Poverty claimed another victim yesterday. Her name was Denise.
I did her intake paperwork when she came to the shelter. I'm not sure I've ever talked to anyone who was so definite about not taking it anymore. She left and did not look back.
Denise quickly earned the reputation of being a Debbie Downer, definitely a glass half-empty kind of person. In her case I guess I couldn't blame her. She'd been married before, not happily. An abusive marriage, as I recall. Somehow in that divorce she wound up having to pay child support, an obligation her current husband didn't want her to meet. For that she lost her driver's license and gained thousands of dollars of debt she couldn't shake. Even after her children were grown. Even after they had income, and she didn't. They didn't have anything to do with her.
Denise always expected the worst and obsessed over the next thing that was going to go wrong.
She tried. She called Legal Aid and filed for divorce. She called the child support bureau and was able to get her driver's license back. No car, however, and they still wanted her to make payments. Hers was our most difficult demographic: Over 40, adult children, no income. No public cash benefits and no Medicaid eligibility. After a stint at the homeless shelter she finally got an apartment through public housing. Great, except for the fact that even though she had no income she owed $20 a month in rent.
Well why didn't she just get a job? Difficult when you don't have a car and live in the downtown of a severely economically depressed city. Believe me when I say there is NOTHING going on within walking distance. Nothing legal, anyway.
Then, of course, there were her medical issues. She had multiple complaints. She needed new glasses. Her dental partial was broken. She had fibromyalgia and insomnia. She had an old prescription for blood pressure medication. Her husband didn't like her going to the doctor so she had a bottle of medication she would take sparingly so it would last.
She needed income. She needed medical care. I helped her file for SSI figuring she had a shot of being found disabled due to her untreated psychological issues, at the very least she was quite depressed, and her blood pressure which she described as being very high. I also helped her apply for treatment at our county's free clinic since she had no income or insurance.
Because she was so unrelentingly negative I just wanted SOMETHING to go her way. She was accepted at the clinic. At that point she'd left us and was staying at the homeless shelter. The first thing the clinic did was send her for all sorts of cardiac testing. Then they sent her for an opthalmology evaluation since optic nerve damage is one side effect of uncontrolled hypertension. I tried to help her all I could. I gave her a ride to the opthamologist even though it was my day off.
After she got in my car she checked her phone and realized she had a message from the free clinic. It was the secretary telling her she was no longer eligible for services and that she was to surrender her card immediately. Why? Because she had filed for SSI! I was so stunned I actually took the phone from her and talked to them myself. One question on the application is "Are you disabled?" She answered "no." In my legalistic mind that was correct because she had not yet been determined by any agency to be disabled. But apparently once they received paperwork from Social Security about her claim, the clinic must have felt she lied.
I felt terrible. I was the one who suggested she file for SSI. She was supposed to have an appointment the following day to review the results of her testing. I tried. I think I asked to talk to a supervisor. I finally pointed out that Denise was currently in my car on her way to an opthalmology appointment for possible eye damage DUE TO HER UNTREATED HIGH BLOOD PRESSURE.
They said she could go to the opthalmology appointment. But then they were done. She was not eligible to go to the follow-up appointment the next day.
I did not give up the fight, but I won't bore you with the details. By literally sobbing on the phone with the clinic director I convinced them to allow her to get the new eye glasses that had been prescribed for her. But no office visit. No blood pressure medication.
I went with her to her initial divorce hearing. Her husband, who henceforth I will refer to as Hillbilly Weasel, openly stated that he had no intention of giving her anything. Not that they had much, but she left home with nothing more than some clothes, her important papers, and what medication she had. He still had a place to live, a job, and insurance.
He was ordered to pay spousal support. Of course he didn't.
In February, I think it was, I received a panicked message from Denise. She was on her way to the hospital. She hadn't been feeling well so a nurse in her building (it has an assisted living unit) checked her blood pressure. It was 300+ over 200+. The hospital admitted to bring it back under control. A day or two later she was discharged. Without any follow-up care. Without any medication.
Eventually her husband's wages were garnished to collect the support money. He was ordered to pay $500 a month. She only received $200. Our best guess was that some of the money (over half) was being kept by the child support agency for her outstanding balance. She could get the debt forgiven, but only with the permission of her ex-husband. She had no idea where he was or how to contact him. So who was the child support bureau giving the money to? If they knew how to reach her ex they weren't telling her. We never did solve that mystery.
Which was OK because after about 2 months the support checks stopped. Her husband had applied for disability through his job and wasn't turning in the paperwork to start the payments. Denise heard rumors her husband had a new girlfriend. Denise's son from this marriage still lived with Dad and thus tended to side with him. I met him and can vouch for the fact that he is not the sharpest tool in the shed. The apple did not fall far from the Hillbilly tree. Even though the son was adult and had his own job, he never offered to help his mom. He did tell her, though, that Dad had gotten a new car while she was living on nothing but food stamps.
I did what I could. I set her up with donated furniture for her apartment. In my job as the aftercare worker at the shelter I provided cleaning supplies, toiletries, and even niceties such as body spray and candles from our donations when we had them. She tried to do little cleaning jobs under the table to earn rent money. She was obsessed with possibly being evicted. Truth be told I paid her rent one month. I'd even slipped her $5 - $10 dollars on occasion so she could do laundry, or buy cigarettes.
Most times I saw her she complained of having a headache.
Her husband did eventually provide her with an insurance card. I urged her to see a doctor. She tried to call the clinic she used to go to but felt like she couldn't get an answer from them about how much her co-pay would be. She found out that the private physician she'd seen years ago would take her insurance, but with a $20 co-pay for office visits. If she had to choose between her rent and the doctor, she chose the rent.
The last time I saw her was Saturday, May 18th. Some days she'd almost seemed happy, but that evening she seemed down. She was frustrated. She couldn't understand how her husband was getting away with not paying the support that the court ordered. She suspected that he'd filed his tax return and kept his whole refund. There wasn't going to be another hearing on the matter until June 10th. I marked it on my calendar. I visited her that night to get her signature on a release of information so I could contact her lawyer to find out what was going on and what her options were. I tried to point out to her that difficult as things were right now, she needed to compare her situation to where she was a year ago. At least she had her own apartment. No one was belittling her or hurting her. She was looking into getting her GED and possibly getting certification for being a nursing aide. I wanted her to know things would get better.
Now she's gone.
I heard about her death from her attorney, who said she had gotten a message from Denise's husband saying she'd died of a brain aneurysm. Apparently he sounded choked up by the end of the message. I didn't want to believe it. I wanted it to be Hillbilly Weasel's way of avoiding contempt of court. He struck me as being stupid enough to try it. I called Denise's cell phone, but it said she was unavailable. I knew her phone was running out of minutes and was being shut-off. I went to her apartment building and no one knew anything about it. I knocked on her door. No answer.
I came back to the shelter and called a friend she'd listed as an emergency contact. I asked her if she'd heard from Denise lately. There was a very long pause. Finally she told me that I'd better sit down.
It was true.
According to the friend Denise had been stricken in her apartment. She was taken to the local hospital then life-flighted to Cleveland. Her friend said that Denise had never flown on an airplane, and mused whether she had been able to appreciate her helicopter ride. Once in Cleveland it was determined that she was brain dead. It was probably her husband's decision to pull the plug. Denise died within two minutes of being taken off of life support.
Apparently her husband is now playing the part of the bereaved widower. He told her friend that they'd made-up a few days before she died. Really she wanted him in prison. But then he turned and accused Denise of having an affair, although the fact that he already has a girlfriend is common knowledge.
I don't think I'll be able to attend the funeral. He'll be there, crying, saying how he always loved her. Not enough, apparently, to return her beloved pet parrot to her. Not enough to give her money which may have enabled her to get the medical care she so desperately needed.
The medical care which maybe could have saved her life.
In one sense, he won. Now that she's gone the divorce action is likely moot and no one will be coming after his money anymore. He can grieve openly and curry sympathy from those who don't know better, then take comfort in his girlfriend.
I drove home under a sky that was a mosaic of storm clouds and golden rays from the setting sun. The closer I got to home the more evident it was that it had rained. It was warm and humid and a mist was rising from the pavement. It collected in blankets on the farm fields. I imagined it was a shroud, or the formless beings of souls who were finally at peace.
I take comfort in the fact that she did have a measure of freedom before the end. She had made some friends. She called me Katy Claus because I had provided so much. She knew that someone cared.
Her struggles are over.
I will never forget.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Misadventures in Misbehaving or Why I'm One of Those Militant Ex-Smokers (A Cautionary Tale)
Ever have one of those times in your life when you feel so tired of being tired and stressed that you just want to do something crazy? When even gorging on chocolate isn't doing it for you anymore? Well I do. And I live in a small town so there aren't many opportunities to act up, at least not without everyone finding out about it. So I had, what seemed at the time, to be a great idea.
I smoked a cigarette.
I know. Bad, right?
In the interest of full disclosure I must make it clear that it wasn't the first time these lips have touched tobacco. But the other times were decades ago and generally involved large amounts of beer, to the best of my recollection.
Then there was the brief infatuation with clove cigarettes in my college years. At the time they were indescribably cool with their vaguely incense-y smell and not being tobacco. But the stale smoke in the dorm room was not nearly as pleasing an aroma, and one time I actually inhaled and came dangerously close to throwing up. It put an abrupt end to that phase of my life.
But now I was feeling reckless.
The first obstacle was buying cigarettes. I think I understand brand loyalty now. I think your favorite cigarette type is the one that you snuck as a delinquent teen because it's the only one you can accurately identify. For a ridiculously old novice like me, this was a challenge. I had seen a sign for Newports somewhere, and I thought "Yeah. Newports. Menthol. Probably good for a cigarette weenie like me. I'll just walk in and ask for Newports." Because, as you all know, dangerous substances such as these are kept behind the counter so you have to ask. No browsing and thinking "This looks good." So Newports. I'd ask for Newports.
Except once I walked in I noticed there were short Newports, long Newports, and Newports in dark aqua, light aqua, blue, and red packs. There was no way to play it cool. I had to ask. The clerk looked at me with a kind of horrified pity. Dark aqua was regular, light aqua was light, and blue was ultra-light. Never did find out what the red was. I opted for the ultra-light as a novice. (The tall ones, of course. I'm sure there's some kind of lingo for that of which I'm not aware.) The Zima of cigarettes. I swear the clerk's eyes were pleading with me not to do this as he took my money.
The next step was finding someplace to do the dastardly deed. My house, of course, was out of the question! I tried to go to my favorite nature preserve that has a pond where I've enjoyed bird-watching, but the pond was frozen and the park closed. I ended up at a cemetery. The irony was not lost on me.
OK. Time to be cool and rebellious. I actually got it lit. To be honest, after the first couple of puffs I thought "Not too bad." I think because my brain was becoming oxygen-deprived from the carbon monoxide (the existence of which was reassuringly pointed out on the package), I actually felt vaguely pleasant and light-headed. Then I noticed the smell.
Oh yeah. I don't actually enjoy the aroma of cigarette smoke. I caught myself trying to stand upwind of the hand with the cigarette. Sure, I'll put it in my lungs, but don't make me smell it.
A few puffs later and the pleasant light-headedness was morphing into a more uncomfortable dizziness, with just a touch of nausea thrown in.
I pretty much finished it, rolled it in a puddle to be sure it was out, and threw it away. I drove away with a 3 ibuprofen headache and a scratchy throat. Not pleasant.
And there, again, was the smell. I couldn't escape it! I had been standing by my car with the window open listening to my incredibly cool music while channeling my inner James Dean. Now I was convinced that the car reeked, so despite the chill in the air I had to drive with the windows open and the heater on full-blast. But it was caught in my hair, in my coat. I thought I had aired-out pretty well, but while I was grocery shopping I happened to scratch my nose and was overwhelmed all over again by that smell. It did not conjure enjoyable sensations. I found a random wetnap in my car and scrubbed my hands.
I thought to myself, wow. People spend their hard-earned money for this. They stand outside in the cold, in rain, in searing heat for this. People do this despite practically being social pariahs. They risk cancer for this. I don't get it.
I guess the only upside to the whole experience is that I think I'm back to myself. I'm a middle-aged mom with middle-aged fashion sense living a pretty middle-aged life. There's really nothing all that "cool" about me. Well, I do have a pretty twisted sense of humor, I'll give myself that. But I'm well past the rebellion stage. At this point it's just mid-life crisis, and a pretty pathetic one at that. Lesson learned.
Guess I'll take the remainder of the pack to the shelter where a desperate, stressed-out woman who can't afford more cigs might actually appreciate them. Although when I offer an ultra-light Newport, I fully expect she may just snort, then pass 'cuz they're so lame. {sigh}
And how are you?
I smoked a cigarette.
I know. Bad, right?
In the interest of full disclosure I must make it clear that it wasn't the first time these lips have touched tobacco. But the other times were decades ago and generally involved large amounts of beer, to the best of my recollection.
Then there was the brief infatuation with clove cigarettes in my college years. At the time they were indescribably cool with their vaguely incense-y smell and not being tobacco. But the stale smoke in the dorm room was not nearly as pleasing an aroma, and one time I actually inhaled and came dangerously close to throwing up. It put an abrupt end to that phase of my life.
But now I was feeling reckless.
The first obstacle was buying cigarettes. I think I understand brand loyalty now. I think your favorite cigarette type is the one that you snuck as a delinquent teen because it's the only one you can accurately identify. For a ridiculously old novice like me, this was a challenge. I had seen a sign for Newports somewhere, and I thought "Yeah. Newports. Menthol. Probably good for a cigarette weenie like me. I'll just walk in and ask for Newports." Because, as you all know, dangerous substances such as these are kept behind the counter so you have to ask. No browsing and thinking "This looks good." So Newports. I'd ask for Newports.
Except once I walked in I noticed there were short Newports, long Newports, and Newports in dark aqua, light aqua, blue, and red packs. There was no way to play it cool. I had to ask. The clerk looked at me with a kind of horrified pity. Dark aqua was regular, light aqua was light, and blue was ultra-light. Never did find out what the red was. I opted for the ultra-light as a novice. (The tall ones, of course. I'm sure there's some kind of lingo for that of which I'm not aware.) The Zima of cigarettes. I swear the clerk's eyes were pleading with me not to do this as he took my money.
The next step was finding someplace to do the dastardly deed. My house, of course, was out of the question! I tried to go to my favorite nature preserve that has a pond where I've enjoyed bird-watching, but the pond was frozen and the park closed. I ended up at a cemetery. The irony was not lost on me.
OK. Time to be cool and rebellious. I actually got it lit. To be honest, after the first couple of puffs I thought "Not too bad." I think because my brain was becoming oxygen-deprived from the carbon monoxide (the existence of which was reassuringly pointed out on the package), I actually felt vaguely pleasant and light-headed. Then I noticed the smell.
Oh yeah. I don't actually enjoy the aroma of cigarette smoke. I caught myself trying to stand upwind of the hand with the cigarette. Sure, I'll put it in my lungs, but don't make me smell it.
A few puffs later and the pleasant light-headedness was morphing into a more uncomfortable dizziness, with just a touch of nausea thrown in.
I pretty much finished it, rolled it in a puddle to be sure it was out, and threw it away. I drove away with a 3 ibuprofen headache and a scratchy throat. Not pleasant.
And there, again, was the smell. I couldn't escape it! I had been standing by my car with the window open listening to my incredibly cool music while channeling my inner James Dean. Now I was convinced that the car reeked, so despite the chill in the air I had to drive with the windows open and the heater on full-blast. But it was caught in my hair, in my coat. I thought I had aired-out pretty well, but while I was grocery shopping I happened to scratch my nose and was overwhelmed all over again by that smell. It did not conjure enjoyable sensations. I found a random wetnap in my car and scrubbed my hands.
I thought to myself, wow. People spend their hard-earned money for this. They stand outside in the cold, in rain, in searing heat for this. People do this despite practically being social pariahs. They risk cancer for this. I don't get it.
I guess the only upside to the whole experience is that I think I'm back to myself. I'm a middle-aged mom with middle-aged fashion sense living a pretty middle-aged life. There's really nothing all that "cool" about me. Well, I do have a pretty twisted sense of humor, I'll give myself that. But I'm well past the rebellion stage. At this point it's just mid-life crisis, and a pretty pathetic one at that. Lesson learned.
Guess I'll take the remainder of the pack to the shelter where a desperate, stressed-out woman who can't afford more cigs might actually appreciate them. Although when I offer an ultra-light Newport, I fully expect she may just snort, then pass 'cuz they're so lame. {sigh}
And how are you?
Sunday, January 27, 2013
No Boundaries - A Vignette
It had been a long week and I was really tired. It was the end of the month and people had been running out of food and household supplies and I had been doing a lot of extracurricular running around. It's just me. I will go above and beyond the call of duty to help another person. It's what makes me good, and bad, at what I do. I admitted to myself that it was making me tired and bringing me down. I had to start looking out for myself. I was already over an hour late getting home, and I had one more delivery to make. I had swung by our outreach building where we store our donations to pick something up. I decided to text my family to let them know that I was OK and would be home soon.
Let me set the scene: It was 8:30 or 9 o'clock at night, so dark. It was snowing big, fluffy snowflakes, and it was cold enough that the snow stayed on the roads and sidewalks making everything deceptively slippery. I was sitting in my car bathed in the vaguely orange glow of a streetlight at the edge of the parking lot. A couple of people were trudging along the sidewalk as I typed.
When I looked up the two walking people were standing by my car, peering in my window.
Let me further set the scene. I was in the city of Lorain, Ohio. Lorain was a hub of the steel industry, and when US Steel collapsed, so did Lorain. The downtown is mostly empty storefronts, bars, and criminal defense attorneys. Lorain is depressed, and not just economically. For being a reasonably small city it has all the urban blight, decay, and crime as it's bigger cousin Cleveland, but with less positive assets. (Apologies if any of you folks are from Lorain, but, really, am I wrong?)
I felt a certain sinking feeling as I saw those people standing by my car. It was with something of a sense of misgiving that I rolled down my window.
It was a young couple, a woman and man. As soon as I opened my window the woman started talking. Please, she said. I'm 5 months pregnant and I'm having really bad pain. When I get home I think I'll need to call an ambulance. Please. Could you give us a ride home?
Another thing I need to point out. I was not in a particularly good neighborhood, but instead a rather sad area with abandoned houses and houses you just wished no one had to live in. Across the street from our building is a junkyard and a few vacant lots. It's on a corner. There's a self-serve car wash about a block away. In other words, pretty isolated.
I had two simultaneous thoughts: 1) This could be the beginning of a really horrible crime, and 2) I really just want to go home.
I gestured with my phone. Is there someone I could call for you? Would you like to use my phone to call somebody? ("And just keep it if you want," I thought.)
The woman looked down at me. "Can't we just get a ride? Please?"
She didn't look particularly pregnant from my vantage point, but she was wearing a winter coat. It occurred to me that this would be the perfect cover story to lure a kind-hearted soul into trouble. Despite my general peace-loving nature, I'm a huge fan of Criminal Minds. I know how this works.
I looked into the pleading brown eyes. I pictured myself saying "Sorry," rolling up my window, and driving away.
"Alright," I said.
I was chuckling to myself as they climbed into the back seat of my car, gushing thank-yous. As I said before, I was delivering stuff to my aftercare clients so my front seat was stuffed with toilet paper, paper towels, laundry detergent, and dish soap. In the back seat I had a bag of donated shoes. They were destined for Goodwill, but I hadn't dropped them off yet and the bag had somehow upended. There was a big sheet of black plastic leftover from a mattress I had hauled a few days before.
They said it was only about 5 blocks away. Now, about where we were headed...I was driving down a somewhat well-used thoroughfare that is crossed by little residential streets. A railroad track cuts through the area so most of these little streets dead-end into the railroad right-of-way, a no-mans-land of scrub and trees. Again, the perfect place for a crime.
As we were driving the woman kept up her nervous chatter. She had suffered a terrible kidney infection prior to getting pregnant, so now she was always worried about her health. She was having these really bad cramps and she didn't know why. She and the young man (baby daddy?) sat in the back, holding hands. I came to their street and he told me to turn left. As soon as I did, he said "Sorry, I was wrong. I meant right." There were a few houses with lights on, and at the end was a church. I pulled into the empty parking lot to turn around. "Please don't have a gun," I thought. I'm really scared of guns. I wondered if they tried to rob me if I could buy them off with toilet paper. It's a precious commodity. You can't buy it with food stamps.
Once we were headed in the right direction, the woman said to me "You're really nice. You're family is really lucky. Do you have kids of your own?" I glanced back at her in the rearview and told her I was probably old enough to be her mother. "I'm 22!" she chirped. Yes, I was definitely old enough. "You don't look it, ma'am!" the young man added. I smiled and thanked him.
He indicated that they were going to the house at the end of the street, again right where the road met the woods. Sure, I was kinda nervous, but mostly tired, and kinda resigned. Again I found myself hoping that they didn't have a gun. I would be happy giving them anything I had.
At last I reached a house with lights on and a row of cars parked in front. The young man directed me to the end of the row to park, right by the woods. They thanked me, slipped out of the car and stumbled up to one of the lit-up doorways. Before they got out I wished them good luck with everything.
And that was that.
I didn't want to tell my family what I had done that night. I thought they might be upset about my recklessness. When I told a co-worker a few days later she confirmed it. "What?!? That was crazy! You were lucky! You shouldn't have even opened your car window all the way...just a crack!" Later, in a text message, she reminded me NOT to pick up strangers.
What is that saying? Something about God looking after children and fools.
No regrets. But it's definitely time to start working on my boundaries.
Let me set the scene: It was 8:30 or 9 o'clock at night, so dark. It was snowing big, fluffy snowflakes, and it was cold enough that the snow stayed on the roads and sidewalks making everything deceptively slippery. I was sitting in my car bathed in the vaguely orange glow of a streetlight at the edge of the parking lot. A couple of people were trudging along the sidewalk as I typed.
When I looked up the two walking people were standing by my car, peering in my window.
Let me further set the scene. I was in the city of Lorain, Ohio. Lorain was a hub of the steel industry, and when US Steel collapsed, so did Lorain. The downtown is mostly empty storefronts, bars, and criminal defense attorneys. Lorain is depressed, and not just economically. For being a reasonably small city it has all the urban blight, decay, and crime as it's bigger cousin Cleveland, but with less positive assets. (Apologies if any of you folks are from Lorain, but, really, am I wrong?)
I felt a certain sinking feeling as I saw those people standing by my car. It was with something of a sense of misgiving that I rolled down my window.
It was a young couple, a woman and man. As soon as I opened my window the woman started talking. Please, she said. I'm 5 months pregnant and I'm having really bad pain. When I get home I think I'll need to call an ambulance. Please. Could you give us a ride home?
Another thing I need to point out. I was not in a particularly good neighborhood, but instead a rather sad area with abandoned houses and houses you just wished no one had to live in. Across the street from our building is a junkyard and a few vacant lots. It's on a corner. There's a self-serve car wash about a block away. In other words, pretty isolated.
I had two simultaneous thoughts: 1) This could be the beginning of a really horrible crime, and 2) I really just want to go home.
I gestured with my phone. Is there someone I could call for you? Would you like to use my phone to call somebody? ("And just keep it if you want," I thought.)
The woman looked down at me. "Can't we just get a ride? Please?"
She didn't look particularly pregnant from my vantage point, but she was wearing a winter coat. It occurred to me that this would be the perfect cover story to lure a kind-hearted soul into trouble. Despite my general peace-loving nature, I'm a huge fan of Criminal Minds. I know how this works.
I looked into the pleading brown eyes. I pictured myself saying "Sorry," rolling up my window, and driving away.
"Alright," I said.
I was chuckling to myself as they climbed into the back seat of my car, gushing thank-yous. As I said before, I was delivering stuff to my aftercare clients so my front seat was stuffed with toilet paper, paper towels, laundry detergent, and dish soap. In the back seat I had a bag of donated shoes. They were destined for Goodwill, but I hadn't dropped them off yet and the bag had somehow upended. There was a big sheet of black plastic leftover from a mattress I had hauled a few days before.
They said it was only about 5 blocks away. Now, about where we were headed...I was driving down a somewhat well-used thoroughfare that is crossed by little residential streets. A railroad track cuts through the area so most of these little streets dead-end into the railroad right-of-way, a no-mans-land of scrub and trees. Again, the perfect place for a crime.
As we were driving the woman kept up her nervous chatter. She had suffered a terrible kidney infection prior to getting pregnant, so now she was always worried about her health. She was having these really bad cramps and she didn't know why. She and the young man (baby daddy?) sat in the back, holding hands. I came to their street and he told me to turn left. As soon as I did, he said "Sorry, I was wrong. I meant right." There were a few houses with lights on, and at the end was a church. I pulled into the empty parking lot to turn around. "Please don't have a gun," I thought. I'm really scared of guns. I wondered if they tried to rob me if I could buy them off with toilet paper. It's a precious commodity. You can't buy it with food stamps.
Once we were headed in the right direction, the woman said to me "You're really nice. You're family is really lucky. Do you have kids of your own?" I glanced back at her in the rearview and told her I was probably old enough to be her mother. "I'm 22!" she chirped. Yes, I was definitely old enough. "You don't look it, ma'am!" the young man added. I smiled and thanked him.
He indicated that they were going to the house at the end of the street, again right where the road met the woods. Sure, I was kinda nervous, but mostly tired, and kinda resigned. Again I found myself hoping that they didn't have a gun. I would be happy giving them anything I had.
At last I reached a house with lights on and a row of cars parked in front. The young man directed me to the end of the row to park, right by the woods. They thanked me, slipped out of the car and stumbled up to one of the lit-up doorways. Before they got out I wished them good luck with everything.
And that was that.
I didn't want to tell my family what I had done that night. I thought they might be upset about my recklessness. When I told a co-worker a few days later she confirmed it. "What?!? That was crazy! You were lucky! You shouldn't have even opened your car window all the way...just a crack!" Later, in a text message, she reminded me NOT to pick up strangers.
What is that saying? Something about God looking after children and fools.
No regrets. But it's definitely time to start working on my boundaries.
Saturday, December 15, 2012
Let Nothing You Dismay
[Standard Disclaimer - This is written from a Christian perspective. I have no problem whatsoever with other faiths or the lack thereof.]
...Remember Christ our saviour was born on Christmas Day...To save us all from Satan's power when we were gone astray...
I was sitting at our outreach building, the building that the shelter I work for uses for meetings, support groups, and receiving donations. I was sitting there with my manager. She looked at her phone and gasped "Oh my God!" Literally standing there, mouth agape. I thought something terrible had happened to her family.
She was the one who told me that there had been another mass shooting. That it had been at a school. This was pretty early on so details were still surfacing, but they were already reporting that some of the dead were children. I think they originally said 8, but the body count was steadily rising. As we all know now, the truth was much, much worse than that.
Suddenly it all seemed wrong. It was a sunny day with a clear blue sky. I had the radio on and they were playing "Holly Jolly Christmas," or some sort of perky holiday song like that. The moment felt surreal. I wanted to turn the radio off.
With head still spinning, I had to pick-up a client from the local YWCA where she was interviewing to see if she could be accepted into their transitional housing program. The poor thing had been waiting for an hour. But while she was waiting, a minor miracle happened. The director called her back into the office and decided to give her a spot in the program right then. This does not generally happen. The program is usually wait listed for months, and candidates have to undergo drug testing before they can move in. Here it was, Friday afternoon, and she was told she could move in Monday.
She was elated. Her hard-luck story was taking a turn for the better. She'd been brave enough to take a step out of her abusive situation and the path was opening up for her. She was bursting with joy and disbelief at her good fortune.
What a contrast to what was going on in my head. Going on in the world. I could not tell her the news, this was HER moment. I wanted her to celebrate. The cognitive dissonance was breathtaking.
That it is the Christmas season compounds the tragedy. We, unfortunately, have heard such stories before. Columbine. Virginia Tech. The movie theater in Colorado. But this happened before Christmas. And the victims were children. Children who probably had a lot of gapped-tooth smiles waiting for their permanent teeth to appear. Children whose parents had probably already bought them Christmas presents. Children who were probably dizzy with excitement over what, for a kid, is the holiday of holidays.
And the pain of those left behind, for whom Christmas will now be a reminder of the most dreadful experience of their lives. Who have to look at those presents that will never be joyfully unwrapped, the empty seat at the table, the toys going unused. The children who will remember this as a time of terror, who are left to wonder what happened to their friends, their teachers. The teachers who were the only thing standing between the children in their care and a horrible fate. The first-responders who had to bear witness to what happened. This season will always be imprinted with that horror.
How can we celebrate? How can we ever reconcile this with a season of love and joy?
For one thing, the Christmas story does have a dark side that resonates with the tragedy. Let us remember that shortly after the visit of the Magi, Joseph was warned in a dream to escape to Egypt. King Harod had ordered all male children under the age of two killed in an attempt to eliminate the "king" that he feared would displace him. We celebrate the birth, the coming of hope, but rarely do we consider the aftermath. The pain and mourning that now seems all too relatable.
And consider Mary. As we all know, the story that begins so wondrously turns pretty dark before the end. Her son, the baby she birthed amid the songs of angels, whom she must have loved, was killed before her eyes. A slow, gruesome, painful death. I'm sure Mary is weeping with the parents in Connecticut right now. Who else could so understand their broken hearts.
How can we not give in to the despair? Not be overcome by Satan's power? How can we still have hope?
I take my lesson from the day I learned the news. Despite the sorrow, I got to ride in a car with someone who was truly happy, who had come through great darkness and was turning her life around.
And, you know, my job is giving me hope and a true sense of Christmas. It isn't the clients (though they are generally pretty wonderful), it's the community. We have an adopt-a-family program for our clients and the gifts have been rolling in. I get to see the big bags of presents waiting to be delivered to the families. We also receive lots of miscellaneous toys and goodies that I can give away at my aftercare party, or provide for a family that didn't get the chance to be "adopted." Our outreach building is bursting with diapers, wipes, blankets, nice lotions and soaps, shampoos...almost anything a person could need. Dish soap, laundry detergent, toilet paper. I can't over-emphasize what a joy it is to be able to supply toilet paper to a person who can't afford it because it isn't covered by food stamps. We also received 700 pounds of non-perishable food.
And the donations are still arriving.
This is how I can still have hope. In the midst of darkness I have seen a great light. I get to see generosity and the outpouring of love from people to others they've never met. I know there is good in this world.
If we give in to the darkness then Satan's power has indeed overcome us. We must not be afraid to experience joy and wonder. And to share it.
There will be little we can do to really help the people in Newtown right now. We must rely on time to dull the pain. It will never really go away. We can send them our love and prayers, and, even more importantly I think, we can love each other. And we can dare to be happy. This will make the light in the world grow stronger, and keep the dark at bay.
Tidings of comfort and joy, indeed.
...Remember Christ our saviour was born on Christmas Day...To save us all from Satan's power when we were gone astray...
I was sitting at our outreach building, the building that the shelter I work for uses for meetings, support groups, and receiving donations. I was sitting there with my manager. She looked at her phone and gasped "Oh my God!" Literally standing there, mouth agape. I thought something terrible had happened to her family.
She was the one who told me that there had been another mass shooting. That it had been at a school. This was pretty early on so details were still surfacing, but they were already reporting that some of the dead were children. I think they originally said 8, but the body count was steadily rising. As we all know now, the truth was much, much worse than that.
Suddenly it all seemed wrong. It was a sunny day with a clear blue sky. I had the radio on and they were playing "Holly Jolly Christmas," or some sort of perky holiday song like that. The moment felt surreal. I wanted to turn the radio off.
With head still spinning, I had to pick-up a client from the local YWCA where she was interviewing to see if she could be accepted into their transitional housing program. The poor thing had been waiting for an hour. But while she was waiting, a minor miracle happened. The director called her back into the office and decided to give her a spot in the program right then. This does not generally happen. The program is usually wait listed for months, and candidates have to undergo drug testing before they can move in. Here it was, Friday afternoon, and she was told she could move in Monday.
She was elated. Her hard-luck story was taking a turn for the better. She'd been brave enough to take a step out of her abusive situation and the path was opening up for her. She was bursting with joy and disbelief at her good fortune.
What a contrast to what was going on in my head. Going on in the world. I could not tell her the news, this was HER moment. I wanted her to celebrate. The cognitive dissonance was breathtaking.
That it is the Christmas season compounds the tragedy. We, unfortunately, have heard such stories before. Columbine. Virginia Tech. The movie theater in Colorado. But this happened before Christmas. And the victims were children. Children who probably had a lot of gapped-tooth smiles waiting for their permanent teeth to appear. Children whose parents had probably already bought them Christmas presents. Children who were probably dizzy with excitement over what, for a kid, is the holiday of holidays.
And the pain of those left behind, for whom Christmas will now be a reminder of the most dreadful experience of their lives. Who have to look at those presents that will never be joyfully unwrapped, the empty seat at the table, the toys going unused. The children who will remember this as a time of terror, who are left to wonder what happened to their friends, their teachers. The teachers who were the only thing standing between the children in their care and a horrible fate. The first-responders who had to bear witness to what happened. This season will always be imprinted with that horror.
How can we celebrate? How can we ever reconcile this with a season of love and joy?
For one thing, the Christmas story does have a dark side that resonates with the tragedy. Let us remember that shortly after the visit of the Magi, Joseph was warned in a dream to escape to Egypt. King Harod had ordered all male children under the age of two killed in an attempt to eliminate the "king" that he feared would displace him. We celebrate the birth, the coming of hope, but rarely do we consider the aftermath. The pain and mourning that now seems all too relatable.
And consider Mary. As we all know, the story that begins so wondrously turns pretty dark before the end. Her son, the baby she birthed amid the songs of angels, whom she must have loved, was killed before her eyes. A slow, gruesome, painful death. I'm sure Mary is weeping with the parents in Connecticut right now. Who else could so understand their broken hearts.
How can we not give in to the despair? Not be overcome by Satan's power? How can we still have hope?
I take my lesson from the day I learned the news. Despite the sorrow, I got to ride in a car with someone who was truly happy, who had come through great darkness and was turning her life around.
And, you know, my job is giving me hope and a true sense of Christmas. It isn't the clients (though they are generally pretty wonderful), it's the community. We have an adopt-a-family program for our clients and the gifts have been rolling in. I get to see the big bags of presents waiting to be delivered to the families. We also receive lots of miscellaneous toys and goodies that I can give away at my aftercare party, or provide for a family that didn't get the chance to be "adopted." Our outreach building is bursting with diapers, wipes, blankets, nice lotions and soaps, shampoos...almost anything a person could need. Dish soap, laundry detergent, toilet paper. I can't over-emphasize what a joy it is to be able to supply toilet paper to a person who can't afford it because it isn't covered by food stamps. We also received 700 pounds of non-perishable food.
And the donations are still arriving.
This is how I can still have hope. In the midst of darkness I have seen a great light. I get to see generosity and the outpouring of love from people to others they've never met. I know there is good in this world.
If we give in to the darkness then Satan's power has indeed overcome us. We must not be afraid to experience joy and wonder. And to share it.
There will be little we can do to really help the people in Newtown right now. We must rely on time to dull the pain. It will never really go away. We can send them our love and prayers, and, even more importantly I think, we can love each other. And we can dare to be happy. This will make the light in the world grow stronger, and keep the dark at bay.
Tidings of comfort and joy, indeed.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Hazy Shade of Winter (A Thanksgiving Meditation)
Look around...leaves are brown now...and the sky...is a hazy shade of winter...(Credit where credit is due. Paul Simon, "Hazy Shade of Winter" [how often can I say that?], the "Bookends" album)
Just got back from the annual Thanksgiving trek. Living as we do almost exactly between our two families of origin, no holiday is complete without an eight hour drive somewhere.
I describe the visit as "bittersweet" (in case any of you were wondering about my cryptic facebook post). The dinner was great. Seeing family and friends is always a joy. Especially joyous this time around since I got to meet a new member joining us through marriage. But all is not blue skies and sunshine. Various people I know and love are facing difficult life transitions and my heart aches for them. Our world can be a difficult place. Just ask the Syrians. Or the Israelis and Palestinians. Trouble is no stranger.
I have to confess, in case you haven't noticed, that I haven't been writing much. My sense of humor seems to be on vacation. The well of inspiration has been running a bit dry. Me and my couch have become very good friends. My social life is my little computer screen.
Today was different. Today, I took a walk.
It's a thought that has crossed my mind from time to time when I glanced out the window on those rare sunny days, but it never got past the thinking stage. Today, like I said, was different. I've been feeling my age and the hips no longer tolerate those long car rides likes they used to. Sitting was not my friend this morning. A little voice in my head said "go."
I didn't go far. For those of you familiar with Obieland, I headed down the paths behind Johnson House. I walked through fields, gazed at the trees, and the lyrics of that song (Hazy Shade of Winter, remember?) popped into my head. The scene was nearly colorless, washes of variations on brown. The landscape was a reflection of my state of mind.
I first went to check on my favorite tree, a large conifer with branches that sweep low to the ground to create a beautiful natural shelter. Some of the lower branches had been removed, but it was still a sanctuary as evidenced by the jacket and beer can left behind. Next door was an apparent victim of the backhand slap we received from Sandy. The downed tree was huge. My arms would only wrap halfway around its circumference. It appeared that there was a weakness, some rot, at the bottom of the trunk. It had splintered almost at ground level. The wood still had the scent of fresh lumber. Upon closer look I saw drops of sap, like teardrops, clinging to the broken surface.
As I wandered into the woods I noticed how bare everything was. There was no hiding here. Houses that were normally shrouded by greenery stood out. It was like I couldn't leave town behind. I heard the cars, the incessant drone of airplanes, and, as always at moments like this, a chainsaw. The few other people who were out exploring were completely exposed and visible. We would acknowledge each other when we passed on the path, but no one spoke. I felt like we were winter trees, our life tucked away until the spring.
I followed the path to the Morgan Street reservoir. It's one of the town's treasures that I never take advantage of enough. As I walked the path that encircles its edge, I remembered how it was my favorite escape when I was a new mother desperate to get out of the house. I would tuck my daughter, and later my two daughters, into the stroller and take this path. I walked past the area where we would go sledding, not a tall hill but pleasantly steep. The water was a shimmering rippled gray under a feeble sun.
The path curved around to become a little isthmus between two reservoirs. I always loved the second one because it's fringed with brush and normally hidden until you get right up on it. Some tree roots made natural steps to the water, which was remarkably clear. I could see through the surface to a mosaic of rocks and autumn leaves. I could see the bottom dropping away to a watery emerald green.
That's when the magic happened.
I turned to the first reservoir in time to see a duck. It was a small diver, dark capped and white-cheeked. (A male ruddy duck in winter plumage. I looked it up.) I sat on the path and just watched. The sounds from the town seemed to fade away into a light rush of wind rattling the stubborn tree leaves that had refused to fall. I watched as the bird disappeared, leaving only concentric circles on the water's surface. After what would seem an impossible amount of time it would pop to the surface with the smallest "plink" of water. Then I heard a chatter, and a kingfisher was swooping across the surface of the water, a flash of blue against the gray with a blazing white collar when it turned. Behind me I heard loud quacking and splashing and turned to see a flock of about 8 mallard ducks coming in for a landing.
My reverie was broken by a dog, a puppy, all big ears and paws. I hastened to my feet before the owner at the other end of the leash came around the curve. I knew her. She was John Birmingham's daughter. John had been a wonderful boss, dear friend and mentor, a papa bear figure. When he was dying of cancer this daughter had assisted me with the birth of my second daughter. My first childcare job had been for her sister and her partner who had adopted an adorable infant girl, Nora, from Cambodia. This would have been John's first granddaughter, but he didn't live to meet her. I was told that one of his last acts before he passed away was buying books for the grandchild he knew he'd never know. His family and I shared a common bond in our love for John.
I hadn't talked to anyone from the family for quite some time so we chatted to catch up. She had become a midwife but now was teaching midwifery to nurses and was enjoying the more regular hours. Her husband (I had attended their wedding after John died) was successfully working multiple gigs as a therapist and therapeutic artist. I inquired about her sister, and Nora, and learned that they were currently in Cambodia, looking for members of Nora's birth family. They apparently had found a close relative and had an emotional reunion. She asked me what I was doing and I explained I was back working at the county domestic violence shelter. As she turned to resume her walk she suddenly turned back and said "John would be proud of all of us." (Just typing this brings tears to my eyes.)
I was flooded with a feeling of sweet thankfulness as I continued my walk. Thankful for all the wonderful people, past and present, in my life. Thankful for love that survives loss. Thankful for the beauty that can be found when one takes the time to notice and observe.
Hang on to your hopes my friend...well that's an easy thing to say but when your hopes have slipped away then simply pretend...that you can build them again...(Yep, same song)
The world seemed alive and infused with beauty. As I walked along a ravine I startled a pair of juncos, the first I'd seen this season. A bright red cardinal swooped by. While passing a field of brown weeds it came alive with goldfinches in their drab winter plumage and chickadees gently swaying on the tall stems. I had a stare down with a little red squirrel. I found another cozy den under a fir tree, which, again, had apparently been enjoyed by student types. Those kids don't miss a hideaway and Black Label beer seems to be the local favorite. Even after I had emerged back into the everyday world I noticed the tiniest little sapling, little more than a stick, really, with one, perfect, tiny red leaf holding on tightly.
Bittersweet. It's how life goes. Joy alternating with sorrow. Big trees may fall but the itty-bitty sapling holds on. And there is beauty when we least expect it. Yesterday, as my facebook status, I had simply written "bittersweet." My favorite response was from my sister, who wrote back "My favorite kind of chocolate."
Look around...leaves are brown...there's a patch of snow on the ground...(Do I really need to tell you where this is from?)
And how are you?
Just got back from the annual Thanksgiving trek. Living as we do almost exactly between our two families of origin, no holiday is complete without an eight hour drive somewhere.
I describe the visit as "bittersweet" (in case any of you were wondering about my cryptic facebook post). The dinner was great. Seeing family and friends is always a joy. Especially joyous this time around since I got to meet a new member joining us through marriage. But all is not blue skies and sunshine. Various people I know and love are facing difficult life transitions and my heart aches for them. Our world can be a difficult place. Just ask the Syrians. Or the Israelis and Palestinians. Trouble is no stranger.
I have to confess, in case you haven't noticed, that I haven't been writing much. My sense of humor seems to be on vacation. The well of inspiration has been running a bit dry. Me and my couch have become very good friends. My social life is my little computer screen.
Today was different. Today, I took a walk.
It's a thought that has crossed my mind from time to time when I glanced out the window on those rare sunny days, but it never got past the thinking stage. Today, like I said, was different. I've been feeling my age and the hips no longer tolerate those long car rides likes they used to. Sitting was not my friend this morning. A little voice in my head said "go."
I didn't go far. For those of you familiar with Obieland, I headed down the paths behind Johnson House. I walked through fields, gazed at the trees, and the lyrics of that song (Hazy Shade of Winter, remember?) popped into my head. The scene was nearly colorless, washes of variations on brown. The landscape was a reflection of my state of mind.
I first went to check on my favorite tree, a large conifer with branches that sweep low to the ground to create a beautiful natural shelter. Some of the lower branches had been removed, but it was still a sanctuary as evidenced by the jacket and beer can left behind. Next door was an apparent victim of the backhand slap we received from Sandy. The downed tree was huge. My arms would only wrap halfway around its circumference. It appeared that there was a weakness, some rot, at the bottom of the trunk. It had splintered almost at ground level. The wood still had the scent of fresh lumber. Upon closer look I saw drops of sap, like teardrops, clinging to the broken surface.
As I wandered into the woods I noticed how bare everything was. There was no hiding here. Houses that were normally shrouded by greenery stood out. It was like I couldn't leave town behind. I heard the cars, the incessant drone of airplanes, and, as always at moments like this, a chainsaw. The few other people who were out exploring were completely exposed and visible. We would acknowledge each other when we passed on the path, but no one spoke. I felt like we were winter trees, our life tucked away until the spring.
I followed the path to the Morgan Street reservoir. It's one of the town's treasures that I never take advantage of enough. As I walked the path that encircles its edge, I remembered how it was my favorite escape when I was a new mother desperate to get out of the house. I would tuck my daughter, and later my two daughters, into the stroller and take this path. I walked past the area where we would go sledding, not a tall hill but pleasantly steep. The water was a shimmering rippled gray under a feeble sun.
The path curved around to become a little isthmus between two reservoirs. I always loved the second one because it's fringed with brush and normally hidden until you get right up on it. Some tree roots made natural steps to the water, which was remarkably clear. I could see through the surface to a mosaic of rocks and autumn leaves. I could see the bottom dropping away to a watery emerald green.
That's when the magic happened.
I turned to the first reservoir in time to see a duck. It was a small diver, dark capped and white-cheeked. (A male ruddy duck in winter plumage. I looked it up.) I sat on the path and just watched. The sounds from the town seemed to fade away into a light rush of wind rattling the stubborn tree leaves that had refused to fall. I watched as the bird disappeared, leaving only concentric circles on the water's surface. After what would seem an impossible amount of time it would pop to the surface with the smallest "plink" of water. Then I heard a chatter, and a kingfisher was swooping across the surface of the water, a flash of blue against the gray with a blazing white collar when it turned. Behind me I heard loud quacking and splashing and turned to see a flock of about 8 mallard ducks coming in for a landing.
My reverie was broken by a dog, a puppy, all big ears and paws. I hastened to my feet before the owner at the other end of the leash came around the curve. I knew her. She was John Birmingham's daughter. John had been a wonderful boss, dear friend and mentor, a papa bear figure. When he was dying of cancer this daughter had assisted me with the birth of my second daughter. My first childcare job had been for her sister and her partner who had adopted an adorable infant girl, Nora, from Cambodia. This would have been John's first granddaughter, but he didn't live to meet her. I was told that one of his last acts before he passed away was buying books for the grandchild he knew he'd never know. His family and I shared a common bond in our love for John.
I hadn't talked to anyone from the family for quite some time so we chatted to catch up. She had become a midwife but now was teaching midwifery to nurses and was enjoying the more regular hours. Her husband (I had attended their wedding after John died) was successfully working multiple gigs as a therapist and therapeutic artist. I inquired about her sister, and Nora, and learned that they were currently in Cambodia, looking for members of Nora's birth family. They apparently had found a close relative and had an emotional reunion. She asked me what I was doing and I explained I was back working at the county domestic violence shelter. As she turned to resume her walk she suddenly turned back and said "John would be proud of all of us." (Just typing this brings tears to my eyes.)
I was flooded with a feeling of sweet thankfulness as I continued my walk. Thankful for all the wonderful people, past and present, in my life. Thankful for love that survives loss. Thankful for the beauty that can be found when one takes the time to notice and observe.
Hang on to your hopes my friend...well that's an easy thing to say but when your hopes have slipped away then simply pretend...that you can build them again...(Yep, same song)
The world seemed alive and infused with beauty. As I walked along a ravine I startled a pair of juncos, the first I'd seen this season. A bright red cardinal swooped by. While passing a field of brown weeds it came alive with goldfinches in their drab winter plumage and chickadees gently swaying on the tall stems. I had a stare down with a little red squirrel. I found another cozy den under a fir tree, which, again, had apparently been enjoyed by student types. Those kids don't miss a hideaway and Black Label beer seems to be the local favorite. Even after I had emerged back into the everyday world I noticed the tiniest little sapling, little more than a stick, really, with one, perfect, tiny red leaf holding on tightly.
Bittersweet. It's how life goes. Joy alternating with sorrow. Big trees may fall but the itty-bitty sapling holds on. And there is beauty when we least expect it. Yesterday, as my facebook status, I had simply written "bittersweet." My favorite response was from my sister, who wrote back "My favorite kind of chocolate."
Look around...leaves are brown...there's a patch of snow on the ground...(Do I really need to tell you where this is from?)
And how are you?
Saturday, July 21, 2012
Guns Don't Kill People, People Kill People...With Guns
(Credit where credit is due. I got that from my youngest daughter who got it from a YouTube video.)
I don't know if any of you big fans of mine saw my last share from The Onion about how the Colorado shootings will lead to a debate on gun control which will quickly grow incendiary and be forgotten.
This is my small attempt to start a conversation. I'm aiming this (pun intended?) at people who feel differently than me on this issue. (Tony, I'm calling you out!)
This is a response to your facebook post, the meme of Gene Wilder's Willy Wonka asking if guns cause violence why we don't hear of more rampages at shooting ranges. I thought about it and, you know what? I agree. Because I do not think guns cause violence. Mental illness, rage, and brutish human nature cause violence. I feel, however, that guns make that violence more lethal.
I'm not really anti-gun. I personally just don't like them. I'm incredibly afraid of sudden loud noises, for one thing. And in the final cost/benefit analysis I find them potentially more risky than helpful. But if you want your own personal handgun that is registered and that you have been trained to use, I'm cool with that. I have never felt a desire to go hunting but I know plenty of people who do, so if you have registered rifles that you have been trained to use I'm cool with that, too. I just would prefer not to have them in my house, school, or church. Is that really too much to ask? (Come to think of it, I don't really like the idea of anyone packing in a bar, but I'll compromise.)
The closest I every came to carrying a firearm was 20+ years ago while I was working at the domestic violence shelter. I was helping a woman retrieve some of her belongings from her home and she took her husband's rifle. She (understandably, I think) didn't want him to have it. I forgot she had taken it and it stayed in my car trunk all weekend. (!) As soon as I discovered I had it I turned it over to the police. They returned it to the husband.
Why do we need automatic pistols and assault rifles? The closest I've heard to a defense of them is that they're fun to shoot. Fine. Let's set-up firing ranges where they can be shot to heart's content but the guns and the ammo stay there. People would be required to register or show ID and the weapons and ammo would be accounted for every time someone left.
These sort of weapons don't cause violence, but someone with an automatic weapon can inflict a lot more damage and faster than someone without one. It's so easy, I've heard, even a child can do it. In fact, many children do manage to kill themselves or someone they love when they find an unsecured loaded weapon.
Will we stop the murderous among us? No. But we can stop making it so damn easy for them. Your right to bear arms ends where my right to go out safely in public begins. I don't think that automatic weapons need to be illegal, but they are deadly and should be tightly controlled. Alarm bells should be going off when someone starts buying large amounts of ammunition which serves no purpose but piercing Kevlar and human flesh. Outlaws will still be able to purchase automatic weapons, I'm not naive, but then we can go after the source of them, legally, before the next shooting. Where the weapon came from becomes as much a part of the equation as who did the killing. Or maiming.
Why do I want personal guns registered? So we can account for them, especially if they go missing. And so having an unregistered or falsely registered weapon can be a crime before anyone gets hurt. And if someone does get hurt or killed with a registered gun, the registered owner of said weapon will have some explaining to do.
Why do I want gun owners to be licensed? Because if you're going to carry it you better damn well know how to use it. And, most especially, when not to use it. (I'm looking at you, Mr. Zimmerman) Like in crowds. Or when angry.
I am interested to know why this level of control is too extreme. I do get the "slippery slope" theory, that once we assert any level of gun control we're one step closer to a ban, but as a society we have to set standards of control all the time. Like we do with drugs, liquor, automobiles. If something is deemed dangerous we try to limit the damage. I feel that is all I'm trying to do.
This is an open invitation for anyone who disagrees with me to respond, and my preference would be that it be well-reasoned and insightful. If not that, at least amusing!
Let's make the unstable among us really have to work at it. It's my understanding that this latest Colorado guy was pretty brilliant, and did manage to hatch other horrifying schemes like booby-trapping his apartment. He probably had the ingenuity to find or rig illegal weapons. But he should have had to break laws to even break the law by killing people. It gives us a bit more of a chance to stop it.
At least that's what I think. You?
I don't know if any of you big fans of mine saw my last share from The Onion about how the Colorado shootings will lead to a debate on gun control which will quickly grow incendiary and be forgotten.
This is my small attempt to start a conversation. I'm aiming this (pun intended?) at people who feel differently than me on this issue. (Tony, I'm calling you out!)
This is a response to your facebook post, the meme of Gene Wilder's Willy Wonka asking if guns cause violence why we don't hear of more rampages at shooting ranges. I thought about it and, you know what? I agree. Because I do not think guns cause violence. Mental illness, rage, and brutish human nature cause violence. I feel, however, that guns make that violence more lethal.
I'm not really anti-gun. I personally just don't like them. I'm incredibly afraid of sudden loud noises, for one thing. And in the final cost/benefit analysis I find them potentially more risky than helpful. But if you want your own personal handgun that is registered and that you have been trained to use, I'm cool with that. I have never felt a desire to go hunting but I know plenty of people who do, so if you have registered rifles that you have been trained to use I'm cool with that, too. I just would prefer not to have them in my house, school, or church. Is that really too much to ask? (Come to think of it, I don't really like the idea of anyone packing in a bar, but I'll compromise.)
The closest I every came to carrying a firearm was 20+ years ago while I was working at the domestic violence shelter. I was helping a woman retrieve some of her belongings from her home and she took her husband's rifle. She (understandably, I think) didn't want him to have it. I forgot she had taken it and it stayed in my car trunk all weekend. (!) As soon as I discovered I had it I turned it over to the police. They returned it to the husband.
Why do we need automatic pistols and assault rifles? The closest I've heard to a defense of them is that they're fun to shoot. Fine. Let's set-up firing ranges where they can be shot to heart's content but the guns and the ammo stay there. People would be required to register or show ID and the weapons and ammo would be accounted for every time someone left.
These sort of weapons don't cause violence, but someone with an automatic weapon can inflict a lot more damage and faster than someone without one. It's so easy, I've heard, even a child can do it. In fact, many children do manage to kill themselves or someone they love when they find an unsecured loaded weapon.
Will we stop the murderous among us? No. But we can stop making it so damn easy for them. Your right to bear arms ends where my right to go out safely in public begins. I don't think that automatic weapons need to be illegal, but they are deadly and should be tightly controlled. Alarm bells should be going off when someone starts buying large amounts of ammunition which serves no purpose but piercing Kevlar and human flesh. Outlaws will still be able to purchase automatic weapons, I'm not naive, but then we can go after the source of them, legally, before the next shooting. Where the weapon came from becomes as much a part of the equation as who did the killing. Or maiming.
Why do I want personal guns registered? So we can account for them, especially if they go missing. And so having an unregistered or falsely registered weapon can be a crime before anyone gets hurt. And if someone does get hurt or killed with a registered gun, the registered owner of said weapon will have some explaining to do.
Why do I want gun owners to be licensed? Because if you're going to carry it you better damn well know how to use it. And, most especially, when not to use it. (I'm looking at you, Mr. Zimmerman) Like in crowds. Or when angry.
I am interested to know why this level of control is too extreme. I do get the "slippery slope" theory, that once we assert any level of gun control we're one step closer to a ban, but as a society we have to set standards of control all the time. Like we do with drugs, liquor, automobiles. If something is deemed dangerous we try to limit the damage. I feel that is all I'm trying to do.
This is an open invitation for anyone who disagrees with me to respond, and my preference would be that it be well-reasoned and insightful. If not that, at least amusing!
Let's make the unstable among us really have to work at it. It's my understanding that this latest Colorado guy was pretty brilliant, and did manage to hatch other horrifying schemes like booby-trapping his apartment. He probably had the ingenuity to find or rig illegal weapons. But he should have had to break laws to even break the law by killing people. It gives us a bit more of a chance to stop it.
At least that's what I think. You?
Friday, June 1, 2012
Sweet Little 16
What a difference three years makes.
Three years ago I was in despair, questioning my sanity and everything I thought I knew about parenting. My youngest had turned 13 and aliens had abducted her and left Princess Thunder Cloud in her place. See "Tick-Tick-Tick," September 24, 2009. Miriam did, and she's been begging for a positive blog update ever since.
Well, honey, it's your birthday. Instead of saying "You'll have to do something good for me to write about," here it is. Your Dad and I wished our sunny little girl would come back. But guess what? We love the young woman you're becoming even better than that.
I guess the thaw happened so gradually I couldn't pinpoint when the change happened. All I know is that when she says "I love you" to me I no longer rush to mark the occasion on a calendar or wish for a recording device so I could play it back to her the next time she hated me. Which was often.
I'm not sure I can remember the last time I heard her door slam in anger.
But it's more than that. She's re-connecting with life again. She's back to playing softball. Her first love was playing first base, but this school year she played third. During one game Miriam skillfully stabbed a hard-hit ball and threw the runner out at first. When her team and coach commended her for a good play I saw something that I had feared was gone forever. It was that smile. That pure, dimpled look of joy and pride that had earned her the nickname "Smiley" in her earlier playing days.
Miriam's renewed interest in playing softball has also ignited a passion for baseball. The girl who last year rolled her eyes and stormed out of the room when her sister turned on the game now watches the pre-show as well. We're celebrating her birthday by going to a Cleveland Indians game.
And I revel in her sense of humor. She loves the offbeat, the random, and the clever. Thanks to her I've rediscovered the current Saturday Night Live and learned to appreciate "Scrubs," "How I Met Your Mother," and "Raising Hope." (I also have her to blame for my "Criminal Minds" and "Law and Order SVU" addictions, however.) Plus there's the laugh. When something really tickles her she has this heart and soul felt belly laugh - I dare anybody to keep a straight face in its presence!
It's like the best of the girl is re-emerging, only stronger and better.
Not to say that we still don't have our challenges. In Miriam's world, deadlines are merely suggestions and school work is optional. Her grades reflect that. When this slide started,(yes, it was when she was 13), her Dad and I tried to address it. We expressed our concern. We got strict. We tried banning her from her phone, the computer, TV. At this point I will fully admit that I was not good at that. A grounded teenager with no entertainments in a small house is really a punishment for the parent.
One thing I've learned from her is to let go. She's always had an independent streak and needs to learn things for herself. Tom and I recently stopped monitoring her grades. She is the only person who can make herself work to her abilities, and we have to trust her to do that. (That being said, I'll admit I'm nervous about her final report card).
I've come to recognize, however, as every parent does, that her most troublesome traits (procrastination, for example) COME STRAIGHT FROM ME. As my dear friend the late, great John Birmingham once told me, "Your kids will turn out more like you than you would even want them to."
But I'm proud of how she's turning out. She has a tremendous heart and a strong sense of social justice. She loves fully. When she's happy there is no one happier. The world is a better place for her being in it. (Even though her room is reminiscent of a hoarder's. SORRY HONEY, I COULDN'T RESIST! No one is perfect, right?)
Happy birthday, Miriam. There is so much to love about you that I didn't even get the chance to mention like your beauty and your sense of style.
You are sweet 16, indeed.
Three years ago I was in despair, questioning my sanity and everything I thought I knew about parenting. My youngest had turned 13 and aliens had abducted her and left Princess Thunder Cloud in her place. See "Tick-Tick-Tick," September 24, 2009. Miriam did, and she's been begging for a positive blog update ever since.
Well, honey, it's your birthday. Instead of saying "You'll have to do something good for me to write about," here it is. Your Dad and I wished our sunny little girl would come back. But guess what? We love the young woman you're becoming even better than that.
I guess the thaw happened so gradually I couldn't pinpoint when the change happened. All I know is that when she says "I love you" to me I no longer rush to mark the occasion on a calendar or wish for a recording device so I could play it back to her the next time she hated me. Which was often.
I'm not sure I can remember the last time I heard her door slam in anger.
But it's more than that. She's re-connecting with life again. She's back to playing softball. Her first love was playing first base, but this school year she played third. During one game Miriam skillfully stabbed a hard-hit ball and threw the runner out at first. When her team and coach commended her for a good play I saw something that I had feared was gone forever. It was that smile. That pure, dimpled look of joy and pride that had earned her the nickname "Smiley" in her earlier playing days.
Miriam's renewed interest in playing softball has also ignited a passion for baseball. The girl who last year rolled her eyes and stormed out of the room when her sister turned on the game now watches the pre-show as well. We're celebrating her birthday by going to a Cleveland Indians game.
And I revel in her sense of humor. She loves the offbeat, the random, and the clever. Thanks to her I've rediscovered the current Saturday Night Live and learned to appreciate "Scrubs," "How I Met Your Mother," and "Raising Hope." (I also have her to blame for my "Criminal Minds" and "Law and Order SVU" addictions, however.) Plus there's the laugh. When something really tickles her she has this heart and soul felt belly laugh - I dare anybody to keep a straight face in its presence!
It's like the best of the girl is re-emerging, only stronger and better.
Not to say that we still don't have our challenges. In Miriam's world, deadlines are merely suggestions and school work is optional. Her grades reflect that. When this slide started,(yes, it was when she was 13), her Dad and I tried to address it. We expressed our concern. We got strict. We tried banning her from her phone, the computer, TV. At this point I will fully admit that I was not good at that. A grounded teenager with no entertainments in a small house is really a punishment for the parent.
One thing I've learned from her is to let go. She's always had an independent streak and needs to learn things for herself. Tom and I recently stopped monitoring her grades. She is the only person who can make herself work to her abilities, and we have to trust her to do that. (That being said, I'll admit I'm nervous about her final report card).
I've come to recognize, however, as every parent does, that her most troublesome traits (procrastination, for example) COME STRAIGHT FROM ME. As my dear friend the late, great John Birmingham once told me, "Your kids will turn out more like you than you would even want them to."
But I'm proud of how she's turning out. She has a tremendous heart and a strong sense of social justice. She loves fully. When she's happy there is no one happier. The world is a better place for her being in it. (Even though her room is reminiscent of a hoarder's. SORRY HONEY, I COULDN'T RESIST! No one is perfect, right?)
Happy birthday, Miriam. There is so much to love about you that I didn't even get the chance to mention like your beauty and your sense of style.
You are sweet 16, indeed.
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