Author Archives: jbrand1

A Hallmark Holiday; A Cynical Look at December

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Last Saturday night, my family sat down and watched videos from our past holidays. It was so sweet to watch the expressions on my children’s faces as they giggled at the film from Christmas morning 2005. There were American Girl Dolls, Care Bears, stationery sets and ice skates. I have to admit that I got pretty misty-eyed looking at that screen and hearing little voices chirping “Santa IS real”.

Fast forward to 2013. The sweet angelic voices have turned into shrill yapping noisy debates about who stole who’s iPhone charger. This is not our greatest Norman Rockwell moment.

Even so, I love the holiday season. We celebrate everything from Hanukkah to Kwanza. I believe our children should be exposed to all cultures in an effort to help them understand, appreciate and respect all people. In our home, you will find several homemade menorahs, five Christmas trees, African-American art and Kwanza lights as well as a butt-load of Department 56 villages. It’s a freaking winter wonderland of diversity up in here. Even though it sounds magical, it is in no way a Hallmark Holiday Season.

Like yours, this is a dysfunctional family. We run the gamut from “can’t wait to see you” to “don’t even invite them unless you plan on posting some bail”. I am here to tell you that there is no such thing as described on a Hallmark Card, so you can relax now. I will also add a sigh of relief since everyone I know would want to straight up murder that fake Hallmark family.

What is it about this season that makes rational people turn in to maniacs? I am so irritated when I see folks sleeping in tents in front of Best Buy and Kmart. There is absolutely nothing in there that requires that kind of senseless time commitment (however, I did see an advertisement for a 50” TV at Wal-Mart for $288, but I digress). Last year, I had a friend phone me from Toys R Us. She was standing in line for a toy but didn’t know what the toy was. It was just a line full of excited people, so she got in it. This, mind you, is an educated woman.
It’s re-goddamn-diculous. You can’t make it to a PTO meeting, but you are out at 1am, playing a sinister game of parking lot musical chairs, to get a deal on more stuff you probably don’t need. The holiday hypocrisy knows no bounds (except for that 50” TV deal. Wait. It’s probably not HD, so never mind).

The holiday season also has this creepy penchant for attempting to bring families together who don’t speak to each other 364 days of the year. I am here to tell you that it is perfectly acceptable for you to excuse yourself from this gathering. The Thanksgiving anxiety of either cooking for a small army or sitting in the home of a virtual stranger for 6 hours is more than any of us should have to bear. I can’t think of a worse punishment (for yourself or for others that will have to endure your presence) than to be thrust into an uncomfortable intimate situation such as a holiday dinner.
Here’s my advice to you. If you don’t see these people during the rest of the year because you don’t have anything in common besides DNA, Thanksgiving is not the time to play catch up. Try spending some time when the stakes aren’t so high. Really, you don’t want your annual get together to be remembered by your hockey puck rolls and dry-as-dirt stuffing. This is most certainly accompanied by monotonous conversation about the weather and your surprise at how the kids have grown since you last saw them. Take a look over at the Kid’s Table. They aren’t happy with you either.

If you do have to sit at the awkward table and manage to expand the conversation, please try to stay away from religion and politics, unless you are like me and prefer to liven up dinner by bringing up these wonderful topics. I also enjoy ranking on my in-laws’ signature Buddig Beef cheese pimento ball thing that everyone raves over. I hate it, and I like making choking noises when anyone takes a cracker full. I also like to announce that I have bit down on an egg-shell in my deviled egg and perhaps cracked a tooth.

Personally, I would much rather have Thanksgiving with the people who mean the most to me. I like to actually look around the table and be thankful for those I see. I will save the days in between Thanksgiving and New Year’s for quick visits to extended family and friends. I like to call these visits the “Holiday Hit and Run”. You’re in, you’re out and it’s virtually painless.

Many people will tell you that life is short, but I believe that life is long. Try watching the clock this Thanksgiving at your third Cousin Betty’s house and tell me if that is not the truth.

I know you will not take my advice, and neither will I. Many of you will be picking through bins of junk at Wal-Mart like seagulls at an unattended beach picnic, while others suffer through dry turkey, cheap wine and bad conversation. I will, once again, rail on the freaky chipped beef appetizer while pretending to be astounded that children do get bigger in a year’s time.

Jesus Christ, what a season…

The Earl of Sandwich

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Two and one half years ago, my mother passed away after a brief illness. It was devastating for my father and me. I don’t think either of us ever thought we would be forced to get along without her. She was our rock, the go-to person for everyone, related or not. She passed away in NY and was laid to rest at Saratoga National Cemetery. Incidentally, she is directly across the road from Uncle Dick and Aunt Roberta (you remember her from the mini-van story) and two rows behind my college friends’ dad. I like to think there is comfort in having them so close.

This leaves me and dad. Dad and me. It’s foreign sounding and not a statement either of us are quite used to saying. Mom taught me to be independent. Him, not so much. We have been thrust into a relationship neither of us were prepared to begin. Don’t get me wrong, I love my dad, but most of the time, he and I were buffered by mom. He has attended every birthday, orchestra, symphonic band, marching band, show choir, graduation, marriage (haha, shut up) and birth of my children, but sat quietly and never overly cheered for me or went out of his way to compliment my performance. Apparently, that was Mom’s job. Now that we are together, we are getting to know one another and it’s not always pretty.

You see, there are a couple of ways to view your parents in this stage of life. You can either have Convenience Parents or Everyday Parents. Convenience Parents are parents you have on holidays and when it’s convenient for you to call or visit. You care, but your life is busy and you make time when you can. After all, they can take care of themselves or someone else already has the honor. Perhaps they get on your nerves as well. Everyday Parents are the parents you care for daily. These are the parents that you are on a first name basis with their physicians, know their medications, speak to at least once a day and manage to fit all this into your own schedule, even when it doesn’t fit. I have an Everyday Parent.

I consider myself in what I affectionately call “The Earl Sandwich”. On one side, I have my beautiful 8-year old autistic son, Earl, who requires special attention. On the other, I have 92-year old Patriarch dad, Earl, who also requires special attention (mostly because he’s stubborn). I also have some lovely condiments in the form of 2 daughters, a husband and 2 doggies. Of course, I am the meat of this sandwich (I prefer to be a lean corned beef). The Earl Sandwich is held together by the meat, even when the meat is expired, tired or hasn’t showered.

This Family Sandwich has landed in Indiana for the winter. I have managed to convince the old piece of bread to visit with us for the winter months. Notice I said “visit” and not “live”. According to him, “live” would be bad. Call me crazy, but my stress level elevates to F4 when he is on the 500 acre farm alone. The Sheriff’s department has been very patient with my “wellness checks” when he doesn’t answer the phone for more than 8 hours and my extended family and closest neighbors have been more than cooperative when asked to swing by just to check in. Let’s face it; Everyday Parents are much like children. As much as we don’t want to admit that our roles have switched, they have.

While sitting in the audience at one of my daughter’s performances, I looked around at the sea other smiling parents. I wondered how many of these seemingly stress-free people were also Elder- Proofing their homes. You know, elevated toilet seats, handle grips in the walk in shower, night lights that make your hallway to the bathroom resemble an airport landing strip, electric blankets on top of regular blankets, a pill basket that is kept on top of the fridge and the thermostat set at a toasty 75 degrees (which is working wonders for my hot flashes). Do these caregivers of Everyday Parents know that their kind walk among them in silence? I wonder. So, I decided to ask.
It turns out that many of my friends are having or have had similar stories and are more than happy to share. More important, their elders need to speak about it as well. Today, one veteran at my dad’s VA meeting told me that his grandkids didn’t like to speak to him because they have to repeat everything twice. Well, he’s just as frustrated as they are. His point of view about aging and increasing dependency on others was quite eye-opening. I wonder if children of Everyday Parents take that into consideration.

I joke around a lot about my dad. Yes, I call him Captain Cataract and kid him about the war by doing my stand up routine in my best Hitler voice, “Zat pesky Earl Morrow. Ve vill catch him if it is ze last zing ve do”. However, this family sandwich keeps in mind that every part of the sandwich has feelings that need to be acknowledged and respected.
So, Happy Holidays to all my readers who have Everyday Parents. I know you’re tired and I know it’s tough, but this isn’t a job for the meek. Be proud of yourselves and think maybe, just maybe, your kids are watching and won’t toss you into an old folks’ home somewhere down by the river.

Confessions of a middle aged woman

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I’ve been looking in the mirror lately. A lot. My 48th birthday is around the corner and I have been somewhat stunned to visit what that truly looks like. I used to demand strangers guess how old I am. Now, I just growl when the grocery store clerk says “Paper or Plastic, Ma’am.” My mind and body are changing rapidly, mostly for good, but some, not so good. Thankfully, I can find humor in most anything. It’s amazing how time sneaks up on you while you’re sleeping, grabs your facial skin and shakes it loose from your skull. When I bend over to pick something up off the floor, my facial skin completely detaches from my head. I almost have to tie it back with a pony tail holder. When did this happen? When did I begin to grow old?
Well, I guess it is true that none of us will leave this world alive, but I would like to be somewhat recognizable. I can just hear my girlfriends now as they stare at my lifeless body in the casket. “She used to be so cute. She looked so tired in the end. Her poor husband.” This is why I have left specific instructions in my will to be placed in the casket upside down so at least my shoes will look fabulous. I really haven’t done that, but it’s not a bad idea. Nevertheless, I began to write down some of the more noticeable changes that have occurred on this work of art that is my body.
I have always considered myself attractive. I’m not being vein, just honest. I was cute. Mixed kids naturally are pretty and I modeled from childhood through my college years. By college, I was 5’8”, 112 lbs. with glorious, firm boobs. Years later, cute got me a cute husband. Cute also got me pregnant; 3 times. Standing in the mirror, 112 lbs. is now a distant memory and those perky boobs are now two different sizes, shaped like the balloons clowns use to make dachshund puppy bodies, filled with pancake batter. I tell people by bra size is a 36 Long. Oh, I forgot to mention that my hawk vision has been reduced to that of a bat.
Monday morning, I had an appointment with, how would you say, a physique improvement specialist. Okay, a plastic surgeon. I wanted to treat myself to a birthday present, so I went to have a chat to see what was available to me. I felt like walking in and just laying down on the floor and yelling for help. Fortunately, this particular surgeon is an acquaintance of mine (our daughters are friends) so I trust her opinion. We decided to start with something small that would still make an impact. The first stop, my face. I began to tell the surgeon that I had these lines on the sides of my mouth that were becoming more prevalent. What she said next was the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back. “Oh, marionette lines”. What? She might as well have said ugly monster witch lady lines. Who wants to have a face that resembles a creepy marionette? Get out the needle, lady and do your thing. I was told that one vial of some stuff will obliterate those lines. I was ready. At that point, I didn’t care if it was acid (which I later found out it was).
Okay, let’s begin. First needle stick. I start to feel a little warm, then molten hot lava warm. I begin to yell “get it out get it out get it out”. Next was “I’m going to throw up. There’s no sink in here and I’m going to throw up”. Then, it was “I can’t feel my hands. I’m numb from the elbow down”. Finally, “I’m goin’ down!” Poor doctor had to lay me flat, cover me in ice packs, give me one of those kidney shaped thrower upper thingies and hold my legs up in the air. I was hyperventilating and nearly fainted. I also threw in a hot flash for good measure.
Upon regaining my composure and some of my dignity, I was able to get through the procedure, which took an excruciatingly whole 45 seconds. The results were immediate; the lines disappeared. However, my plan had been to discuss my blog with the good doctor in order to suggest I be used to demonstrate some of her procedures to potential clients. In turn, I would blog about the wonderful experience. Somehow, I didn’t think that was an appropriate way to end this visit. “Gee Doc, let me sweat, hyperventilate, puke and then pass out to show how painless and easy your procedures are”.
At any rate, I feel much better. It was definitely worth it. I won’t be such a wimp next time. It is also important to note that until I told him, my husband never even noticed the difference. He then proceeded to tell me that I didn’t need to erase those lines for him. His old age is clearly taken a toll on his sanity.

You think you know, but you have no idea

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I was on a flight not too long ago that connected through Newark. For late evening flights, I always book a window seat so I can turn away, cover my head and have some quiet. Coming down the aisle, I spot the 4 year old and his mother. Of course, they settle in next to me. This little one was immediately interested in me. Mother tells him to leave the nice lady alone, but he has other plans. About 30 minutes in to the flight, I have a little boy on my lap watching Nick Jr. while his mother sleeps. Turns out, they were on their way home from her mother’s funeral and she was overcome with emotion and exhaustion, a horrible combination. Her gratitude was almost embarrassing.
The moral of this story? Don’t be an asshole.
I have no data to back this up, but I’m going to put this out there and suggest that 99% of people traveling with children are not doing so because they enjoy it. I’m guessing it’s out of necessity. I also have news for you. Even if you are on a flight to Orlando, those parents aren’t happy either. They just want to get from point A to B in one piece without too much collateral damage. If you have children, had children or have parents, then you should get this. Kids are like Murphy’s Law; if something can go wrong, it usually does. As an innocent bystander, you can roll your eyes or try to help.
For those of you getting to know me, you have probably determined that I have a pretty good sense of humor. It has been sharpened over the last 14 years since becoming a mom. It just doesn’t pay to be tense. You learn to move through the world at a different pace, seeing things differently, deciphering what is truly important. Unless you move to Mars (and I cannot prove or deny there are no Martian children), expect to deal with adolescents. Some of you need to remember this when you act “put out” by the presence of a youngster. You were probably no picnic for your parents either. I might also add that after the past 17 days of babyish behavior on behalf of our government, I would welcome a conversation with a kid any day. At least it’s truthful.
My youngest child is autistic. By far, he has been the best teacher of priorities, life, love and happiness. Because of him, I don’t take shit from anybody. I have become a fierce protector of those who cannot protect themselves. When we board a flight, I make an announcement to fellow passengers. “This is my son. He is autistic. He loves to talk and meet new friends. If he greets you, say hello. If he asks you where you’re going, tell him. Don’t treat him like he’s not there. I will do the best I can to keep him seated, but sometimes he just needs to stretch his arms and legs. Thanks for understanding”. It really sucks that I have to announce this, but it seems to put people at ease. I’m not looking for sympathy, just a chance not to have to curse someone out for being a jerk to a little boy.
You may see a mom in the grocery store with one or more screaming children. Do you really think she wants to be there? She doesn’t need your condescending smirk as you pass. How about a pat on the shoulder and a “been there, done that”. You may see parents out to dinner, struggling with a new infant and trying to enjoy a meal. Send them a dessert instead of a glare. This shit ain’t easy. When you’re at a pool and get splashed by some sprogs, remember, you’re at a pool. You’re supposed to get wet. Don’t be a wanker.
You think you know, but you have no idea. There are parents you see every day who are silently challenged with special needs kids and regular old kids. Imagine a job that NEVER ends. Imagine a responsibility that never lessens, only increases and never allows you to slack. Let me tell you, the vast majority of parents are freakin’ awesome. We are all trying our damnedest to raise responsible adults without losing our sanity in the process. Next time you are confronted by a 2’ dervish, get a grip on yourself. You are the bigger person. Act like one.

TMI

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Growing up, I remember pulling that spiral phone cord till it looked like uncooked spaghetti, to get to the farthest corner of the kitchen floor where I could sit down and talk. I was not allowed to have a phone in my room and certainly didn’t talk past 9pm. I also remember my mother picking up the extension and politely telling me to wrap it up; I’d been on long enough. It is hard to imagine that I long for those days, but I do.

Don’t get me wrong, I love technology. I think the past 20 years have been nothing short of astounding. I encourage people to get on the World Wide Web and experience whatever their desire at the touch of a button. My concern is that while everyone is busy looking down, life is passing right by.

Last week, I got a call from an old friend who was hospitalized with an injury that almost caused the loss of a hand. It was not caused by an illness, disease or unavoidable accident. This person had been texting and fell down a flight of stairs. I suppose it shouldn’t matter how something happens because the pain is no less, but come on, that is just plain stupid.

When have we all become so important that we have to announce everything we are doing, feeling or seeing at any moment in the day? I have a news flash, we’re not. You’re not the first person to get up early, work all day, come home, cook dinner, do a load of laundry, get kids ready for bed and help with homework. People have had this routine for centuries and I guarantee definitely harder than the pain of waking up in a warm bed, going to a job that doesn’t require you risk your life, cooking with food that is safe to eat, using a washing machine and putting your kids to bed in a climate controlled environment that has electricity and hot water. Is it sinking in yet? Listen, lots of people have headaches. I don’t always need to hear about yours unless it comes with a funny hangover story. Unless you are curing cancer, put the phone down, it’s just not that imperative.

We are becoming a nation obsessed with receiving information from our hands. In the process, we are missing life. Many cannot even muster an original thought, resorting to reposts from others. Could technology be making us stupid? I see that it is responsible for social retardation. Here are a few ways I’m teaching my children to bear their own thoughts and use common sense again. Play along, if you dare.

RULE 1: No technology at the table
Last week, I was out to dinner with my family. There was a family sitting in the booth next to us. They each had a device in their hands, no one was looking up and there was absolutely no interaction between them. You have to make time to teach the art of conversation. There is nothing worse than trying to talk to a kid (or a grown ass person for that matter) who cannot put together a decent sentence or look you in the eye.

RULE 2: All technology is checked at the door when friends visit
This should be a time to talk, share stories, laugh, play music and gossip. Nothing gets my goat more than seeing bathroom mirror photos of groups of girls on Instagram from sleepovers. Parents need to get a grip on this. Stay off the damn thing when you’re at a function. Again, you’re input on a cute photo is not that vital (and it’s probably just a tweet about your friend who has a headache).

RULE 3: Put it away
I have daughters and it makes me crazy when I see them walking around with their smart phones in hand. I constantly remind them that no one likes a girl that is so readily available. Where’s the mystery? Why do you want everyone to know what you’re doing all the time? Would it kill the recipient to wait 30 minutes for a response to “What’s up?” I doubt “not much” contains the antidote. No man wants a woman who answers almost before he hits Send. What does that say about her? Your life needs to be more interesting than staring in anticipation at the palm of your hand.

RULE 4: Dial the number
Never decline or cancel an invitation/appointment via technology. It requires you to hear a live response. It requires empathy. You can’t experience that with a text. Your kids will think twice about telling Grandma & Grandpa they can’t make Sunday dinner when they have to hear Grandma’s disappointment.

RULE 5: Say no
Teach your daughters not to accept a date from a text. Teach your sons to pick up the phone and call a young lady, like a gentleman. iPhones come and go, good manners are timeless.

Family

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Can’t live with them, can’t kill them. Well, I suppose you could do either, but that’s another blog. This blog is about the crazy family members we love. As you get to know me, you will discover that I have a boatload of whack jobs in my family. Many of us do not speak, except to trade insults (which I’m always up for) but those of us who do have a great sense of humor and generous hearts. After I tell this one, I hope those involved still maintain that humorous bone.
My Aunt died. Yes, the same one that suggested to my father that he and my mother not have children. However, the irony of life is that she and my uncle were the closest of family to my mom and dad. They spent a lot of time together, taking care of me, my cousins and their kids. Even though I joke about calling my aunt The Church Lady (she could make that lemon puss face), I loved her very much and I’m pretty sure she loved me.
She died last November. She had been sick for a few weeks prior to her death, but I am happy to say that I had a nice conversation with her before she became too ill to speak. I feel good about that. So, my cousin calls me to tell me she’s passed. They will need to bring her from Maine to Saratoga for services and burial. My uncle is buried in the military cemetery there (so is my mother) and she will be laid to rest alongside him. So far, so good. Well, cousin doesn’t want to ruin anyone’s Thanksgiving plans, so it is decided that aunt will not be buried until first week of December. Okay, I can understand that. I make plans to fly to NY and meet them there. Now, you must first understand that when my most favorite cousins in the whole world descend upon you, they take no prisoners. There is my favorite first cousin, who I’ve known all my life, his wife, whom I adore and his 3 boys. These three boys are all approximately 9 feet tall, weighing 400lbs. Okay, maybe not that tall and big, but they might as well be. One is into that iron man crazy race stuff where they throw grenades at you while you run up a hill carrying a tree trunk. The middle is the quiet one who sits back and takes it all in and the baby is our first openly gay family member who believes he should be a supermodel. I admit, when they are all with me, I am happiest.
Okay, so they all roll in the evening before the service for aunt. Everyone unpacks and brings stuff in the house, grabbing food from the back of the minivan and SUV, phone chargers, beer, etc. It’s dark, so I can’t really see much of what’s happening in the driveway, but the commotion is what I have grown to expect. After they have settled in, I inquire as to where my dear departed aunt is resting the evening before her internment. In a casual tone, 1st cousin informs me that his mother, my aunt, is in the back of the minivan in the driveway. Insert Scooby Doo “huhhh?” Yes, that’s right. In my family spirit of cheap, my cousin and his sons took my aunt from the funeral home, loaded her in the back of the minivan and drove her across 4 states, which I’m pretty sure violates a few laws. Now, my sick sense of humor is beginning to rear its ugly head and I have to squash it back down as I look at my father’s face for a reaction. I’m not sure he was too happy about having his deceased sister in a minivan in the front yard. I ate a donut that was packed in there with her. Talk about a 3 second rule breach.
What if they had a flat tire en route? What if the back doors opened and the casket fell out on the highway? I’m pretty sure a hearse has some sort of refrigeration unit for extensive travel, which I’m guessing the old minivan was not equipped. What if they had been pulled over for speeding? The jokes were welling up inside me so badly that I had to go to sleep. So, the next morning, I look out my bedroom window and the minivan is gone. I assumed my cousin perhaps felt bad having my father’s sister in his driveway, so maybe he’d taken her to the cemetery. Silly me. He’d just driven her down to Stewart’s with him to get some coffee.
We arrive at Saratoga National Cemetery. I have our pastor in the car with me and my father. We are all lined up in the procession at the cemetery entrance. This is always hard for me because my mom is buried there. Today is different, because it’s kind of a circus. My baby cousin is cat walking back in forth alongside my car like we are front row at a Hugo Boss fashion show. Our pastor is confused. My other cousin is explaining to the staff why his mother has arrived in a minivan (they aren’t happy) and I’m beginning to giggle.
All’s well that ends well. My aunt was laid to rest, but not before I had our pastor throw in that I was the favorite niece. I think my aunt would concur, with her Church Lady puss face, of course.

You’re Black? No. Really? I thought you were Italian

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I’m not turning on the news today because I don’t want to hear more information about the crazy man who murdered 12 people in DC. We, as a country, aren’t going to do anything about it anyway, so why all the fuss. Unfortunately, what I did read were some of the texts coming out of the crowning of Miss America. Miss 7-11, Miss Arab (pronounced A-Rab), Miss Muslim. This is Miss ‘Merica not Miss India. I hope she doesn’t read the paper for a week or so either. By then, I’m sure the short-attention-span bigots will have found someone else to attack. Meanwhile, I want to share with you my thoughts about race and how it has affected my life.
• When I was a little girl, I was riding with my mother in her Cadillac to the grocery store. We were approached in the parking lot by 2 police officers. They asked my mother for her identification. When she inquired what she had done, the reply was that she didn’t look like she should be driving a new Cadillac. She told me to be quiet. I was crying. They suggested she was part of a stolen car ring and we needed to get out of the vehicle and into the police car to be taken to the precinct for questioning. I remember the ride to the station. I was terrified. My mother was pissed. My mother called our lawyer, Leroy Vital (Google him). I remember the chief, feet up on his desk, asking my mother where a Negro lady got the cash to buy such a nice car. He said HE couldn’t afford a car like that. My mother replied that it wasn’t her fault that he was a failure. Our attorney arrived just in time to have us released just as two deputies were about to remove me from the room and away from my mother.
• My father’s sister told my father that she supposed it was okay that he married my mother, as long as they didn’t have children….
• In college, some kids were in my dorm room. I had a photo of me with my parents on my desk. I was asked why I had a picture of my dad and the moulinyan maid. I didn’t even know what that shit meant. Someone wrote “Half-breed” on our eraser board on our room door. I brought it to the attention of the RA, also warning him that when I found out who was responsible, I would be beating their ass.
• My husband and I entertained friends for dinner one evening. Our friend asked to bring along a relative who promptly told us he had to leave early before the niggers came out. Much to my dismay, our guests apologized to me, as if I was the only one who should have been insulted.
• My mother was shopping for groceries and I was standing apart from her at the meat counter. I overhear some men laughing about the nigger lady who was buying pork ribs. I was too small to respond to them, so I cried and never told my mother why.
• I was shopping in Nordstrom at Oak Brook with my mom and my Aunt Ruth Ewing. We were followed all over the store. We had a lot of bags, but so did everyone else. We were approached by security and asked to step in to a back office. My Aunt Ruth called her husband, famous investigative reporter Russ Ewing (who cracked the John Wayne Gacy case) who came down to the store with a camera crew. THAT was fun to sit back and watch.
• Walking with my girls when they were little, a lady asked if they were my daughters. My goodness. They are beautiful but look so different. Do they have the same father? My reply was Shrug: “I don’t know.”
• Not too long ago, I had a women grab her purse when I passed her grocery cart. I responded, “Bitch, please”.

For most of my life, I have floated virtually undetected through the mysterious world of white people. I have had the opportunity to observe, from an insider point of view, what makes people tick. First of all, when it comes to race relations, many white people I have encountered are passive aggressive, displaying their feelings through hostile jokes and negative commentary. I have listened to rants about Malcolm X, Al Sharpton, Muslims, Michael Vick, OJ, professional sports are too black, President Obama, The Butler, Django, Paula Deen, race mixing and the horrible effect it has on the children. It seems that all their fears manifest into these tall tales about how black people are taking over our country. Well, we only make up 13.1% of the population, and most of that is Detroit and Jackson, MS. Once it is determined that I am not in agreement with this silliness, I am quietly kicked out of the club as too risky a security breach. Consequently, my husband and I are not invited to as many parties.

My favorite of late was suggested to me that white people need civil right activists for all the wrongs done to their race. Yet, I have yet to meet someone who has actually been able to articulate any facts to substantiate this argument. Yes, it is an opinion to which everyone is entitled. Yet, we have to agree that it is pretty shitty when a young man can’t walk to the store for Skittles and iced tea and make it home alive. Shouldn’t you be able to knock on a door to ask for help after being injured in a car accident without fear of being shot 10 times? But I digress. My point is that we all should be able to admit that it is much easier to be white in the United States than any other race. As Chris Rock so eloquently put it “No white man would ever switch places with me, and I’m rich”. Quit your complaining.
Now, black folk will usually claim everybody of color. When we find out you have a trace of black in your family, you’re family. To name a few, we claim The President of The United States, Tiger Woods, The Rock, Halle Berry, Slash, Mariah Carey, Pete Wentz, Chris Humphries, Wentworth Miller, Maya Rudolph, even Carol Channing (yes, Carol Channing). White people share this same sentiment. You’re black. Here’s one that will make your head to pop off: Steve Jobs, half Syrian.
The racial objection many blacks have with white folks comes from a place of inequality and distrust. In my case, I will add low self-image. Growing up, some of the black girls thought I had better hair which, as a child, was a bone of contention. I recall seeing them make the imaginary scissor fingers at me and mouthing “after school”. Also, being “light skinned” wasn’t always my darker sisters’ invitation to befriend me. I imagine all this has something to do with being bombarded by images depicting the American beauty standard as fair skinned, stick skinny with long hair. I get it.
When someone tells you “It’s a black thing, you wouldn’t understand”, they’re telling the truth. Unless you can contribute a story like the few of many I have highlighted above, you really have no idea what it’s like to be judged on a daily basis by the color of your skin. Ask ANY black man, rich or poor, when, not if, was the last time they were discriminated against or profiled. Okay, if you’re gay, you probably get this. If you’re black and gay, heaven help you. Oh wait. You’re not going to heaven. Hahahahaha. I can joke. Some of my best friends are gay. Seriously.
My parents were the ideal role models for seeing people for who they are. What I have learned from them is that no matter what your race, we are all stewards of the human race. It is your responsibility to act. Don’t let others get away with biased language or behavior- speak up and out.
Take a position against hate and take a Stand Against Racism.

Imagine what would happen if we found the strength not to tolerate intolerance. Your silence defines you.
Which will you choose?
Peace

Patriot Day

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Filed under In the news, Straight Talk

I hope everyone is reminded that today is Patriot Day, a holiday of sorts that was sadly created to remember those who were injured or perished on 9/11/2001. Many will recall where they were, what they were doing when they heard the news and how this day would change our lives forever.

Today, we mourn friends, loved ones and souls we never met because we are all Americans. We are all Americans that stick together and feel the pain when so many of our citizens are hurting, grieving and quietly reflecting. We respect one another.

Somehow, we have American citizens who didn’t get that memo. For them, today has become some sort of political soap box to see who can scream the loudest about what disagreements they have with our government. Today is the day to use graphic images of someone’s father, son and husband bloodied and dying in Benghazi. Today is the day to show the Twin Towers collapsing at the very moment thousands would die to show disdain for our current administration. Today is the day to exploit the deaths of those in the Pentagon and Flight 93. These Americans Do Not reflect the true spirit of this great country of ours. They also do not deserve any more of my attention, for it is wasted energy.

I spent the day remembering old friends, trying to recall their faces and times spent together long ago. I also found myself thinking of all Patriots of this great country that have perished at the hands of the enemy, both foreign and domestic. I thought about the souls in Oklahoma City, Yemen, US Embassies in Beirut, Kuwait, Madrid, Pakistan. So fresh in our memories is Boston. So deep in our hearts, Pearl Harbor. I remembered the souls on the flight from Lockerbie Scotland, the hotel patrons in Mumbai, my dear friend and his fellow compatriots on their way home from a peace keeping mission, only to forever leave a hole in our hearts in Newfoundland. So many, we forget.

So today is Patriot Day. Not I Want To Complain About This Country Day. Use it to remember, unite and respect those who have paid the ultimate price.

Peace

Teenagers, You’re Kidding, Right?

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Filed under Family, Straight Talk

If I’ve heard it once I’ve heard it a thousand times. I can’t control my teen’s behavior. I can’t be there all the time. The usual excuse given is that kids will sneak if they want to do something bad enough. I also know that, for the most part, they are really bad at devious behaviors, and can be thwarted by a parent paying half the attention. I laugh in the face of these pompous teenagers who believe they are too smart to get caught. Child, please. I’ve watched the idiot teens next door try to hide a cooler full of alcohol, a pink cooler mind you, in the bushes behind the house. Numbskulls. I’ve heard the whispering about whose house they are all saying they are going to. Dim-wits. How about the ole “the parents are going to be home” trick. Brainless. My favorite, “I didn’t know that was going to happen”. Knot heads.
Really, it doesn’t take much to foil a dense teenager plot. All you need is to activate the Required Responsibility Gene. The RRG, as I refer to it, is the primary genetic material that makes up parenting. It is the DNA and RNA that drives you to pay attention to what your kids are doing. It is that extra little push that gets you to make a phone call to the parents’ house to determine if an adult will be present. The courage to say “No, you cannot go”. It is the guts to walk down the hall and open their bedroom door. It’s the perseverance to hire a tutor, stay up to help with that project and meet with the teacher. Without it, your kid is doomed to make mistakes and take risks that you can otherwise help them to avoid.
The RRG will often cause debilitating headaches. Other side effects may include sleeplessness, nausea, uncontrollable urges to choke someone, exhaustion, feelings of helplessness, diarrhea and sometimes confusion. Also, you may experience moments of overwhelming joy.
Let’s face it. Teenagers are dumb. Your teen needs boundaries and rules. Your teen needs consequences for good and bad behavior. Stick to them, no matter how dreadful, tiring and frightening it may seem. Remember, you’re not their friend. What grown person would want to be friends with a teenager anyway? OMG. That would be like, so gross.