The Best Hearts Are Often Overlooked

Attentive people on Twitter have heard me speak of Timmy. He is fifty years old and child like but never unintelligent. He is the one who always laughs, "I have clowns in my belly!" I'm pretty sure he does.

Last year Timmy asked me to make him a scarf and I did. I really like Timmy's no nonsense way of asking for things. I never doubt where I stand with him. I could have told him "no" and he would have been fine with that, too. When I presented the scarf to Timmy he was thrilled. He loved the color and texture and the personalized name tag saying it was made especially for him. He wore it proudly as we parted. I never saw it again. I asked him about it on one particularly cold day. Timmy's head drooped and he said he lost it.

That was last year. This year Timmy asked if I'd make him another scarf. I laughed at him and told him I'd buy him a scarf if he needed one. But Timmy really wants one of my scarves so he admitted he gave the previous one to a homeless person. He told me the whole story. It was typical Timmy. It was freezing cold. He had a place to go but the homeless man did not so it made sense to give him the scarf so he could be a little warmer. Timmy knows I've been homeless and have a sensitivity for people in that situation but I also know there are people you can help and people who don't want practical help. I've no idea which type this homeless man was but he could have been just as warm with a five dollar scarf as he was with the one it took me days to crochet. I told Timmy I would be happy to give him a store of scarves for that situation but he is right, the man was cold RIGHT THEN and needed warmth.

Tonight he came up to me and reminded me about the scarf. I told him I am halfway through with his and I will give him that and another half dozen if I never have to hear about the scarf again. He smiled with that smile that told me that was not what he came to talk about.

Timmy told me he was walking on a frigid night such as tonight but it was twenty years ago, when he made six figures and he was a software engineer. He was in a hurry. A homeless man asked him for a dollar. He gave him five dollars. The homeless man was overwhelmed by his generosity and gave him a garbage bag.  Timmy was surprised to get anything in return for his five dollars so he gave the man another hundred. Timmy told me how he has carried that garbage bag with him from home to home and never forgotten about that night.

Timmy says he keeps the garbage bag near his bed with his cross and rosary. When his friends are going through bad times he prays for them at this alter he has made and every time his prayers have been answered. Timmy has a lot of faith in that garbage bag he has carried for twenty years. It is his treasure.

After he told me the story he explained he never wears jewelry, not even a watch. He was firm on this fact. Then he pulled out from his shirt a cross and rope braided from a garbage bag. "I just felt I had to wear it tonight and tell this story," said Timmy. I confirmed with him the garbage bag is still in the same condition as when he received it.  Timmy nodded and replied, "This is my one hundred and five dollar cross."

**********************************************************************************
05.19.2011 My beloved friend, Timmy, passed away this May 11th, too early in his life. I'll miss him terribly but will forever remember the clowns in his belly, hear the echo of his laugh and feel my own heart swell when I think of his. Godspeed dear friend. I love you.


(Picture: Timmy's garbage bag.)

A Parting Gift To My Sister

As I write this my sister lays dying; the third of my siblings to do so in less than three years. The cycle of emotions I have been feeling this time around are different. We have simultaneously had no relationship, yet a loaded one. Logic would dictate I feel nothing but it is not that simple.

When I was born, K was less than a month shy of her 19th birthday. There are photographs of K in her CNA uniform, at the hospital, bundling me for my ride home with our parents. I don’t ever recall living with her or being welcome in any home in which she resided.

I have mentioned K in other posts. She has never been kind to me but I am told that is just her way; she is not malicious but instead unfiltered. Often, intent makes little difference. When a company poisons the soil or groundwater in a neighborhood it hardly matters whether they did so with malice aforethought or through simple negligence. If you hope to live, you move elsewhere to try to escape the damage. That has been my primary coping strategy with K and our oldest brother but given that families are not real estate, my strategy has been only partially successful. I have occasionally been pulled back into the sister role to distract K during funerals or festivities where her unfiltered tendencies may have damaged others’ important lifetime memories.

Please do not think I never tried to have a relationship with K but now is not the time to rehash all those instances. There is much I don’t understand and will never know because of the years that separate us. I hoped as adults the rift would mend and our commonality would pull us together. Twenty years after the loss of our parents this had not happened and it seems likely it never would, even if cancer were not robbing her of the twenty more years she deserves.

I have spent these weeks of Ks illness replaying our past, wondering what to do or if there is anything I could do before circling back to emptiness. Years I have mulled over how my birth could so offend and whether I owe it to anyone to rectify my presence in life at this late date.

I have stayed away and hope this is the right decision. I stare at a family tree she penned for our Grandmother when I was in high school. I am not on it. I know I could care for her and help her be more physically comfortable but I can do nothing to cure her. I hope by at least pretending I don’t exist, this will give her comfort in her final days.

Father: Memorial For A Veteran

I wrote the following post as a tribute to Father around the time of Father's Day and Memorial Day because both are so linked in my heart to him but it is now, the day he was buried, that he really comes to mind. I am reposting it here. 


I can't imagine he planned to be buried on Veterans' Day but it gave great comfort to my Mother and me. First things being first, we both marched in the Veterans' Day Parade, me as a flutist in the marching band and Mother in the Ladies VFW Auxiliary. Only after that duty did we continue to the grave site to bid farewell to Pop. With that preface, here it is: 


When I think of Veterans the first person I think of is my Pop. Growing up, I often saw him in the uniforms of the Veterans Of Foreign Wars or the American Legion. He was always in parades or going to conferences. My earliest dancing was conducted on the toes of his shoes, to a live band, after a conference or parade ended. My Father's service to the United States was his proudest achievement.

He died when I was still young so my memories of him are faint but a part of him lives on through his poetry. My Mother hand typed these poems and passed them on to me, knowing my love of language.

Father left high school early to join the Navy for World War II. That is how he met my mother, a USO accordionist, on the opposite side of the country. He wore his Naval uniform for their wedding.

Few of his poems were about war but the following is. 

The Zero Hour

The whistle of the bombshell
The shot screamed high above
As I burrowed like a groundhog
I thought of home and love

We hadn't long to linger
The word came for the charge
We were welcomed to their trenches
By a blistering barrage

We took full half a mile
Of that cursed No Man's Land
Then reached the German trenches
And were fighting hand in hand.

I passed from the world of the living
And entered the world of the dead
Another American soldier 
To that war machine been fed

He was not fed to the war machine during World War II so he again served his country in the "Korean Conflict." (It took years for the United States Government to admit the action in Korea was a war so I remember it being referred to in this manner, in our household.) When Father retired from military service it was as a Senior Master Sergeant for the United States Air Force.

This was all before I was born but so much a part of my Father's identity that history class was alive for me. My oldest brother was a Vietnam era veteran and I remember the fear in our family of wondering when the war would end. When my sister joined the Air Force I was unnerved to see her in uniform. I was told she would be okay but as a little girl, growing up with hushed stories of war, how could I be certain?

Father always seemed haunted but at the same time, in wonder of life. When he finally was defeated, it was not war which took him but cancer. He raced to button up his life for his wife and remaining small child. He was not given enough time but Mum was a military wife and knew how to get through. By the time he left us, we both did. It helped he left us with this, which was read at his funeral:

Just See That You're Happy Today

Don't worry yourself with tomorrow
Tomorrow's a long way away
Forget all your troubles and sorrows
Just see that you're happy today

Try living your life for the minute
Who knows what tomorrow will hold
Try getting the best that is in it
Tomorrow itself will unfold

A lifetime you think lies before you
Can't you get wise to what's true?
A million and one things can floor you
Then where is tomorrow for you?

So live as I say for the present
Tomorrow will come as it may
Though you be a king or a peasant
Just see that you're happy today

He wrote the second poem while still in the Navy during World War II (February 10th, 1942). The world was going to hell in a hand basket and he was writing about embracing life. This is the legacy he left.

War. Service. Cancer. Duty. These are the words I think of when I think of my soldier father. On this day where we memorialize those who served and those who died for our country I give to you his words. For those who have suffered and died and those who have suffered and lived through the illness that was his final act in life, I give you his inspiration. Frederick A. Devlin III never missed an opportunity to serve his country or its citizens. 

Godspeed to all soldiers past, present and future whether fighting for this country or fighting for your life. Thank you for your service to country, community and family.

Marketers Eat Their Young

Twitter is a haven for marketers. One could almost say Twitter is their intranet. Since I am the curious type, I have sat through many web conferences on every manner of marketing, sales and public relations. This free education has been quite eye opening and has led me to hours more of independent study. Since I have had no intention of going into marketing, my interest is that of a consumer seeking to understand how I am being targeted and moulded. Admittedly, the former Consumer Advocate in me likely colours the way I absorb this material I am learning.

One big buzz word in marketing, for over a year, has been “branding.” The concept has been around for much longer but the drive to make companies, large and small, understand they need to brand themselves carefully and correctly (and therefore hire someone to do it) has recently been hyped relentlessly. Hundreds of thousands of gurus on the web can show you precisely how to do so, for a fee. Some of these gurus have advanced education, some have “certification” from a conference and some gurus have nothing more than a series of affiliate links and some snake oil. I pity the small to mid sized business owner who does not know enough to tell the difference between them.

Branding IS important but much is changing quickly.  The addition of real time communication via the internet raises exposure and concerns that have never existed before. Consumers love real time, open communication because it gets results from businesses. Businesses should like it because, if they have a good product or service, they get free buzz from happy customers. A good company that learns to stay on top of real time consumer feedback almost doesn’t need help with marketing, does it?  That is not to say they may not need training in how to best handle real time consumer feedback without getting burned but traditional marketing?

Who is driving the demand for branding campaigns? Most customers could not give a hoot if someone changes their image as long as they can still find the product, the product is still worthy of buying and they don’t look stupid using it. One company recently tried to rebrand itself and quickly reverted back to their old image because of hoopla on the internet. The consumers I know were unaware or saw it and did not care. The hoopla I saw was from marketers. They tweeted and blogged for two weeks about this incredible affront to an icon. Silly.

On Twitter I recently asked,

“Is it really "the customer" influencing brand (i.e. XXX) when the uproar comes from a bunch of marketers on Twitter & blogs?”

I follow many top marketers but received no response. I really wanted to know. Since I received no answer I started wondering why marketers would attempt to influence a brand if it weren’t their brand and that, of course, led me to the playground because the human race has never left there. And then I felt very naïve. Of course! It was not those other marketers’ toy so they hated it. I certainly don’t envy that advertising firm for having that lesson play out.

So where does it go from here? It is a much larger playground now with real time feedback. I wonder who the brands will listen to. Their customers, who are the life blood of their business? Or the marketers who know better than the petty customer what the customer really wants? And if the brand listens to the later, how much embarrassment can they take for not choosing the Mercedes of advertising? If they can’t afford to pay for someone who is unassailable, will they perish or just give up with traditional marketing all together?

(The author did not study marketing in college. She has never pretended to be a marketer.  She still doesn't.)

Photograph used under creative commons license from Chuck “The Caveman” Coker of Flickr

The Other Side Of Foursquare

Lately there has been a lot of buzz about Foursquare within my circle. First there was an article in the Boston Globe on October 21st entitled “Virtual tracking fosters real-life connections.” Then Ari Herzog wrote a blog post detailing why he deleted his Foursquare account. Finally, a friend of mine sent me a series of messages about a scary Foursquare experience she had recently.  I have no desire to beat a dead horse but there was a common denominator in all three instances which deserves a little more mulling over and discussion.

In the “about” section of the Foursquare website they describe the application as a “friend finder, a social city guide….Foursquare lets users ‘check in’ to a place when they’re there, tell friends where they are and track the history of where they’ve been and who they have been there with.” That is a lot of information to be sending out over the World Wide Web, especially in real time. So why are people so surprised when they are approached by a similarly connected stranger? Scary? Yes. Unexpected? Shouldn’t be.

One function of Foursquare is to allow people to track where other people are in real time. It is great for conferences where it is hard to find one’s friends within a field of hundreds. It is great for businesses to track those who frequent their establishments and what those people are saying about their business. Like anything else on the web, it can be abused. People are people. That is my shorthand for saying, not everyone has your best interest at heart.

When I check into Foursquare I am aware I have broadcast my location over the internet. Even if I have checked off the necessary boxes to not display my information to Twitter or my friends, it is the internet and things can go wrong. This is the scary new world we live in.

Stay safe, friends. You can increase your network and therefore your exponential reach to others but never give into the temptation to be lazy with the tools of the internet. You may not be a carpenter and a mobile application may not be a saw but that does not mean it can not cause you to lose more than a limb. 

Neither Owner Nor Parent

I know this post is going to make me sound like some sort of bare feet having, peasant dress wearing, granola eating, incense burning hippie. I am writing it anyway.

I love animals. I have several I cohabitate with voluntarily. They live in comfortable accommodations with plenty of food and water. Most people would call those accommodations cages but I leave the doors open so they can come and go as they please.  Usually no one but the parakeet pleases and he doesn’t so much. They are my friends. I hope I rescued them from worse lives they may have had but I am not a fortune teller.

They are not my children. I am not their mother. They may rely on me for comfortable dwellings and sustenance but they did not choose to be domesticated.  I give them what I can because I love them. In return, they love me. They trust me. They know I am the least likely person to hurt them. Isn’t that who most of us try to end up with? Those we think are least likely to hurt us?

I don’t own them. They are living beings, with hopes and desires like any other. They have a life they wish to live. Who can own that? Sure, sometimes I need to be the alpha and show them the way in life but that does not grant me ownership. I don’t refer to them as “pets” because I believe that sounds pejorative.  I am their guardian and nothing more. We trade companionship. I think I have the best deal.

I get annoyed by people saying I am their “mom” or their “owner.” I love these beings. I would not insult them by pretending to be either. They are smart, entertaining and loveable in exchange for respect and a proper home.

I worry about people who say they are a pet mother, father or owner. Maybe they have issues with wanting to have children or feel a need to dominate. That is not their animal companion’s issue. Is it really fair for a person to place their issues on another being?  I don’t happen to believe because humans are the dominant race on this planet it gives us the right to subjugate all others. It is because we are the dominant race on this planet that we are better than that. 

Ripping Down The Columbus Myth

If there is a more superfluous or insensitive holiday than Columbus Day, I have not heard of it. As children, we were instructed Columbus Day celebrates Christopher Columbus’ discovery of America. In fact, in the Bahamas, where Christopher Columbus first landed, it is called Discovery Day. But here is the rub: the continent of America had already been discovered and populated by massive tribes of people who lived, for the most part, in harmony with nature and each other.

An argument could be made (though you won’t see it from me) indigenous population collapse was an unfortunate byproduct of European colonization of the American land Columbus happened upon while seeking a direct route to the Indies but Christopher Columbus didn’t stop there. Not the least bit phased by legions of Native Americans dying from exposure to smallpox, influenza, bubonic plague and other diseases against which they had no natural physical resistance, Columbus gathered the living and transported them back to Spain for use as servants. Observing the native population Columbus wrote,

“They do not bear arms, and do not know them, for I showed them a sword, they took it by the edge and cut themselves out of ignorance.... They would make fine servants.... With 50 men we could subjugate them all and make them do whatever we want."

During his second voyage in 1495 Columbus wrote of the Indigenous people,

"Let us in the name of the Holy Trinity go on sending all the slaves that can be sold"

and he did, with many of them dying before they reached Spain. While it is impossible to know for sure, due to incomplete and, at times, biased record keeping, some historians estimate colonization of the American continent resulted in up to an eighty percent decrease in the Indigenous population. This was a convenient boon to Europeans since the decrease in indigenous population made it all that much easier to take over and repurpose Native American land and other resources.

Roman Catholic Bishop Bartolome de las Casas, who emigrated to Hispaniola in 1502, left some of the most complete diaries of Spanish conquest of the Americas. After witnessing the unprovoked slaughter of thousands of Tiano men, women and children, de las Casas wrote,

“I saw here cruelty on a scale no living being has ever seen or expects to see."

As early as 1511 Dominican Father Antonio de Montesinos termed the wholesale butchery of Indigenous Americans as genocide and asked,

"Tell me by what right of justice do you hold these Indians in such a cruel and horrible servitude? On what authority have you waged such detestable wars against these people who dealt quietly and peacefully on their own lands? Wars in which you have destroyed such an infinite number of them by homicides and slaughters never heard of before. Why do you keep them so oppressed and exhausted, without giving them enough to eat or curing them of the sicknesses they incur from the excessive labor you give them, and they die, or rather you kill them, in order to extract and acquire gold every day."

In his biography of Adolph Hitler author and historian John Toland wrote,

“Hitler's concept of concentration camps as well as the practicality of genocide owed much, so he claimed, to his studies of English and United States history. He admired the camps for Boer prisoners in South Africa and for the Indians in the wild west; and often praised to his inner circle the efficiency of America's extermination - by starvation and uneven combat - of the red savages who could not be tamed by captivity."

UCLA Professor and Historian Geoffrey Symcox, general editor of a volume of Columbus era documents entitled, “Repertorium Columbian” said of Christopher Columbus’ legacy:

"Many of the unflattering documents have been known for the last century or more, but nobody paid much attention to them until recently. The fact that Columbus brought slavery, enormous exploitation or devastating diseases to the Americas used to be seen as a minor detail - if it was recognized at all - in light of his role as the great bringer of white man's civilization to the benighted idolatrous American continent. But to historians today this information is very important. It changes our whole view of the enterprise." 

So why, if clergy, dictators and historians have known for centuries the true nature of Christopher Columbus, do we still celebrate a day in his memory? Over the past several years, when this holiday has rolled around and I have pointed out the true nature of the individual to whom this holiday is dedicated many people have grown defensive and said, “You can’t take my three day weekend from me!” While it would be barbaric of me to try to pry away from United States citizens a federal Monday holiday dedicated to the attempted mass extermination of an entire race, this is not my intent at all. I propose we instead do what South Dakota already does and declare the second Monday in October National Indigenous People’s Day. I’m not pretending this is my idea. It has been celebrated in Berkeley, California and several other municipalities since 1992, the five hundredth anniversary of Columbus’ first voyage to America. After more than half a millennia of perpetuating a false myth of a very flawed man isn’t it time we became honest about American history and give the remaining Indigenous population their due?  

(Image courtesy of emersonkent.com) 

Erase The Taboo

I have experienced a great deal of death in my life from my favourite Aunt who committed suicide when I was ten because she was no longer physically able to care for my infirmed Uncle, through my parents who died when I was twelve and twenty-two, to two siblings in the past few years. Most of my experience with death has been with the drawn out process of terminal illness, with the exception of my Aunt and my boyfriend Don, who died of an accident when I was twenty. I’m not a medical doctor, a psychologist, a sociologist or a philosopher but believe I can speak with some authority on the subject of death from having stared into its eyes more times than many people my age.  I am not frightened of death, though I’m in no hurry to meet it. I am frightened by what it does to the living: the emotional pain, the senseless worry, the callous denial of its existence.

Medical breakthroughs have extended life far beyond what was possible in the past. Many people routinely survive horrific diagnoses and carry on to live long, rich, meaningful lives but we still haven’t reached immortality. We all know how our life will eventually end and that is with death. So why is it most people can not talk about death openly? Why is it still so uncomfortable, a taboo?  

For centuries people shunned the dying and mourners who came in contact with the dead for fear it was “catching.” Widows could only come out in the dead of night because it was said, anything living they touched would wither and die. Intellectually most people know this is nonsense but yet many still behave that way. I’ve lost friendships with people who have a loved one with a grave diagnosis. Logically, they know I don’t carry death to all I meet simply because of my experience with it but why take chances, eh? I can cope with this but at times I feel this is a sickness greater than a life threatening terminal illness.

Our cultural fear of speaking of death and dying ill prepares us for our own demise and makes it all the more difficult for our loved ones to enjoy any quality of life they may have remaining when a doctor pronounces there is nothing further they can do, treatment-wise, for a terminally ill patient. I am disgusted by it. There is no sense to it. It makes me inordinately sad.

The saddest part of all is the effect it has on the living. Those who have suffered loss know what it is to not be able to discuss it in polite company, to bury their mourning. “Are they over their loss?” people will ask. The simple answer is, no. One never recovers from the loss of a loved one but they survive and sometimes they become better people. That simple revelation may make some, who have never lost a loved one, squeamish. It shouldn’t. The experience of mourning is inevitable (with the exception of children, who seem much more honest & adept at handling death). The one gift a person can accept from someone going through the mourning process is to listen and absorb their grace.

I have read it and seen it, time and again; when people are about to die, they have a “crisis of meaning.” What has my life meant? Even with death by accident, this is the “life flashing before your eyes.” Death happens and my inordinate sadness evolves from people unable or unwilling to accept that fact in their own life. The crisis of meaning is going to be all that much more difficult for them and for their loved ones when the day comes for them to say goodbye.

Palliative care has grown by leaps and bounds in the past fifty years. This means that someone who is dying can live largely without the pain, anxiety, loss of sleep, shortness of breath, nausea, diarrhea, and vomiting until their very final days. That innate fear we all have of going through that process is all but gone with modern medicine. I can promise you, as a witness, terminal illness shuts down the body, one organ at a time, in tidy order. The human machine is efficient and with modern care, death is often quite peaceful.

The primary cause of suffering among the dying is psychological distress (caused by loved ones who fear letting go) which undermines the capacity for pleasure and amplifies pain and other symptoms. It also impairs their ability to say “goodbye” on their own terms.  Is that what you want for your loved one? Is that what you want for yourself?

I hope I won’t have a crisis of meaning. When people want to discuss their loss, I’m there because through them, I meet another person to love. That is another person who has touched my soul even though they may not be on this terrestrial plane to do it in person. That is their meaning.

Morrie Schwartz, who eventually died of the effects of Lou Gehrig’s disease, said it most succinctly, “Death ends a life. Not a relationship.” I wish more people understood and embraced that. Everyone from the tiny infant too young to overcome weakness to the century old grandmother is remembered and loved by someone. Don’t let old taboos interfere with celebrating that life or helping others mourn and thereby grow to celebrate it or you’ll learn to regret it when you reach your own crisis of meaning.

(Image from Mark Voorendt under creative commons license, Mourning Angel at the churchyard of  San Miniato al Monte in Firenze, Italy)

On Bullies

For months I have been haunted by Phoebe Prince, the 15 year old South Hadley (Massachusetts) High School student who took her life after being bullied incessantly by classmates. I've read articles and the comments under those articles. Her classmates may have taunted Phoebe after her death but most of what I have seen has been outrage that the bullies were not stopped before the situation resulted in suicide.

Another theme I have seen running through the comments is people recognizing bullying has always existed. Why, in this instance, did this student succumb to it and decide to end her life? Was it because it was relentless and followed her home via Facebook, Twitter, Craigslist and Formspring? Couldn't she just shut these off? Or was it something unique to her situation?

From radio reports I have heard Phoebe Prince was a model student. None of her teachers in Ireland would have imagined her classmates treating her the way they did. She was neat in appearance, well behaved and earned good grades. She was loved by family and friends. She must have been excited to come to the United States, imagining all the people she would meet and opportunities awaiting her. Nothing could possibly have prepared her for what she received when she arrived here.

As I have mulled this over in my brain I had an epiphany the other night. Being loved has an unexpected dark side; you don't know how to behave or react when you are not loved. Everyone has to learn this eventually but how much can a fifteen year old have learned about hate without the exposure?

That isn't really how my epiphany started. It started when I realized I can't remember when I was NOT bullied. I wasn't “supposed to be born.” I “ruined all our lives by being born.” If I wasn't born “everything would have been better.” I could go on with the phases etched in my brain by my older siblings but I don't think that is necessary.

Our mother was my saving grace but there wasn't much she could do once I was in school. Back then you did not question educators for fear they would kick your child out of school. They put me in the “stupid class” because “you Devlins are stupid and never amount to anything.” There I was treated like “white trash” even though my mother paid the deepest attention to make sure I was clothed well, had manners and good grooming.

In high school I was informed they were “expecting me.” They knew I'd “be trouble” because there had been a line of Devlins before me who proved “you are no good.” I don't think anyone likes to be type cast, especially when you are not the one casted but people before you. But I was used to it by now and knew there was little I could do. I was a freak my freshman year when my father, brother in law and grandfather all died within six months of each other. I never missed an hour of school. (There as a scholarship for perfect attendance.) Kids aren't used to death but adults are and children follow the lead of adults.

I discovered power my sophomore year of high school. I was not a suicide risk but I did not really care if I died. I saw a known bully unmercifully picking on a freshman and I stepped in. I said something like,
“You want to pick on someone, pick on me. You do it anyhow. She's fat and defenseless. An easy target. Go ahead, beat my face in.”

And it didn't happen. Neither to me nor the originally intended victim. (We became friends). I learned then it's no fun when your target is unafraid of what you may do to them. I wasn't unafraid. I did not care. Subtleties in those definitions are rarely picked up by bullies.

After that I was bullied by the school administration. They tried to keep me out of the honor society. In my school you had to not only academically excel but also excel in the community. I was a First Class Girl Scout (equivalent of Eagle Scout in Boy Scouts) and was Head Acolyte in my church as well as being in the choir. My art teacher spoke up for me: Ryder Martin, and his wife, my home room teacher, Mrs. Margaret Martin. I'll never forget that. Some people are just golden.

Senior year, our class project was to clean and make beautiful the quadrangle of our high school. I helped. While I was out there the Spanish Teacher, Ms. Hartung, interrupted her class to yell out the window, “Isn't that appropriate? Trash cleaning up trash.” I kept doing what I was doing. Funny to think of that now. Teachers could get away with more back then without repercussion. Behavior like that is not right but we were tougher back then. When there is little recourse, you have to be.

In college, freshman year, I was raped. I reported it to the Assistant Dean of Students and was informed, “That doesn't happen at our school. If you want to remain a student here, you would do well to remember that.”

When I was twenty two, Mum died. After being her primary care giver for months, I rushed back to work and my siblings divided my belongings, as well as hers, when settling the estate. They neglected the portion of her will that singled me out to divide everything she had not specifically willed to others.

It goes on and on to this day. I am adult now; old enough to have my own children, had not decided early on I would never subject a child to the possibility of the life I have had. Since I can not guarantee my child would never say, “I wish I were never born,” I can not in good conscious have a child.

When my oldest sister calls, she can still make me mental. For days. Mind you, she does not call often. She only calls when someone is dead or dying. She left me alone for a while, lulling me into a false sense of serenity. I raised her ire when she found out I had been communicating with our ill sister in law before she had the opportunity to tell me she was dead. She did not plan to tell me until after her funeral and there I was, AT her funeral. Her joy is telling me enough to upset me but not enough to have closure with anyone in our family. Heck, she made up a drug dependency with our mother's half of family. She told them I was hopelessly addicted to something requiring rehabilitation. Me, who just went through wisdom tooth removal without filling my prescription for narcotics. You can't combat that kind of rumour because then you just look like you are in denial. So I had to kiss half my family goodbye. When you are bullied you learn to be a realist. Even if doing so is painful.

Our oldest brother leaves me alone, for the most past. As a little girl I worshiped him. When he flung me face first on concrete that was a little passive aggressive wake up call. When he embezzled funds from our mother's estate, I uncovered it and held him accountable. That was our playground moment. “Go ahead, beat my face in.” I know even more he has done and I think he is aware of that so he leaves me alone. Best not to wake a sleeping tiger.

Even through social media I have met people who bully. Someone gains fame through something remarkable and lets that define them. Suddenly none of their other actions matter. They feel they are bigger than you or anything you contribute to them. You are an ass to think otherwise. Unless you have spent a lifetime being bullied and manipulated. Then you can walk away from that behavior even if it makes you a pariah. You still have your soul.

I now have no wonder Phoebe Prince took her own life but it does not make me less sad. She likely saw her future life being full of manipulation and bullying. She did not want to live in that world. I don't want to either. But there is light in that world. When one has moments of triumph despite the deck being stacked against them, the triumph is sweeter. I wasn't “supposed to be born” and was a “mistake.” I am “stupid” and will “never amount to anything” but I am still here. And I speak for the stupid, worthless detritus, like me, who sprinkle mankind. We survive. We even accomplish great things when we are allowed to. Look at the civil rights movement.

Phoebe, I will never forget your trial. One reason for your fifteen years on earth was for the eventual wake up call to everyone else. We could use more people like you. What saddens me most is, this was not your battle to fight. You were and still are loved. It should have been me. I was born and raised for this battle.

Go ahead, beat my face in.

(Image courtesy of: http://www.themedguru.com )

You Said What?

I was thinking of this anecdote today and decided to share it. I am often torn between speaking my mind or playing it safe. Anyone who knows me knows the former usually overpowers the later. I believe most people think this is to my detriment. I am very good at controlling my impulses when acting on behalf of another but when I am being me, I tell people what I think. I am poor at playing politics. I know fully what is most popular to do and say but it is not always what is honest or real. I hope this means people know where they stand with me. I have the same tools to bullshit as others do but primarily choose not to use them.

I took a temporary position with a much maligned company within my industry. It turned out, they were great. They treated me with courtesy and respect plus they were really good at what they did so it was a joy to go there. What was supposed to be a short term position lasted months because they liked the work I did. There are certain freedoms about working as a temporary employee for a company - you are expendable. You can be replaced. Some might have fear from this but I find it freeing because my expectations are so low. Now onto the story...

I went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee and two executive looking types where bitching about the quality of the coffee. The building we were in had a cafe so they had another choice if they were compelled. As I waited for them, I could not help but hear them malign what the company had to offer. When they finally got out of my way but did not leave the kitchen I said they should be thankful the company provided anything at all. Not all companies offer a full kitchen and free coffee. The company was under no obligation to provide them coffee. I pointed out they didn't know how good they had it and had no right to complain about a service that was free. They acted ashamed and both agreed they were out of line to be complaining about something minor, they were not entitled to.

A few weeks later I was invited to a company party. I did not officially work there, so it felt slightly awkward but my manager & coworkers seemed to really want me to attend. There I learned the two executive looking types were the President and Vice President of the company. They remembered me and laughed at my discomfort at realising who they were. Both said they wished more of their "real" employees were as grateful as I am. I was soon after hired as a direct, full time employee at a salary exceeding that of most employees in my position.

Image courtesy: http://thetweetermama-becausemamasaidso.blogspot.com/