Author Archives: jbrand1

What are you Hiding?

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I was in Nordstrom last night trying to find an under- eye concealer that would disguise what I’m told is a genetic problem and not due to my crazy life. As the sales lady applied and applied layer after layer of color corrector, secret camouflage, ultra HD concealer and miracle eye wand, it became very apparent that this was no secret and there was no miracle. I’m a mess.

Up until now, I have been able to “put on a good face”. I have maneuvered through the past 10 years with the uncanny ability to be witty, give good advice, care for my family, volunteer for everything, please my man and be the friend that sticks with you when everyone else has gone home.

Well, the jig is up.

As I walked through the mall with my “old lady makeup” purchase (fondly named by my eldest), I began to wonder what the women surrounding me, mindlessly sifting through sale racks, were experiencing. How many would attend the high school graduation of their first born this week and seize up with the fear of letting go in the fall. How many were overwhelmed with the day in and day out challenges of having a special needs child. How many were struggling to make end of life care arrangements for a parent in their final stages of dementia. How many were questioning their worth.

Life has handed me its share of crap and I completely understand that it’s all relative. My bullshit may be another person’s day off. I get that; however, it certainly doesn’t diminish what we each experience. I try to give each tough situation its dignity and perhaps sprinkle it with a little humor to keep us all grounded.

Each month, I make the trip to see dad. I’m really the only one he recognizes anymore and my time with him is a priority. It’s Friday before Mother’s Day weekend. This is going to be a quick trip and I plan to return Sunday afternoon in time to spend the day with my kids. Since it’s a quick trip and it IS my special weekend, I decide to treat myself to Airport Valet Parking at $25/day. I have never used this service, but what the hell. Live a little, right? Right.

I find my father in terrible condition and call for an ambulance. He is hospitalized. I spend the next 5 days at his bedside, advocating on his behalf with specialists from all medical fields. I keep his medical records meticulous and I’m so prepared, many physicians remark that they assumed I was employed in the medical field. Meanwhile, there are people at home who expected my return and need direction. I’m making calls, arranging transportation and solving problems from the hospital for my people who rely on me to make it all work out. Only one chaotic instance of the elementary school principal calling me to ask what to do with my youngest child left standing after school seems to be a small victory for me. I can do this.

Day 5

I’m running on about 3 hours sleep a night and a diet of Redbull, Subway and chardonnay. Dad is not responding to treatment, so antibiotics are changed. He’s not being discharged any time soon. The weather has seesawed from a cold and rainy 55 degrees to 94 and sunny. Here come the storms. Now, it is important to note for story continuity, that home there is a 500-acre family farm. I am alone in a 150-year-old farm house that my contractor swears is haunted. My grandmother fell off the porch in a rocker and died there, my uncle nearly chopped off his head in a terrible chainsaw accident behind the house. Dead. Lastly, my grandfather cut off 3 fingers while building a chair in his workshop and he also fell off the roof and landed on an axe, but he didn’t die from any of that.

Back to the storm. While speaking with my husband, I can see the sky brewing up my next form of bullshit. I half-jokingly inform my him that if I lose power, I will jump out of an upstairs window. As the words are coming out of my mouth, I lose power. If you’ve never experienced pitch blackness and total silence, let me tell you, it is terrifying. I gathered candles and barricaded myself in my bedroom which now resembled some sort of ghoulish tomb, dancing with creepy shadows I was sure were going to kill me. It is also important to note that I had a .38 and a box of ammunition on the bed with me for mortal intruders, because that’s how I roll. My cell phone battery is draining, so throughout the night, I keep going out to the car to charge it. I am now sitting under the car port, head on a swivel, headlights on, loaded .38 in my lap, charging my phone and mumbling something about fuck my life. Earlier, my husband had suggested I just go to sleep. I hung up on him.

Day 6

The sun appears, the power is restored 14 hours later and I’m already headed back to the hospital. I stop at Target to pick up a few t-shirts and some sweat pants because I had only packed for 48 hours, so around day 3, I started digging into my farm attire (which isn’t pretty). Dad is improving.

Day 7

Dad can be discharged and taken back to his nursing home. I decided it’s best for me to transport him so that we don’t further upset and confuse him in an ambulance. I can chat with him on the ride and remind him of familiar places and stories. We’ve traveled these roads together thousands of times so it will be good for the two of us.

With help, I get him into the car and slide into the driver’s seat. He turns to me and says, “Where are you taking me, Lady?”

Me: Dad, it’s me, Jessica. Don’t you know who I am? Look at me. I’m your daughter, Jessica.

Dad: I find that very hard to believe.

Me: Why? Why, Dad?

Dad: Because my daughter is better looking and has nicer clothes.

So, there you have it. Out of the mouths of elders. Now you know why I was at Nordstrom last night. I hope my purchase will help my father to recognize me when I see him next week.

Oh, and by the way, I will be returning to Airport Economy Parking. The $225 treat myself, valet bill could have paid for my under-eye concealers.

 

 

Hardest thing? That’s what she said.

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Last week, a friend posted a question on her Facebook page to begin a discussion. The question was: What is the hardest thing you’ve ever done?

My first thought that came to mind was that time I had to uncork a bottle of wine without a proper opener. That can’t be it. I then began to reminisce about other things that were perhaps, just perhaps a little more meaningful. I had three.

Burying my mother was definitely one of the absolute worst things I’ve ever had to do. One day, when I have the courage and stamina to relive her final months, I will write about the experience. Until then, unless you’ve found yourself in the same situation, you’ll have to take my word that it is excruciating.

The diagnosis of my son’s autism and the journey with him to date has been hard. We all hope and pray that our children are happy and healthy. When we are thrown a curve ball, or rather a wrecking ball into that plan, life gets harder. I cannot tell you if I’ve ever had a complete night of sleep in the bed with my husband without the little fellow showing up around 3am and squeezing in. I’m not sure how the Bucket Grandparents did it. That said, the rewards far outweigh the tough times. My son is extraordinary in so many ways, and though the journey may be hard, it’s also the most amazing thing I’ve ever beheld. I’m excited for his future.

That leaves my list topper: Dad.

Dad is 95 ½. Dad has dementia. Dad has me.

Each month, I throw my household into chaos (this according to my teenaged daughters) when I depart for a few days to lay eyes on dad, take him to his VA appointments and deal with any other issues regarding his care. He resides in a nursing home some 850 miles away in the home town where he was raised from a child. He is there because it is most familiar to him. He responds much better to visual stimulation and isn’t nearly as anxious as when he is placed in unfamiliar surroundings. Therefore, I am slowing the process by keeping him around people, places and things he can easily recognize. Downside, I’m doing planes, trains and automobiles to get there every 5 weeks.

Listen, I’m not complaining. This man afforded me a wonderful childhood, great teenaged memories and unprecedented support in my adult years. This is what I am supposed to do. It does not, however, make it easy.

Today, we went to the VA to have his ears cleaned. He couldn’t hear me on the way, but he talked up a storm the whole way home. The conversation went something like this:

Dad: How long have I known you?

Me: Dad, I’m your daughter.

(2 minutes pass)

Dad: How long did we date?

Me: Dad, I’m your kid. That’s gross.

(5 minutes later)

Dad: Why did I break up with you? You’re so nice to me.

Me: DAD! I’m your daughter. DAUGHTER. Not your girlfriend.

Dad: I knew that. My brain isn’t working, but let me ask you one other thing. Why did I break up with you?

Me: First of all, you didn’t break up with me. No one breaks up with me. I break up with them. Let’s get that straight. Also, I’m your daughter.

Dad: I knew that. My brain just isn’t working today.

(5 minutes pass)

Dad: Why did we break up then?

Me: That is gross, Dad. I’m your kid. Do I look old enough to be dating a 95 year old? Don’t answer that.

Dad: I’m sorry.

Me: I love you, Dad.

Dad: How did we meet?

Me: DAAAAAADDY

This is just a 20 minute excerpt of the 2 hour trip home. All the while, he is attempting to pull the cotton balls from his ears as I’m instructing him to stop touching them.

Dad: Why?

Me: Because, Dad. You just had a serious procedure at the VA and the cotton balls are soaked in medicine.

Dad: When did we do that?

Me: Dad, we just left the VA.

Dad: I knew that (touching the cotton balls).

Now, the cotton ball from his right ear is in his hand and he is busy examining it.

We stop at TGI Friday’s for a late lunch. I have to cut his food. He enjoys it while he tells me he used to come to that same restaurant when he was a kid. I smile and rub his arm.

There, in a wheelchair, sits the man I ran to when I was scared. There sits the man I put on a pedestal higher than the moon. There sits the man who could do anything and had done everything. There sits the man who flew B-17’s into Germany 17 times. There sits the man who was shot down and taken Prisoner of War for a grueling 6 months in the coldest winter on record. There sits a man who endured death marches, starvation and the constant fear of death; who watched three members of his crew be blown to bits as he bailed from that burning ship at 30,000 feet. There sits the man who safely flew millions of passengers to their destinations for 30 years, always with a smile and kind word. There sits my daddy.

As I delivered him back to the nursing home, gave instructions to the nurses and spoke to the facility director, he settled back in to a big, blue easy chair given to him by his younger brother.

Dad: You know, my dad brought me this chair as a gift.

Me: I think it was Uncle Emerson

Dad: Right

Dad: I hope you enjoyed your date with me today. I had a really good time.

Me: I’ll see you tomorrow, Dad. I love you.

 

 

 

Womb Chat

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My uterus is more popular than me. She is a trending topic on Facebook and Twitter. I never imagined the type of notoriety a female body part, other than her sister, the vagina, and maybe her twin cousins, the boobs, could garnish. However, it has happened. She has graced the offices of many a local government and even made it to the international stage during a United States Presidential Debate.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but is it not the 21st Century? Didn’t our mothers already fight for this shit so we wouldn’t be bothered with such issues?  I would have imagined by now, my girl would be kicking back (which is funny because she is tipped) and taking it easy. No such luck. Even in her twilight years, my uterus has been thrust back into the spotlight and is causing quite a clamor. If you have been living under a rock, or only have two testes and a penis, let me bring you up to date. The uterus is the new black. She’s the talk of the town. She’s the cat’s meow; literally.

Since everyone is so interested in the goings on in my uterus, I’ll tell you a little bit about her.
My uterus is 50 years old and lives in Indiana where she is Enemy #1 to our governor. I call his office to speak to him about my uterus at least once a week, inviting him to my GYN appointments, asking him for advice about my uterus and giving him general updates. He hasn’t once returned my call. I assume he must be performing a pap smear on a constituent. But I digress.

Back in July of 1978, my uterus got the call from my fallopian tubes stating that an egg was coming down the chute. She was excited to finally be elevated into active duty. The rest of my twelve-year-old self, however, was on a parachute ride at Knott’s Berry Farm, and was the least bit thrilled. I believe the experience could have been described as terror, denial and embarrassment as I watched my mother share the joyous news with everyone in that amusement park bathroom. Since then, my uterus, like clockwork, has cradled those eggs and done her thing.

In the past 17 years, my uterus has produced 3 live births. From the moment they took their first breath and became independent from my uterus and the rest of my body, we (my uterus and I) have watched them grow into wonderful human beings. Unfortunately, my uterus has also delivered some duds. There have been several monthly occasions where the flow was so heavy and the cramps so bad, it looked like a case for CSI. Incidentally, that is exactly what would have happened if our governor had his way last summer. I would have had to cordon off my toilet with crime scene tape, gone fishing for a few clots and taken it to my physician or nearest medical facility where I would then be held responsible for a burial. I’m not sure, but I don’t think insurance covers bodily function interment in my MetLife plan. Again, I digress.

On a typical day, my uterus and I grocery shop, run errands and occasionally will see the uterus and vagina doctor since this whole menopause thing has us by the proverbial egg sac. I have been considering just having coffee with the governor so he can guide me through this. After all, he seems to know what’s best for us.
My uterus also accompanies me to a program I volunteer with that mentors at-risk teens. Together, we give young women and men the opportunity to talk openly about relationships, boundaries, respect, responsibility, sex and the importance of education. I must admit, the old uterus is pretty wise when it comes to lecturing about self-care, self-respect and responsibility. She’s not an armchair uterus that just spouts off orders to other uteri. She’s in there, front and center, helping other uteri understand and make informed decisions.

My uterus and I like to help but we also understand that just as my uterus is part of my body, like my heart, kidneys, liver and other internal organs, she only functions because I function. Her health and welfare depend on me, the vessel. Together, we understand that each vessel is unique. Each vessel is responsible for her own course. It is also important to note that a vessel does not lose her command even when she must lose her uterus. Contrary to the belief of some,we are not defined by our uterus. We can survive without a uterus, thrive and even run for President. However, it cannot survive without us.

Old girl is getting tired and headed into retirement soon. She will no longer be part of a trending topic or heated discussion regarding purpose. Although, in the future, the only thing she may be capable of producing are tumbleweeds, she still deserves the privacy and respect she did in her heyday. My uterus is not independent of me, nor is she up for debate among strangers. I protect her and she has served me well

The purpose of allowing you, the reader, to get to know my uterus, is to advise you that the business of regulating personal reproductive rights is degrading and discourteous. To allow you to dictate rules and laws, to listen as you gush a series of opinions as to what each and every individual woman and her uterus must comply with, you must first know each and every uterus intimately. You now know mine, only 125.9 million to go.

Stand Up, Sit Down, Fight Fight Fight

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In December 1941, my father left college at Iowa State, hitchhiked back to Upstate NY and declared to his parents that he would not be returning to college, instead enlisting in the service. In June of 1942, he was accepted into the Army Air Corp Cadet program. He was on a boat headed overseas in Spring 1944. There, as a member of the 8th Air Force 457th Bomb Group, he flew 17 missions as 1st Lieutenant,  Aircraft Commander on the B-17 Flying Fortress. On his 17th mission, November 2, 1944, he was shot down over Merseberg Germany and taken prisoner of war. He was placed on a forced march in January 1945 with thousands of American POW’s. Suffering from frost bite and malnutrition, he nearly died, but managed to survive and see his POW camp liberated by General Patton in May 1945.

Meanwhile, my mother is stateside, fighting a war of her own. In 1945, she was 20 years old. It would be another 17 years before they meet.

1962 Chicago

My father is based in Washington DC but flying out of O’Hare.  He spends most of his time at the YMCA near the airport when he’s not flying. He knows no one. He is befriended by a baggage porter, Donald, who sees him headed to the YMCA many a night. Donald invites my father to his home one evening. He offers his friendship to a young pilot who seems quite lonely. My father accepts.

He arrives at the party, a house party in Hyde Park, Illinois. He is introduced to a sea of color. Although spending time overseas, this is the first time he has been immersed in a culture that is not white. Then, he sees her.

January 1963

They marry.  His family is disgusted. His sister tells him not to have children. They move to Robbins, Illinois, a predominantly black neighborhood where they are accepted. He is beginning to realize that this will be a challenge bigger than his war experience, for now, he’s fighting a war on his home soil. Their marriage is illegal in 21 states. They are not free to travel the country for which he fought to keep free. He realizes this “freedom” does not apply to everyone. They suffer indignities, prejudice and physical threats but continuing fighting for civil rights.

November 1965

I am born. My parents continue to fight for civil rights. 5 states have overturned their interracial marriage bans. 16 dig their heels in. This decorated war hero cannot bring his wife and child with him when he travels because they could be arrested and his child taken by the state. While other airline families enjoy the perks of travel, my mother and I stay home.

1967

The Supreme Court rules that all bans on interracial marriage are unconstitutional. It takes two states several years to amend their state constitutions and remove the offending language.

South Carolina 1998   Alabama 2000

You read that right; 1998 and 2000.

 

My father and mother have endured and persevered over some of the most heinous behaviors perpetrated by their own country. For nearly 50 years, they were stared at, ostracized and mistreated by ignorant American citizens. Even in my mother’s illness and death, many hospital workers treated her with less than dignified care. My father, tired and distraught, turned to me to fight for proper care for his loving wife. Today, he proudly displays his family photos in his room at the nursing home and he is still met with prejudice and bigotry. He is 95 years old. He has fought for civil rights for more than 50 years, even taking a stand against the Chicago Police Department for mistreatment of black citizens, including the arrest of his wife and child for driving a Cadillac while black.

Is he less of a patriot; less of a war hero?

So, when hundreds of African American citizens take to the streets or a few black athletes take a seat in quiet protest over an anthem and a pledge that professes Liberty and Justice for ALL, perhaps you might think about and remind yourself that everyone has a different reality. Change does not occur without a loud protest or a gentle nudge. From throwing tea into the Boston Harbor to taking a knee during the National Anthem, we all have the right to love our country AND be a catalyst for positive change.

 

 

The Talk

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Today is the day I decided to have the dreaded “talk” with my daughters. I had put it off far too long. These girls are constantly bombarded with social media that could be corroding their proper judgment. After all, they are teenagers now; they need and deserve to know all vital information and facts contributing to their long term sexual health.

I began by building a gentle foundation.

Girls, there comes a time in your life when your body begins to blossom like a beautiful and delicate flower, basking in the sun and frolicking in the garden of maturity. Mother Nature sprinkles her monthly lady glitter upon you that symbolizes your priceless gift of admission into womanhood. Your upper body landscape has begun to reveal perky new buds of growth and wonderment, while your lower region will undergo a fuzzy expansion of luxurious underbrush that serves to shroud your sacred bits.

As these changes become more noticeable, you will begin to attract attention from many who desire to dominate you. You may not realize it at first, as these persons are sneaky, often using slick words, lies and sometimes intimidation to trick you. Often they will seek to control your thoughts, emotions, your every sexual consideration; all to deem themselves superior to you.

They will tell you what to do, where to go, who to love and who to hate. On occasion, they will verbally abuse you in an effort to get what they want. They will attempt to strip you of your dignity and make you feel dirty. They will even go as far as to recount that God said it was okay.

If you object, they will tell everyone you are a whore.

If you give in and give of yourself, they will inevitably move on to the next bloom. Once they have what they want, they won’t care what happens to you.

Yes, girls, I’m talking about the Republican Party.

You must fight, like your mother, to keep them away from your vagina and out of your uterus. They are a misogynistic bunch who seem to be willing to stop at nothing until they are inside you. Stand strong with your sisters and vow to help educate others about this misguided, dangerous group.

Your body belongs to you and no one else. Care for it like a temple, but don’t take any bullshit.

Mom

Donald Trump. Donald T. Don T. Don’T.

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Let me just get right to this.

Anyone voting for Donald Trump is dimwitted. That’s right, I said it.

Thick. Dense. Slow. Unintelligent.

I have sat patiently, waiting for this country to come to its senses, but that hasn’t happened, so I can be silent no longer. I will explain this so even you, the Donald Trump voter, can understand.

Donald Trump says what people are thinking

If you are one of these people, let me break it down for you. You are bigoted, racist, homophobic, xenophobic, misogynistic, socially retarded, ethically bankrupt and really, just a bad person. If you are one of these people who believes Donald Trump is “telling it like it is”, you are not a Patriot and you certainly, my friend, are no Christian. I used “friend” in there for sarcasm. We could never be friends.

Most of us walk this earth pretty happy to be alive. We can get along with people because that is what we call a civilized approach to existence. We have a common understanding that even though things may not be exactly as we would like, we respect one another, listen to one another and do our best to live and work alongside each other. Heck, we may even become better people for knowing and embracing people of another ethnicity, religion and background. We actually embrace diversity. We understand the difference between passion and fundamentalist behavior. If someone has a differing opinion, we can respect that about one another and move on, hopefully on to find something in common to share. So, you’re an atheist? I love puppies. Do you love puppies? Awesome.

Just because someone has the balls to say what you’re thinking, does not make it right, especially when your thoughts are asinine. Choosing to single out a race or religion of people because they make you uncomfortable (probably because you are uneducated) is about the most idiotic and dangerous (an all too common combination) stance to take. Too often, bigoted and racist people choose this behavior because they are looking for someone to blame for their circumstance. They want to break stuff and hit people who don’t share their values, usually because that is the lowest and most dim-witted form of expression a human can exhibit. It’s no coincidence that it seems to be the chosen and embraced form of articulation for a Trump supporter. Also, most people who are racist couldn’t form their own opinion if their life depended on it. They look for someone equally as ignorant to tell them how to feel, take charge and drive that reckless bus right off the cliff. Bingo! Trump.

He’s going to make America great again

We know what you’re referring to. Just come out and say it. You’re not fooling anyone with this prancing around your prejudice. You want brown people put back in their place; the back of the bus, back in the fields, back in Mexico, back in the Middle East, back in the kitchen, back in your yard, back in your laundry room. Let’s face it, brown people with a dream and a common goal scare you. Brown people with too much pride, dignity and education make you uncomfortable. It was so much easier for you, back in the days of Jim Crow.

He’s going to build a wall

Hopefully, it will be built to keep you away from decent people.

He’s going to keep out Muslims because they’re all terrorists

I would live with a million Muslims before I would want to live next door to a Trump supporter. White Think-they-are-Christian Men are the single biggest threat to our National Security. It’s embedded in our history, from sea to shining sea. Read any good gun violence statistics lately? Hint: it’s not the brown people who are carrying out mass shootings. Perhaps learning about Native American history might jog a memory or two. Slavery was another lovely idea conceived by these same guys. When that didn’t work out, we entered a whole new era of lynching and burning of brown folk, courtesy of you-know-who. Segregation? No problem. Gay people freak you out? They’ve got an answer for that too. Mr. Trump, your fearless leader, has filled your self-righteous noggin with so many lies and indecencies about the Muslim religion, I doubt there’s hope for you. After all, facing your own insecurities, faults and shortcomings is much harder than choosing to believe a con-artist and a pimp. By the way, you’re his ho and you’re so busy being fucked, you don’t even realize it.

 

In conclusion, there may be some of you who believe that I am no better, as I have spent the last few moments exposing your ignorance with very harsh remarks. However, you are mistaken…again. Your time has come and through your words and actions, you really have been asking for this. The majority of Americans work tirelessly to create a place where people of every race, religion and orientation can be safe, considered equal and treated so under the law; a country that welcomes those in need, a country that takes care of its most desperate. We will not sit idly by and watch you try to unravel this democracy and make a mockery of our hard work. We will work state by state to ensure you do not ever elect anyone who threatens the integrity of this great nation. If you’ve managed, trust me, we are working to vote them out of office. Believe me when I tell you that you are the minority; the ignorant. There is no place for you here. You are a zit on the butt of this country; the proverbial head lice of the United States.

 

I leave you with a choice. Either wake up and join the rest of civilized society, or to quote your boorish leader, “Get the hell out”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Get The Lead Out

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I don’t like to speak in 3rd person, but Sistah is angry. I’ve been waiting and watching. I’ve been monitoring Social Media to see what course of action is being taken to help minimize this emergency. Sadly, I haven’t seen enough. True, I’ve read a few posts on FB expressing outrage and heartbreak, but most are forwarded news stories articulating the sentiments of others.

I’m talking about the water crisis in Flint, Michigan.

I’m not sure if you are aware, but a city in the United States of America has been systematically poisoned by its water supply since April 2014 when the state-appointed Emergency Financial Manager, Darnell Earley, decided to sever ties with the Detroit water system and switch the water source to the Flint River without proper testing.

Cost savings: $100/day.

Almost immediately, citizens began complaining of the rancid smell, discoloration, skin rashes and tile rot (yes, tile rot). Yet, the city did nothing. Well, let me take that back, in January 2015, fresh bottled water was provided to the state building in Flint when employees complained. The Governor, Rick Snyder, said he had no knowledge of this but stood by his proclamation that the city water was indeed safe to drink.

In September 2015, independent investigations conducted by concerned physicians revealed the cause of the multiple E Coli outbreaks, Legionnaire’s Disease and significant increase in lead levels in the infant population. October 2015, Governor Snyder switches the water supply back to Detroit. However, it is estimated that it will take at least 6 months before that water is even remotely safe for drinking. Still, the damage has been done.

The population of Flint is just shy of 100,000 residents, majority African American, about 44% living below the poverty level. Many of the homes have lead levels so high, the supplied filtration systems don’t even work. Children have irreversible brain damage. Older children are losing their permanent teeth to rot and many residents are losing their hair. Various diagnoses are poisoning from lead, copper, aluminum and chromium. Brittle bones, low white blood cell count, loss of memory and trouble with concentration. We teach our children to drink water instead of soda or juice, right? What happens when the water is killing them?

PSA’s have been sent to advise residents that it is OKAY to bathe in tap water, as long as you don’t get it in your mouth. Ever bathe a baby?

So far, only a handful of people involved have resigned or been fired. No one, to date, has been charged with a crime. We’ve seen this time and again. A certain Hurricane Katrina comes to mind.

Where’s your outrage? Are you sitting your behind up in church every Sunday and professing to love your neighbor, but only paying “lip service”? Our fellow citizens need aid, not feeble commentary in passing. Get up off your righteous butt and start a water drive or donate to one of many organizations at Ground Zero that can get clean, safe water directly to Flint residents. I don’t want to see another Bible quote, verse or inspirational mumbo jumbo post until you can confidently say that you are really making a difference in the life of someone else.

To make it easy for you, here is a link to help you donate:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/how-to-help-flint-water-crisis_us_569e8e78e4b0cd99679b9541

And He Said Unto Me…

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Today started off like any other normal day for me. I was minding my own business (hahahaha) when The Lord came unto me and said, “Sistah, I’m going to work through you today”. I was not surprised, as He Who Makes All Things New, often comes to me with the same proposal. I did have quite a bit on my proverbial plate this afternoon, so I replied, “Sorry, HG (short for Holy Ghost), I’m pretty busy with these holiday decorations. I’ve got to trim one more tree, get out the nativity scene, light the third candle on the menorah, figure out what to do for Kwanza and did I miss Ramadan? I know, pay a visit to Kim and Kanye. I hear they’re creating Saints without your blessing”. Needless to say, The Big Kahuna was having none of it. “Sit down and get comfortable”, exclaimed ELOHIM.

Please keep in mind that Savior in Chief can be pretty long-winded and tends to use some serious testament speak. In the interest of time and translation, I have paraphrased His word for the reader. That being said, without further ado, I give you a message from The Almighty:

  1. Stop using religion as an instrument to promote fear, hate and/or violence. Anyone, and I mean anyone, who calls My name or My buddies Allah, Krishna, HaShem, Queztalcoatl (Google it), Breged, Jah or Zeus while participating in above said behaviors, is NOT a part of any religious faith.
  2. For the love of ME, stop insisting your religion is better. There’s room for all of us.
  3. Stop praying to ME over all this gun violence. I blessed you humans with common sense so that you would fix this mess you’ve created. I’m getting pretty tired hearing all the why why why. Wanna know Why? Because you are no longer as connected with one another. You don’t listen. You don’t want to get involved. You don’t know your neighbor.
  4. Try talking to a friend IN PERSON. (Sistah, get me a Snapple. I’m parched)
  5. Inspirational quotes are pretty stupid unless you actually wrote them.
  6. Just because I created weed doesn’t mean it’s good for you. I also created hemlock and rattlesnakes.
  7. I LOVE the Gays! Worry about your own relationships. Some of you hetero humans need to just sit down and be quiet. Let’s just say, many of you didn’t choose My best work.
  8. My Autobiography is meant to be a story of how to be a better human. It is NOT, however, to be used for your own personal Jesus Police Task Force. If it were, you’d all be feeling some smite from Me right about now.
  9. My Son’s birthday does not require you go in to debt. Not the reason I started this.
  10. If I put Donald Trump on this earth to test your faith, some of you are failing miserably. You better recognize.
  11. And Yes, I do protect fools, babies and drunks. I have an agreement with America’s Funniest Home Videos and YouTube.

Three hours go by, I’m absolutely exhausted and my hand is cramping. Thus, Jehovah lays one more piece of knowledge on me to deliver:

  • Some people just don’t get it. Whether they weren’t hugged enough as a child or they have some sort of chemical imbalance (science is a real thing), it’s up to YOU to make a difference. Yes, I like to hear from you, but there are plenty of humans who don’t pray to ME who are making a positive difference by their actions. Religion was created to uplift humans, not frighten, objectify or chastise (although Catholicism does appear sketchy now and again). Your time on this earth is short for a reason. It is designed for you to make the most of every moment. For My Sake, quit your whining, end the blame game, put on your grownup panties and get out there to spread some good.

Make My Day

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As I was considering how to write this piece, I read that there have been two more campus shootings today. Yes,today. Two dead and several injured. When did this become so commonplace and our inaction so acceptable? When did murder become so customary?

I send my children off to school each day, not only in anticipation that they will receive a great education, but also with the expectation that they will return home safely. Two sets of parents will be devastated today. Countless others driven to hospital bedsides. I am infuriated and frankly confounded by the idea that somehow arming teachers, arming everyone, is the answer. I began to ponder how difficult this must be for educators when my thoughts turned to Miss Bloom.

Miss Bloom. She is my son’s new 4th grade teacher. As you would imagine by her name, Miss Bloom is a bright young woman, fresh out of school and eager to open young minds. She is kind, friendly and well- liked by her students. My son adores her. He says Miss Bloom is as pretty as a flower. I wonder if Miss Bloom realized that one day, she may be called upon to drop this identity, pick up a weapon and turn into a character from Call of Duty.

How would our Miss Bloom, a first year teacher, respond to an intruder, if she were forced to be armed in the classroom? Let’s take a look.

Cue the dream sequence harp stroking music.

We enter the classroom to find Miss Bloom in the midst of a class project.

“And so, Children, this is how the Fiddler Crab adapts to his habitat”.

Gunshots

“Shit”.

“Okay, Children. This is not a drill. There is an active shooter in the building. Everyone take your positions. Don’t panic. Remember what we’ve practiced so many times”.

Shit. What’s the safe combo? Damn it, I overshot 35. SpinSpinSpin. Start over.

“Don’t cry. I will be there in a minute. Get in your positions and stay there. Boys in front, Girls in back”.

OkayOkayOkay. Got it. Where’s the key? Around my neck. Gotta unlock the safety cord. KeyKeyKeyKeyKey. It’s so small. Get in there.

“Timmy. Get up on that chair next to the door and hold that garbage can over your head like we practiced. I know you’re scared, but you can do it”.

Bullets. I need bullets. (Hands shaking. Struggles to insert clip)

“Children! Pick up your weapon of choice. I know we teach you not to hurt one another, but today, we’ve got to get the bad guy. When the gunman comes through that door, Timmy, throw the garbage can at his head. I will start shooting. (Turning to children) If he doesn’t fall down, I need you to charge him all at once. He can’t kill all of us if we run at him together”.

Annnnd, scene.

This may be over exaggerated; where, I’m not sure, but you can imagine the chaos. Miss Bloom has morphed from teacher into tactical warfare specialist.

I like guns. I own guns. I get it. Guns are cool. I like the idea of having some form of lethal protection in case of a home invasion. The fact that I only shoot my weapons at soup cans on a farm every few years doesn’t always leave me feeling as if I’m ready to hit an aggressive moving target that is coming straight toward me while my adrenaline is pumping out of the top of my head causing some blindness from straight up fear. Other than that, I’m good.

Miss Bloom went to college to study elementary education. She loves children and wants to be a part of growing them into intelligent, healthy adults. Miss Bloom does not need the added pressure and responsibility of the keeping and control of a firearm. If Miss Bloom is like 99% of gun owners, her reaction to an active shooting would be more hindrance than assistance. Miss Bloom is not Harry Callahan. Miss Bloom has a room full of 10 year olds that need her attention and look to her for comfort. Miss Bloom is not a killer. Miss Bloom does not need to be saddled with that kind of responsibility.

Why not help Miss Bloom by enforcing gun laws already on the books and creating some stronger laws that may prevent another tragedy. As a gun owner, I wouldn’t mind having to re-register my weapons every year and complete a background check. I wouldn’t mind being required to take a gun safety course every few years. I would welcome the idea of a minimum 72 hour waiting period for a gun purchase. I shouldn’t be allowed to walk into a gun show and walk out with an AR-14. No one needs an assault rifle to kill a deer. You do, however, need one if you are planning a mass murder, preparing for the zombie apocalypse, are paranoid and/or intend to hunt down ISIS. I am assuming I don’t know anyone who meets those qualifications, but, if I did, I would be on the phone alerting the authorities.

If these actions would save even one life, isn’t it worth it? We don’t seriously believe that “Stuff Happens” and we just have to deal with it. We cannot truly expect Miss Bloom and the millions of teachers out there to turn into ice-veined assassins in a moment’s notice while children are instructed to bum rush the intruder.

There is a name for societies where everyone is armed and virtually no one is accountable. They are called WAR ZONES. We don’t combat disease by evening the playing field and giving everyone cancer. Why would we even consider that Miss Bloom should know if she fired 6 shots or only 5 because in all the excitement, she kinda lost track herself. That is the one question we need to ask ourselves.