hierarchy of the church, as they were exempt from rule following.
I would lose all the shininess of celestial glory when the years of priests’ molestation crimes were no longer shielded deep in the catacombs of church doctrine. The political, financial, church-sanctioned cover ups of depraved abuse toward children with total disregard for their protection, was not explainable, not excusable, but the antithesis of God.
I have found no comfort in other organized religions. Each with judgments and decrees on what is right, what to believe, who to hate, who to blame, why it is superior, why I must obey. Each designates a copious book of rules and edicts written by chosen males.
There is no need for all this superfluous verbiage.
Treat each other as you would wish to be treated. If the whole world would lose their religion and live by this one simple phrase, how could war, poverty, and hatred exist? When the world practices humanity, kindness, generosity, acceptance, it will be a most wonderful world.
I believe, however one knows God, God would be pleased with this world.
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