Wednesday, July 05, 2006
#47 - A Blasdell Girl at Canyon Ranch
The universe was having a benevolent moment towards this Blasdell gal several weeks ago.
Out of the blue, I received an invitation for a free stay at the Canyon Ranch Health Spa.
Well… not totally out of the blue.
A very influential someone caught wind of my bizarre online humor and heard one of my WBFO listener commentaries.
She thought I was worth the bother.
Well…
I wasn’t about to disagree with her…
But I will tell you something…
This Blasdell Gal went into a dead on panic upon receiving the invitation and verifying that this was the real thing.
Canyon Ranch is rated as the American version of Club Med.
You have to be in possession of mucho deniers in order to afford even stepping on the sumptuous gated grounds and complex.
I thought to myself, “How am I going to fit in to this place with my Wal-Mart special sneakers and Goodwill seconds?”
Growing up in Blasdell, the highlight of fancy was a spaghetti dinner at Ilio DiPaolo’s.
Still is as a matter of fact.
Every self-conscious neurotic thought came into play as I prepared for this trip.
I am going to be “found out” as soon as they get one look at me.
Money knows money… and I will look like a platypus in my Kaufman’s deeply discounted last season Donna Karan’s that was hastily bought a few days before our visit.
I thought of that as my camouflage… for going undercover and seeing how the other half lives… the privileged folks.
I doubt that the designer label worked.
The thing is…
when you really do have money, you don’t wear things with labels on them that shout out…
“ Look at me! See how MUCH I spent on these clothes?!”
Nope.
That is decidedly the realm of those of us who are firmly planted in the middle and lower classes.
That is the realm of the blue collar community that has populated this part of New York State for generations.
I am a Blasdell gal…
And darn tootin’ proud of that.
Most of us Blasdell gals look tough on the outside and are emotional marshmallows on the inside.
Our lives are rarely easy, but vastly complicated with the stress of reaching out to those less fortunate than us, scrabbling to keep our families afloat, and being the backbone that society needs so that the giants of society can crawl up on our shoulders to see the view of a world that probably never will be in our reach.
Blasdell gals are in the hospitals nursing the ill, working the factory line, clerking at the stores, teaching in our schools, being mother to their own… and more often than not mothering loads of other folks too.
We will cuss and have a beer with the guys,
And tenderly stroke the faces of our sweet children at day’s end.
We are prone to picking a fight with anyone who messes with said kids.
We will get up at sunrise, work hard, come home, and complain. After dinner and getting the kids to bed we watch celebrities make fools of themselves on the television, and then, gratefully, say a prayer or lay our heads down on our pillows at night and count our blessings.
Some of us Blasdell gals just lay down our heads and cry when no one is looking.
We are the daughters of immigrants.
We learned that you work hard and always be grateful for what you already have… because it could be worse.
And so there I was…
a Blasdell gal…
feeling insecure by stepping foot into a world that I have had glimpses of on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.
The veneer I tried on for this vacation lasted less than a few hours.
I was shocked to see that the most of the rich folk look like…
Well…
Blasdell gals.
Worry furrowed their brows.
The gals who were there to lose weight would shyly whisper a “Hello” to me and give a nervous smile.
Holy toot!
They were as uncomfortable as me.
Feeling insecure too.
Encased in Blasdell gal bodies.
Thick hipped, well endowed chests…
Thick legs…
Well made for working hard and tending to the kids.
Guess there isn’t room for that Botticelli figure in the world of the wealthy thin folks.
I relaxed.
I smiled.
I put my baggy secondhand clothes back on, figuring I would look eccentric instead of low class.
I held my fork as a Blasdell gal, and my elbows landed plunk on the linen covered tablecloth just as proudly as any Blasdell gal hanging out at DiPaolo’s.
Don’t really care if that was how I was perceived.
I started thinking, “Why do I need to be ashamed of my roots?”
Because many of the women at Canyon Ranch looked like me and the other Blasdell gals I grew up with…
Just in a nicer brand of clothing.
They must have their long days of hard work, dreadful boredom from routines and ruts that we all get stuck into, children to give them those extra gray hairs, and bodies that refuse to conform to impossible shapes that only grace a few celebrities here and there.
The Canyon Ranch ladies obviously crave cookies, lack the time and energy for exercise, and probably feel out of place many times too.
I went in to this health spa trip thinking that I am an outsider in the world of the privileged.
I was so very wrong.
We become outsiders by our desire to be other than what we are.
I am a Blasdell gal, not an outsider.
Why?
Because I happen to LIKE being a Blasdell gal.
I like it that we didn’t have much growing up.
I like it that my friends and family work hard at jobs that may pay the rent, but not finance an extravagance.
I LOVE my immigrant roots.
And I love it when someone who is definitely un-Blasdell gives me the funny look like, “Who does she think she is?”
Canyon Ranch taught me something completely unexpected.
I am not rich.
I probably never will be rich.
I don’t care if I’m not rich.
I don’t care if I look like an oddball in the country club scene, and I don’t care that I don’t have a cell phone or a palm pilot or fancy clothes or any of the trappings of wealth.
Because that is what those things become.
Trappings.
Trapped.
I think a lot of folks who go to Canyon Ranch are feeling trapped.
Trapped by the extreme pressure required to obtain and hold onto such wealth.
Trapped by social standards that appear to more exacting, more demanding than the Saturday night beer and bowling crowd.
Trapped by stifling routines.
Trapped by uncooperative bodies that will not conform to the way one is “supposed” to look.
Canyon Ranch was fancy.
VERY…
But, it was not the wealth that made the vacation splendid.
The quiet was healing.
The opportunities to relax and renew oneself through meditation, mindfulness, getting some solitude were plentiful.
Those are things you can get for free if you know how.
The best moments of this trip were spent in the woods, looking at a brook, the leaves of the trees dancing against the speckled sunlight, the birdsong, the whishy-wishy sound of the hammock under the huge trees.
Canyon Ranch taught this Blasdell gal to Re-create instead of Wreck-create.
And maybe that is what Blasdell gals… oh heck… ALL of us need.
Skip the amusement park whistle and stop tours of noise and confusion.
Skip the noise of crowded places where all the tourists go.
Skip the loud parties and brews for a few nights.
Get real quiet.
Sit under a tree, or hole up on the beaches of Lake Erie far away from everyone.
And Breathe.
This Blasdell gal did that at Canyon Ranch.
Before the trip my sister said “There will be no living with you when you get back from a place like that.”
She meant that I would be spoiled for the high life.
But, that is not what happened.
I found gratitude.
Gratitude for the small car, and the tiny Cozy Cottage that we call home.
Gratitude for countless things I had previously ignored.
And at Canyon Ranch I found something long missing from my life.
Gratitude for being a Blasdell Gal…
And darn tootin’ proud of that fact.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Friday, May 26, 2006
#45 - Thoughts of Pacifism on Memorial Day
BBC NEWS World Middle East Iraqis shot 'for wearing shorts'
Three athletes were shot dead dead today in Iraq for wearing shorts.
They were tennis players, one fellow was the coach the other two team mates.
Flyers had been distributed earlier in Baghdad warning people to not wear shorts.
These guys had just dropped off some laundry.
This is the type of craziness that puts pacifism to the test.
What do you do with evil like this?
Yes, evil ... not the act of a righteously religious zealots.
The shooter dragged the coach's body out of his car, piled him on top of the two other fallen players and stole the car.
Children of God,
Children of the Divine...
no matter which sect they identify themselves with...
they just do not do such things.
Mahatma Ghandi had discovered on his journey to peacemaker that all of the major religions hold a kernel of wisdom that we share.
LOVE.
Love is Divine.
Not the Hollywood romantic nonsense.
Unconditional love.
Love that will never end.
Love that gives and grows each time it is given.
How do you love in the face of craziness that deems to murder over athletic wear?
If someone wanted your car, a true follower of Jesus would GIVE the car away. A gift. Not an object to be stolen.
If you can not let go of your material object, that object owns you...
you do not own the object.
Jesus told us to lay our lives down.
I do not think this meant to be a doormat, or coward.
Jesus was a renegade of His time.
During Jesus' lifetime, Roman soldiers could nab you and press you into service.
Jesus' response?
If you are told to walk a mile... walk two.
If someone asks you for a garment, give him more than he asked for... give him two items.
Why?
This response to what may appear to be an injustice is actually extremely powerful.
The power of the gentle.
If you walk two miles, you are no longer a servant to a Roman soldier... you volunteered... you took the power away from the soldier.
If you give more than you were asked to, you volunteered. You did not follow a command... you CHOSE to do more.
Take this way of living to the ultimate abuse of power... someone demanding your life.
GIVE your life, and you take the power away.
Jesus did that.
And look what happened from that deed.
His life did not belong to the Roman empire.
They could not take that away from Him.
And in the bravery of Jesus' deed, He taught His followers to not fear.
God's power, the power of the Divine courses through each of us and will be there for us if we pay attention and keep ourselves on the proper path.
Jesus did not kill other people to get them to walk His path.
Truth.
What would happen if a sea of humanity stood up and said to the killers, here take my life, and mine, and mine?
and so forth...
Would such an act satisfy the bloodlust?
Could you continue to murder and murder and murder a mass of people who refuse to kill you back?
Would you run out of ammunition?
Would you finally faint from the exhaustion of trying to slay people until your need for earthly justice is abated?
Would you become horrified?
Our soldiers represent all of us Americans to Iraq.
This is not good enough and this is not a solution.
I am sure the majority of our military do not want to be there in the face of the bloodlust that has spiralled out of control.
Actually the bloodlust in the former Garden of Eden (Iraq) has always been out of control. Just ask any Iraqi who has lived under Saddam's regime.
Like all oppressed people, sometimes no one cares about who is in charge, just as long that whoever is in charge will help families to be safe and prosper.
As a nation we have to ask ourselves, exactly who are we to demand anything from another nation?
Do we work together to help the people within our borders be safe and prosper?
Some folks say yes, but if you spend enough time with the working poor, and the people living in war zones throughout our nation... they would give you a definitive NO.
A fence spanning a manmade border does not equate safety.
Actually, that is pretty silly.
We could expend man power on so many other important tasks.
We invaded Iraq as if our intentions are pure.
As if our history past and present is not waist deep in the blood of innocent victims.
Who are we to be policing the world?
Who indeed?
We have our own factions of American citizens who believe in bloodlust to promote their causes. Some of the blood hungry ones even claim to belong to religious organizations. They create acts of violence regularly right here in the U.S.
Sometimes you may even hear about one or two of them on the news.
How would we feel if another nation invaded our borders to take control of all that... thinking that they could do a better job of it than we could?
Sounds pretty ridiculous, doesn't it?
But, isn't that we, the United States of America have taken upon ourselves?
I do not have answers.
I have loads of questions.
Questions, though, that need to be asked.
Questions that demand a response before people in governmental power lay the lives of our sons and daughters out to be sacrificed in foreign lands.
Even after reading today's act of violence in Baghdad... I am still a pacifist.
No, I do not have any answers right now...
But, I will tell you one thing...
War does not work.
No... it certainly does not work.
Three athletes were shot dead dead today in Iraq for wearing shorts.
They were tennis players, one fellow was the coach the other two team mates.
Flyers had been distributed earlier in Baghdad warning people to not wear shorts.
These guys had just dropped off some laundry.
And then their lives were ended.
This is insanity.This is the type of craziness that puts pacifism to the test.
What do you do with evil like this?
Yes, evil ... not the act of a righteously religious zealots.
The shooter dragged the coach's body out of his car, piled him on top of the two other fallen players and stole the car.
Children of God,
Children of the Divine...
no matter which sect they identify themselves with...
they just do not do such things.
Mahatma Ghandi had discovered on his journey to peacemaker that all of the major religions hold a kernel of wisdom that we share.
LOVE.
Love is Divine.
Not the Hollywood romantic nonsense.
Unconditional love.
Love that will never end.
Love that gives and grows each time it is given.
How do you love in the face of craziness that deems to murder over athletic wear?
If someone wanted your car, a true follower of Jesus would GIVE the car away. A gift. Not an object to be stolen.
If you can not let go of your material object, that object owns you...
you do not own the object.
Jesus told us to lay our lives down.
I do not think this meant to be a doormat, or coward.
Jesus was a renegade of His time.
During Jesus' lifetime, Roman soldiers could nab you and press you into service.
Jesus' response?
If you are told to walk a mile... walk two.
If someone asks you for a garment, give him more than he asked for... give him two items.
Why?
This response to what may appear to be an injustice is actually extremely powerful.
The power of the gentle.
If you walk two miles, you are no longer a servant to a Roman soldier... you volunteered... you took the power away from the soldier.
If you give more than you were asked to, you volunteered. You did not follow a command... you CHOSE to do more.
Take this way of living to the ultimate abuse of power... someone demanding your life.
GIVE your life, and you take the power away.
Jesus did that.
And look what happened from that deed.
His life did not belong to the Roman empire.
They could not take that away from Him.
And in the bravery of Jesus' deed, He taught His followers to not fear.
God's power, the power of the Divine courses through each of us and will be there for us if we pay attention and keep ourselves on the proper path.
Jesus did not kill other people to get them to walk His path.
Truth.
What would happen if a sea of humanity stood up and said to the killers, here take my life, and mine, and mine?
and so forth...
Would such an act satisfy the bloodlust?
Could you continue to murder and murder and murder a mass of people who refuse to kill you back?
Would you run out of ammunition?
Would you finally faint from the exhaustion of trying to slay people until your need for earthly justice is abated?
Would you become horrified?
Our soldiers represent all of us Americans to Iraq.
This is not good enough and this is not a solution.
I am sure the majority of our military do not want to be there in the face of the bloodlust that has spiralled out of control.
Actually the bloodlust in the former Garden of Eden (Iraq) has always been out of control. Just ask any Iraqi who has lived under Saddam's regime.
Like all oppressed people, sometimes no one cares about who is in charge, just as long that whoever is in charge will help families to be safe and prosper.
As a nation we have to ask ourselves, exactly who are we to demand anything from another nation?
Do we work together to help the people within our borders be safe and prosper?
Some folks say yes, but if you spend enough time with the working poor, and the people living in war zones throughout our nation... they would give you a definitive NO.
A fence spanning a manmade border does not equate safety.
Actually, that is pretty silly.
We could expend man power on so many other important tasks.
We invaded Iraq as if our intentions are pure.
As if our history past and present is not waist deep in the blood of innocent victims.
Who are we to be policing the world?
Who indeed?
We have our own factions of American citizens who believe in bloodlust to promote their causes. Some of the blood hungry ones even claim to belong to religious organizations. They create acts of violence regularly right here in the U.S.
Sometimes you may even hear about one or two of them on the news.
How would we feel if another nation invaded our borders to take control of all that... thinking that they could do a better job of it than we could?
Sounds pretty ridiculous, doesn't it?
But, isn't that we, the United States of America have taken upon ourselves?
I do not have answers.
I have loads of questions.
Questions, though, that need to be asked.
Questions that demand a response before people in governmental power lay the lives of our sons and daughters out to be sacrificed in foreign lands.
Even after reading today's act of violence in Baghdad... I am still a pacifist.
No, I do not have any answers right now...
But, I will tell you one thing...
War does not work.
No... it certainly does not work.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
#44 - The Confederate Flag and Mother's Day
I just sat down at this computer about 30 minutes ago.
While opening a ton of fun e-mail with loads of warm fuzzy Mother's Day messages, I noticed strong deisel fumes rolling in through the open windows.
Our next door neighbor is having MAJOR construction work done on their home. And we have been vert supportive about that. Actually, because of the location of the work needing to be done... we have let the construction crew park and work in our driveway. Our homes are very close together, and it was easier for the crew to get their work done via access from our property.
I don't mind. Actually, I have enjoyed chatting from time to time with the main construction worker.
Yesterday he told me they are doing the finishing work which means the jack hammers, construction trucks and equipment.
"No problem," I told him.
And, thus, the diesel fumes wafting through the Cozy Cottage today.
So I go to shut the windows and as I look out to our driveway there is a pick up truck there.
A pickup truck with a CONFEDERATE FLAG prominently on display on the bumper.
Why do people do that?
Especially here... in New York State.
Whatever meaning that holds for those who feel the urge to display that flag... here's what it means to me... the mother of a biracial family.
RACISM.
Pure and simple.
That's the message that flag conveys, whether or not that was the intention.
The confederate flag is a symbol to many Americans of slavery. The confederate flag was used by the Ku Klux Klan. The confederate flag is embraced by the Aryan nation, Skinheads, and the American Nazi party.
I mean... need I say more?
I was upset when I saw that bumper sticker sitting in my driveway, so I went out there to find out what's up with that.
Unfortunately, the owner of the bumper sticker had quickly pulled out of my driveway . I asked the workers about that bumper sticker.
I don't do small talk.
I cut to the chase.
"The fella who owns that pick-up truck has a confederate flag sticker on his bumper. Is he a racist?"
The guys looked surprised.
They had not noticed the sticker. I guess you don't notice those things unless you have a good reason too. But, they were surprised. I hadn't expected that.
"No... he's no racist. He has a biracial son. Half Black... heh,heh,heh."
Of course, one of the guys had to put up the front... "and the South shall rise again."
I ignored that comment. I mean what are you supposed to say to something like that?
But, I was surprised too.
Why would you go about displaying the confederate flag when you love and cherish someone who is not 100% Caucasian?
Why indeed?
Symbols are incredibly powerful.
Symbols hold cultural information that often can not be expressed simply with words.
Think on these symbols:
Cross
Swastika
We know what these forms mean instinctively, even before our mind forms words.
But, the symbols hold different meaning depending on the beholder.
The cross can mean the symbol of Christ, or the ancient symbol of the tree of life, or something altogether different for people who feel persecuted by Christians.
The swastika makes many of us cringe, but that symbol is a bastardization of an ancient symbol used by Buddhism and the indigenous people of America.
So what to do?
Stop displaying a cross in order to not cause offense to those who have been harmed by those claiming to follow Jesus?
Wipe away the swastikas in Native American and Buddhist art the way the early Christians defaced the ancient sculptures of Rome?
Scrape that darn Confederate flag off of your bumper?
Here's a thought... CONTEXT.
A confederate flag flapping on the flagpole of a small community in upstate New York is really not appropriate. (Yes, we have a neighbor down the street who has that flag on his flagpole.)
We have a huge problem right now with an Aryan group trying to hone in on our nearby communities.
Seriously, they have been leaving flyers in shopping parking lots. They developed a compound on the Pennsylvania border not too far from where we live.
They like the confederate flag.
That flag in that neighbor's front yard just feels like an open invitation saying "Aryan guys are welcome here."
I can not describe how I am feeling this morning about the pick-up truck bumper sticker, but I do know that my thoughts of Mother's Day evaporated with the site of that vehicle.
My strong mother inner self jumped right into gear and I walked out and confronted that symbol of racism that had entered onto my property.
My message?
That symbol is not welcome here.
No.
So thoughts of Mother's Day drifted away as I acted like a protective Mom.
I am shaken.
I am sad.
Not angry, just confused by what the workers shared with me.
Were they serious or were they quick with a joke?
I just don't know.
I just don't know.
Read more about the confederate flag and racism here:
Community Action Against Racism - Confederate Flag is a Racist Symbol
While opening a ton of fun e-mail with loads of warm fuzzy Mother's Day messages, I noticed strong deisel fumes rolling in through the open windows.
Our next door neighbor is having MAJOR construction work done on their home. And we have been vert supportive about that. Actually, because of the location of the work needing to be done... we have let the construction crew park and work in our driveway. Our homes are very close together, and it was easier for the crew to get their work done via access from our property.
I don't mind. Actually, I have enjoyed chatting from time to time with the main construction worker.
Yesterday he told me they are doing the finishing work which means the jack hammers, construction trucks and equipment.
"No problem," I told him.
And, thus, the diesel fumes wafting through the Cozy Cottage today.
So I go to shut the windows and as I look out to our driveway there is a pick up truck there.
A pickup truck with a CONFEDERATE FLAG prominently on display on the bumper.
Why do people do that?
Especially here... in New York State.
Whatever meaning that holds for those who feel the urge to display that flag... here's what it means to me... the mother of a biracial family.
RACISM.
Pure and simple.
That's the message that flag conveys, whether or not that was the intention.
The confederate flag is a symbol to many Americans of slavery. The confederate flag was used by the Ku Klux Klan. The confederate flag is embraced by the Aryan nation, Skinheads, and the American Nazi party.
I mean... need I say more?
I was upset when I saw that bumper sticker sitting in my driveway, so I went out there to find out what's up with that.
Unfortunately, the owner of the bumper sticker had quickly pulled out of my driveway . I asked the workers about that bumper sticker.
I don't do small talk.
I cut to the chase.
"The fella who owns that pick-up truck has a confederate flag sticker on his bumper. Is he a racist?"
The guys looked surprised.
They had not noticed the sticker. I guess you don't notice those things unless you have a good reason too. But, they were surprised. I hadn't expected that.
"No... he's no racist. He has a biracial son. Half Black... heh,heh,heh."
Of course, one of the guys had to put up the front... "and the South shall rise again."
I ignored that comment. I mean what are you supposed to say to something like that?
But, I was surprised too.
Why would you go about displaying the confederate flag when you love and cherish someone who is not 100% Caucasian?
Why indeed?
Symbols are incredibly powerful.
Symbols hold cultural information that often can not be expressed simply with words.
Think on these symbols:
Cross
Swastika
We know what these forms mean instinctively, even before our mind forms words.
But, the symbols hold different meaning depending on the beholder.
The cross can mean the symbol of Christ, or the ancient symbol of the tree of life, or something altogether different for people who feel persecuted by Christians.
The swastika makes many of us cringe, but that symbol is a bastardization of an ancient symbol used by Buddhism and the indigenous people of America.
So what to do?
Stop displaying a cross in order to not cause offense to those who have been harmed by those claiming to follow Jesus?
Wipe away the swastikas in Native American and Buddhist art the way the early Christians defaced the ancient sculptures of Rome?
Scrape that darn Confederate flag off of your bumper?
Here's a thought... CONTEXT.
A confederate flag flapping on the flagpole of a small community in upstate New York is really not appropriate. (Yes, we have a neighbor down the street who has that flag on his flagpole.)
We have a huge problem right now with an Aryan group trying to hone in on our nearby communities.
Seriously, they have been leaving flyers in shopping parking lots. They developed a compound on the Pennsylvania border not too far from where we live.
They like the confederate flag.
That flag in that neighbor's front yard just feels like an open invitation saying "Aryan guys are welcome here."
I can not describe how I am feeling this morning about the pick-up truck bumper sticker, but I do know that my thoughts of Mother's Day evaporated with the site of that vehicle.
My strong mother inner self jumped right into gear and I walked out and confronted that symbol of racism that had entered onto my property.
My message?
That symbol is not welcome here.
No.
So thoughts of Mother's Day drifted away as I acted like a protective Mom.
I am shaken.
I am sad.
Not angry, just confused by what the workers shared with me.
Were they serious or were they quick with a joke?
I just don't know.
I just don't know.
Read more about the confederate flag and racism here:
Community Action Against Racism - Confederate Flag is a Racist Symbol
Thursday, May 04, 2006
#43 - Blogging Stephen Colbert
AOL reports that blogs are chattering about Stephen Colbert's address to the White House Correspondent's Annual black tie dinner.
TV News - Blogs Are Alive With Colbert Chatter - AOL News
Maybe bloggers are chattering away because traditional media news sources cowardly ignored the court appointed jester's ability to point out that our emporer is not wearing any clothes?
You can read more at Congressman, John Conyers, Jr.'s website:
John Conyers, Jr. -- ConyersBlog
Stephen Colbert is an intellectually gifted entertainer who has the ability to open people's eyes to the illusions created by the media in collusion with our government.
Humor is one of the best ways for us to receive the wake up call to what may be too painful to look upon in full.
Colbert's talent for providing revelations to the American public via his juxtaposition of the serious next to the ridiculous has been one of the healthiest doses of reality on television to date.
Learn more about Stephen Colbert's work here:
The Colbert Nation
TV News - Blogs Are Alive With Colbert Chatter - AOL News
Maybe bloggers are chattering away because traditional media news sources cowardly ignored the court appointed jester's ability to point out that our emporer is not wearing any clothes?
You can read more at Congressman, John Conyers, Jr.'s website:
John Conyers, Jr. -- ConyersBlog
Stephen Colbert is an intellectually gifted entertainer who has the ability to open people's eyes to the illusions created by the media in collusion with our government.
Humor is one of the best ways for us to receive the wake up call to what may be too painful to look upon in full.
Colbert's talent for providing revelations to the American public via his juxtaposition of the serious next to the ridiculous has been one of the healthiest doses of reality on television to date.
Learn more about Stephen Colbert's work here:
The Colbert Nation
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
#42 - Second Wave of 9/11 Victims
The towers came down and there was a huge blast of rubble and dust that engulfed the city.
Medical experts are now discovering a second wave of victims who are dying from the 2001 terrorist attacks:
Official worried about 2nd wave of 9/11 victims - More Health News - MSNBC.com
You can read more about the concerns of this second wave of victims here:
9/11 autopsy renews rescuers' health fears - More Health News - MSNBC.com
Medical experts are now discovering a second wave of victims who are dying from the 2001 terrorist attacks:
Official worried about 2nd wave of 9/11 victims - More Health News - MSNBC.com
You can read more about the concerns of this second wave of victims here:
9/11 autopsy renews rescuers' health fears - More Health News - MSNBC.com
Monday, May 01, 2006
#41 - A New May Day is Born
Immigrants take a day to remind the people of the United States of our roots and responsibilities to the people of the world who come to our borders and shores:
NPR : Protesters Hail 'Day Without Immigrants'
NPR : Protesters Hail 'Day Without Immigrants'
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
#40 - Post Traumatic Nation
She walked into my office sitting down in the tradtional "therapy" chair.
She took in the whole room instantaneously, measuring the quality of the prints, the luxury of the carpetting, and eyes darting to every corner to assess any potential threats to her safety.
She pushed the chair back against the wall and positioned herself half-turned so that she could see my office door at all times.
Trauma has a way of doing that to a person.
She was beautiful, tall, powerful, outspoken, engaging, distrustful, wealthy, exhausted, distracted, anxious...
everything I had expected based on her clinical history.
"I'm famous you know."
I paused a moment to reply... careful not to trigger her into the spontaneous rages that had been causing the storms in her life over the past few years...
"Yes, you are famous, but not in here. "
"I am in the news all the time. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week!"
"Yes. I have seen you on the news, but I want to hear your story... not from others... from you. What you have to say is important."
She slumped in the chair, angry tears silently streaming down her face.
With gritted teeth she reminded me that she did not ask to be here today.
She has neglected her children. Some of her children died last autumn because she was not in town. She was engaged in a fight with her neighbors and neglected to be there for the kids, even though there were plenty of warnings that harm was on its way.
She had committed murder.
She snuck into her neighbors' yards, vengeful and raging. Many of her neighbors were too stunned to respond, but now they are angry... her life is in danger.
"I'm fine," she reminds me as I watch the tears dry on her face. She unclenches her fists to grab a cigarette and light up. She blows the smoke in my face without apology.
She turns ugly when she does that.
"What happened?" I ask.
Disgust flies into her eyes, then a quiet "click" as everything in her heart shuts down. She is there, but she is not.
We call that disassociation.
It happens when someone has been hurt really, really bad. Too much pain to bear, so the body shuts down... grows numb.
"You know what happened," she replies in a monotone... forgetting her cigarette as the ashes burn into the rug.
"Tell me."
"NO!" she shrieks...
"No," she whispers.
"No, no, no, no... oh dear God, no," she rocks and cries again.
Here is her story:
My life ended on a clear September morning. The sky was so piercingly blue, crisp and open to a bountiful autumn.
My life collapsed in a matter of hours.
Everyone watched, shocked, terrified... no one thought that something like this could ever happen to someone like me.
But it did.
And I want to kill him.
I want to kill the man who did this to me.
He gashed a hole in my body, he killed many of my family members, he laughed as he did this, and he raped my mind.
He is devious.
He made it happen so that all of my children could watch this unfold over and over again on the television.
I want him dead. I hate him, I hate his family, I hate his friends, I hate the very ground he lives upon.
So I decided to go out there and kill him.
I know, I know... I have heard over and over again that you should never make major decisions for at least one year after such a trauma. But, I couldn't stand feeling like this. I have never been helpless... and I have never been so shamed in such a public forum.
So I decided to get him.
I couldn't do it by myself, so I had to have many of my family members do this for me. I sent them far away to where that evil man was hiding. Some of my friends were willing to help too.
And they went.
I didn't care that he lived in a poor neighborhood filled with women and children and poor hard-working men. I didn't care that they were the poorest people on the earth. I told my brothers, my sisters, my friends... kill anyone that gets in your way.
And they did.
No one wanted to tell me what to do. They were trying to respect my grief, to give me some space to work things out. But, my friends were getting hurt... hurt real bad. Some of my friends died for my revenge. My brothers and sisters were dying too... but, not as much as those who lived where that predator lived... I didn't think about it too much.
I've been told I was in a state of shock.
The nightmares came. They played over and over again on the television every day.
I learned to ignore them... I didn't want to know. I couldn't stand to think about the suffering... all I could see was this anger. It was pure and clean... if only I could have my revenge, I could feel the release I so desperately longed for.
But, more problems arrived.
I got really scared. I was called paranoid by some. I started looking around and I could see my attacker everywhere. That man reminds me of him... so does that place, and that group of people... they're all out to get me. My family reinforced itself and moved to another land and went after that man too. There is a lot of wealth in that land. We are taking it. I tell them that we deserve this, after all we have been through.
I use my money to buy safety.
For a long time my children were so frightened that they never said a word. They trusted me. They believed that I knew what I was doing.
But, now they are angry at me too. They feel betrayed. They think I have made this trauma worse by my anger. Some of them won't talk to me anymore. They fight all the time with me and amongst themselves. Nothing ever gets done around here... we are exhausted.
The head of our household was traumatized too, and all of our elders. We didn't notice. We thought they would protect us. I didn't want to think, so I just did what they told me to do.
We used to sit down and discuss family decisions together. We always have argued a lot, but things got done.
But, since I was attacked... we are too frightened to disagree. The head of our household went adrift in the sea of our collective rage... and he had no anchor. He couldn't hear his own thoughts in the raging storm. He let others make decisions for him. He lets his friends do the job. His friends are not our friends. It is such a mess.
We had an opportunity to change that... to choose a new head of household... but too many of us were afraid of one more change. Some of the children just didn't care anymore... the trauma has made them apathetic.
And now I am in so much trouble that I can't see my way out.
I wonder if I have a death wish?
I am irritable, the nightmares are real, everyone is angry at me and fed up. They don't care anymore what happened to me. They tell me to shut up and put up... that I have been selfish acting like I am the only one in the world who has ever been hurt like this.
Some of my neighbors coldly tell me, "Welcome to our world... it's about time you woke up."
Hollywood bought my story. The movies are starting to pour out onto the screens. I don't know if my children should see this... is it too soon? Will this help? It's my story... do I want someone else to tell it?
My children hate me, my neighbors want nothing to do with me, my finances are a mess, my house is falling around me, and I am so tired... so very, very tired.
I have children screaming at me to get religion, and children screaming at me to stop doing what I have been doing. Some of my children don't recognize me anymore... and think that I am already dead.
My name is Liberty.
My friends named me Lady Liberty. I used to tell everyone:
Give me your hungry, your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free.
I am no longer a lady... I have now created the hungry, the huddled masses, the desperate people yearning to breathe free.
My name was Liberty, I was beautiful, powerful, generous and strong.
Can you help me?
Her story was finished for today.
Her eyes cleared and she looked up at me with that old famous visage of hers...
"Yes, Lady. I am here to help.
I can't do this alone...
Bring your family next time and we will begin...
we are going to have to grieve some more...
we are going to have to start talking with each other, and holding each other, and trusting each other... and remembering to work together again.
My wish for you this day is that you will find in your heart that place that is safe and trusting. That generous beautiful part of you that truly is not dead. We will feed the hungry once more. We will comfort the huddled masses. We will breathe freedom.
We must start by cleaning out your home first and tending to all the chores that have been ignored.
We must bury the children who have died along the way... we must make reparations, we must heal the relationships we have severed...
We must return what we have stolen.
We must turn that heart of stone back into the heart of flesh that made you so beautiful.
Are you ready to get to work, I am... and I know there are many others who are ready too."
"You're crazy," she smiled as she headed out the door.
"Yep... I surely am... and you can be too. Believe in the impossible and join me... what else can you do?"
She took in the whole room instantaneously, measuring the quality of the prints, the luxury of the carpetting, and eyes darting to every corner to assess any potential threats to her safety.
She pushed the chair back against the wall and positioned herself half-turned so that she could see my office door at all times.
Trauma has a way of doing that to a person.
She was beautiful, tall, powerful, outspoken, engaging, distrustful, wealthy, exhausted, distracted, anxious...
everything I had expected based on her clinical history.
"I'm famous you know."
I paused a moment to reply... careful not to trigger her into the spontaneous rages that had been causing the storms in her life over the past few years...
"Yes, you are famous, but not in here. "
"I am in the news all the time. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week!"
"Yes. I have seen you on the news, but I want to hear your story... not from others... from you. What you have to say is important."
She slumped in the chair, angry tears silently streaming down her face.
With gritted teeth she reminded me that she did not ask to be here today.
She has neglected her children. Some of her children died last autumn because she was not in town. She was engaged in a fight with her neighbors and neglected to be there for the kids, even though there were plenty of warnings that harm was on its way.
She had committed murder.
She snuck into her neighbors' yards, vengeful and raging. Many of her neighbors were too stunned to respond, but now they are angry... her life is in danger.
"I'm fine," she reminds me as I watch the tears dry on her face. She unclenches her fists to grab a cigarette and light up. She blows the smoke in my face without apology.
She turns ugly when she does that.
"What happened?" I ask.
Disgust flies into her eyes, then a quiet "click" as everything in her heart shuts down. She is there, but she is not.
We call that disassociation.
It happens when someone has been hurt really, really bad. Too much pain to bear, so the body shuts down... grows numb.
"You know what happened," she replies in a monotone... forgetting her cigarette as the ashes burn into the rug.
"Tell me."
"NO!" she shrieks...
"No," she whispers.
"No, no, no, no... oh dear God, no," she rocks and cries again.
Here is her story:
My life ended on a clear September morning. The sky was so piercingly blue, crisp and open to a bountiful autumn.
My life collapsed in a matter of hours.
Everyone watched, shocked, terrified... no one thought that something like this could ever happen to someone like me.
But it did.
And I want to kill him.
I want to kill the man who did this to me.
He gashed a hole in my body, he killed many of my family members, he laughed as he did this, and he raped my mind.
He is devious.
He made it happen so that all of my children could watch this unfold over and over again on the television.
I want him dead. I hate him, I hate his family, I hate his friends, I hate the very ground he lives upon.
So I decided to go out there and kill him.
I know, I know... I have heard over and over again that you should never make major decisions for at least one year after such a trauma. But, I couldn't stand feeling like this. I have never been helpless... and I have never been so shamed in such a public forum.
So I decided to get him.
I couldn't do it by myself, so I had to have many of my family members do this for me. I sent them far away to where that evil man was hiding. Some of my friends were willing to help too.
And they went.
I didn't care that he lived in a poor neighborhood filled with women and children and poor hard-working men. I didn't care that they were the poorest people on the earth. I told my brothers, my sisters, my friends... kill anyone that gets in your way.
And they did.
No one wanted to tell me what to do. They were trying to respect my grief, to give me some space to work things out. But, my friends were getting hurt... hurt real bad. Some of my friends died for my revenge. My brothers and sisters were dying too... but, not as much as those who lived where that predator lived... I didn't think about it too much.
I've been told I was in a state of shock.
The nightmares came. They played over and over again on the television every day.
I learned to ignore them... I didn't want to know. I couldn't stand to think about the suffering... all I could see was this anger. It was pure and clean... if only I could have my revenge, I could feel the release I so desperately longed for.
But, more problems arrived.
I got really scared. I was called paranoid by some. I started looking around and I could see my attacker everywhere. That man reminds me of him... so does that place, and that group of people... they're all out to get me. My family reinforced itself and moved to another land and went after that man too. There is a lot of wealth in that land. We are taking it. I tell them that we deserve this, after all we have been through.
I use my money to buy safety.
For a long time my children were so frightened that they never said a word. They trusted me. They believed that I knew what I was doing.
But, now they are angry at me too. They feel betrayed. They think I have made this trauma worse by my anger. Some of them won't talk to me anymore. They fight all the time with me and amongst themselves. Nothing ever gets done around here... we are exhausted.
The head of our household was traumatized too, and all of our elders. We didn't notice. We thought they would protect us. I didn't want to think, so I just did what they told me to do.
We used to sit down and discuss family decisions together. We always have argued a lot, but things got done.
But, since I was attacked... we are too frightened to disagree. The head of our household went adrift in the sea of our collective rage... and he had no anchor. He couldn't hear his own thoughts in the raging storm. He let others make decisions for him. He lets his friends do the job. His friends are not our friends. It is such a mess.
We had an opportunity to change that... to choose a new head of household... but too many of us were afraid of one more change. Some of the children just didn't care anymore... the trauma has made them apathetic.
And now I am in so much trouble that I can't see my way out.
I wonder if I have a death wish?
I am irritable, the nightmares are real, everyone is angry at me and fed up. They don't care anymore what happened to me. They tell me to shut up and put up... that I have been selfish acting like I am the only one in the world who has ever been hurt like this.
Some of my neighbors coldly tell me, "Welcome to our world... it's about time you woke up."
Hollywood bought my story. The movies are starting to pour out onto the screens. I don't know if my children should see this... is it too soon? Will this help? It's my story... do I want someone else to tell it?
My children hate me, my neighbors want nothing to do with me, my finances are a mess, my house is falling around me, and I am so tired... so very, very tired.
I have children screaming at me to get religion, and children screaming at me to stop doing what I have been doing. Some of my children don't recognize me anymore... and think that I am already dead.
My name is Liberty.
My friends named me Lady Liberty. I used to tell everyone:
Give me your hungry, your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free.
I am no longer a lady... I have now created the hungry, the huddled masses, the desperate people yearning to breathe free.
My name was Liberty, I was beautiful, powerful, generous and strong.
Can you help me?
Her story was finished for today.
Her eyes cleared and she looked up at me with that old famous visage of hers...
"Yes, Lady. I am here to help.
I can't do this alone...
Bring your family next time and we will begin...
we are going to have to grieve some more...
we are going to have to start talking with each other, and holding each other, and trusting each other... and remembering to work together again.
My wish for you this day is that you will find in your heart that place that is safe and trusting. That generous beautiful part of you that truly is not dead. We will feed the hungry once more. We will comfort the huddled masses. We will breathe freedom.
We must start by cleaning out your home first and tending to all the chores that have been ignored.
We must bury the children who have died along the way... we must make reparations, we must heal the relationships we have severed...
We must return what we have stolen.
We must turn that heart of stone back into the heart of flesh that made you so beautiful.
Are you ready to get to work, I am... and I know there are many others who are ready too."
"You're crazy," she smiled as she headed out the door.
"Yep... I surely am... and you can be too. Believe in the impossible and join me... what else can you do?"
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